Page 50 of The Lies We Play
Number nineteen.
Lafontaine.
He takes a hit near the boards that should put him on his ass. It doesn't. His shoulder slams into the glass, his body folds into the impact. I flinch, as if it hurts to look at him being hurt. It angers me that someone dared to hurt him. Suddenly, I see myself at an arena. She’s screaming, “You fucking asshole. Try that again, and our guy will fuck you up.”
I remember laughing at that and shaking my head. I instead hug her and kiss her neck, assuring her he’s okay. He lives for that. I don’t know where all that comes from, but I’m back at the bar.
On the screen, number nineteen keeps the puck like pain is an inconvenience he refuses to dignify.
The bar erupts around me.
On-screen, Lafontaine drives behind the net with a Blackbirds defenseman riding him hard. Another man closes in. Lafontaine waits half a second too long, which means he is not panicking. He is baiting them. Then he threads the puck through a gap no one else saw, takes the second hit, and watches his winger bury it.
Goal.
The place loses its mind.
A man three stools down nearly spills beer on my sleeve. “That’s why you don’t bench nineteen.”
Someone else yells, “Lafontaine’s got no quit.”
I stare at the screen.
No quit. The period is over, and the players leave the ice. Then, the chyron flashes beneath the replay.
Creed Lafontaine refuses retirement talk after overtime win.
Everything in me goes quiet.
On-screen, the highlight cuts to a post-game interview. He stands in front of sponsor logos with wet hair, a split near his mouth, and the clean, expensive composure of a man trained to bleed off-camera.
A reporter asks, “After tonight’s overtime win, there’s still speculation about whether this is your final season. Any comments on retirement?”
Creed doesn’t blink. “People have been retiring me since I was twenty-eight.”
The bar laughs.
His expression barely moves. “I’m still here.” He shrugs. “I got nowhere else to go.”
His face fills the screen. The last sentence sounds like sadness. As if whatever place he could’ve gone to has disappeared.
Something about him feels . . . familiar.
Recognizable.
Not in the way one recognizes a famous athlete. Not in the way one remembers seeing a face online or on billboards or in a newspaper left on a table.
My body recognizes him like a room recognizes fire.
My hand rises before I decide to move.
Fingers touch the back of my own neck.
A memory strikes.
Not cleanly.
Not enough.
