I sat on the freezing bench during hockey games all over New England and watched her play. She had a slapshot that hooked the back of the net from across the rink. I was a little bit frightened to share the ice with her. I had not developed a sense of where I was out there, so although I was fast, it seemed skaters came at me from nowhere. My helmet made me feel not protected but constantly in danger of ambush.
Candace had made the varsity team too. She was a strong player, much better than I was, and her jocular wit suited the physicality of hockey. My friends had rallied to her side. I sat alone, dressed alone, and did not attempt to talk or cheer. I never pretended to belong. Our coach, Ms. Royce, was Candace’s adviser. Royce, as we called her, was just out of college, and with us she sometimes made the mistake of trading on collegiality rather than maturity, aiming for affection rather than respect. Royce liked to know who was dating whom. She commented on new dresses and haircuts. She lamented not having a beau herself. She was dismissive of me, which might have been because I was useless to her as a player. But I suspected it was just as likely that Candace had told her about my transgression with Budge.
One of Royce’s favorite exercises for us was a sprint game called Categories, in which groups of skaters, identified by some code, would sprint to the end of the rink and back. We’d line up, she’d shout, “Anyone with blond hair, skate!,” and off would go the blondes.
“Anyone with brown hair, skate!”
“Ponytails!”
“Bangs!”
And so on.
(If you’re wondering if she ever called out locs or dreads or braids, the answer is of course no.)
It was important that we all get the workout, so if you were the only redhead, you’d wait patiently until your category was called, then skate like hell while your team watched.
Deep January or early February, we had been losing games despite having Sarah Devens on the first line. We did not have a deep enough bench to compete against the bigger schools closer to Boston. Sarah was frustrated. Royce was frustrated. We were all exhausted and unwell, tired of the term, tired of the cold. To liven things up, Royce created new sprint categories.
“Anyone who has ever been kissed, skate!”
Laughter broke out across the line, then every girl skated. We returned to the line and waited.
“Anyone who has ever kissed…Reid!”
This was surprising, but then again Royce was young and we could see she was aiming to be fun. Reid was a sixth former. His girlfriend, Jess, skated.
“Anyone who has ever kissed… Miller!”
A fifth former skated.
“Bart!”
These were the easy ones, the long-term, highly visible romances. Royce knew enough of our histories to get most everyone out on the ice. One by one, delighted, girls skated. I saw it coming but could not escape. Did I imagine the moment’s pause, the intake of ice air, before she came to it?
“Anyone who has ever kissed Budge, skate!”
With sharp cuts of her blades Candace started off down the ice, but they were looking at me. Royce too. From my spot at the end of the line of girls, I could not read the expression on her face—whether this was payback or accident.
I considered skating. I considered digging my edges in and sending myself off, just to say, Yes, I did it, I thought it would save me. But then I’d have had to turn and skate back.
But also: I had never kissed Budge. We never kissed. I leaned on my hockey stick and looked up the line at my helmeted teammates, their long ponytails dull in the blue-white shadows. A sob was cupped in the base of my throat. I could not breathe myself free of it. I heard the canister lights buzzing over us. Candace carved a quick and triumphant lap out and back, and our friends cheered her return.
Royce looked down the line. I was the only one left. I hoped she didn’t care whether I sprinted or not, that she realized it hardly mattered for our team whether I took that extra lap.
She called out, “Anyone who has ever kissed Rick Banner, skate!”
No one on the team had kissed Rick Banner. Everyone on the team knew this. He had always dated the girl he was dating now. Her roommate was on the ice with me. My belly lurched; I felt bile creeping up my throat, and the burn was remarkable.
My father once told me something about the legendary hockey player Hobey Baker. It was commonly known that he was the last casualty of the war, dead in a plane crash that followed the armistice, tragically, by hours. Dad looked up at the plaque that bore Baker’s name there in Gordon Rink and said, “Hey, Lace, you know what? People only think Hobey Baker died in a tragic crash.” I followed his eyes, listening. “People think it was a terrible accident. But actually that might not be so.”
He explained that there was no good reason for the crash that killed Hobey Baker. The war had ended, and Baker had his papers to go home. He’d asked to fly one more time. His squadron objected—why take the risk?—but he insisted. The weather was fine. He was an expert pilot, the very best.
“People who know the story,” said Dad, “think it was not an accident. That he had come to the end of his time as a flying ace, which was the highest accolade a young man could achieve. He was on top of the world. After St. Paul’s, after Princeton, after being a hockey star that famous—well, there was nowhere left for him to go. And people think he realized that, and
