Peters, one of the linesmen, skates to the neutral zone for the faceoff.
“Hey, hey, wait. Hold up.” I skate over to him. “The faceoff has to be inside the blue line.”
He shakes his head. “We’re doing it here.”
“No, that’s wrong. Our D-men stayed on the blue line. That means the faceoff happens inside.”
He frowns.
“Seriously. Following a stoppage of play, should one or both defensemen who are the point players enter into the attacking zone beyond the outer edge of the end zone face-off circle during an altercation, the ensuing face-off shall take place in the neutral zone near the blue line of the defending team.” I’m practically reciting the rule book. “But they didn’t enter the attacking zone.”
The refs skate up to us to see what’s going on. I explain it to them.
They agree with me.
With a sharp exhalation of relief and satisfaction, I take my place for the faceoff. With another quick faceoff win by JBo and a pass to Bergie, Bergie pops it into the net. We fucking score again!
In the dressing room, I peel off my jersey and shoulder pads and sprawl on the bench with a bottle of Gatorade. Now the music is “Winner Take All” by ABBA, which cracks me up.
“ABBA?” Jammer shouts, dancing. “This is fucking perfect!”
I swipe sweaty hair off my forehead, laughing. Then it’s time to talk to the media, and I take off my pants and switch my skates for a pair of sandals to answer questions. They ask about the shorty, of course. “Hey, it was a great faceoff win by JBo,” I say. “He got the puck to me just like we wanted.”
Then I head back to the training room to ride the bike for a bit.
Three of my teammates and I live in the same apartment building, so we often take the subway to and from games together. But tonight they’ve got other plans. They’re all boo’d up, as the kids say. I kind of envy them. It’d be nice to have someone to go home to. Maybe even a dog, like Millsy has.
But I don’t need distractions. The occasional hookup is enough for me. I need to focus on the game.
I trudge to Penn Station through dark but still lively streets and then through the station. As I pass where the busker was playing earlier, I glance at the empty space. She’s gone. Good.
Not that I don’t want to hear her music; I love it. But she shouldn’t be hanging out alone in the subway at night.
2
Emerie
“Hey, Eddie, you done for today?” I walk over to Eduardo in the 14th Street/Union Square station, carrying my prized LX1 Little Martin in its case and my amplifier. He’s putting away his pan flute.
“Hola. Djess, I am done,” he replies in his thick accent, flashing a smile. “Juss for now. I weel be back for the lonch crowd.”
I nod. As he turns away briefly, I quickly drop my wad of bills in my hand into his case. “I’m going to Penn Station.”
“Be careful.” He looks up and frowns at me. “Those wack jobs got in a duss up with Cherry a few days ago.”
I grimace. “I know. They usually leave me alone.” The wack jobs he refers to are a group of break dancers who attacked another busker for being in “their space.” There are often turf wars over the best locations, like 42nd Street and Herald Square, which make the best money. There are unwritten busking rules and one of them is first come first served, but lately some groups have been using their numbers to push individual performers out. These guys actually have weapons, and they check to make sure there are no cops around before they attack other musicians.
“Lucky you usually got lots of people around watching.”
I shrug. “Not as many as you.”
Eduardo’s music is remarkable. He’s from Peru originally and has been doing this for years—busking in the subway and on New York streets. He does it to support his family, a wife and two young kids. Since I’ve been a regular here, we’ve become sort of friends.
He grins. “Theengs are peeking up. The money ees coming een again.”
Times have been tough lately, and I feel for him and the others who do this to survive.
“Things are looking up!” I wave as I head up to street level.
My stomach is rumbling. I never eat breakfast, and I’ve been here since about nine. I stop at a cart and buy a falafel rice platter, which I devour sitting on a nearby wall, and then I continue on to Penn Station. Every station is unique, and I like to move around.
I find a spot where another friend is finishing. “Hi, Em,” he greets me with a smile, removing the mouthpiece from his saxophone.
“Hi, Nash. How’s it going?”
“Going good.”
Nash plays amazing jazz music on his sax. He’s really talented but struggled with performance anxiety and found a place busking with not as much pressure.
“How’s the SoundCloud thing going?”
He grins. “Great. It’s seriously dope. And I’m making money. You should try it.”
He’s told me that before, but meh, I’ve got enough on my plate.
“Have you seen this?” He holds out a flyer.
I take it and scan the words. It’s an advertisement for a competition—American Busker. It’ll be held in June in Central Park, with cash prizes and a recording deal. It’s like an American Idol kind of contest for buskers. To enter, you have to go through a series of auditions. “No,” I say. “I haven’t.” I hand it back to him. “Are you going to enter?”
“Ha. No way.” He waves a hand. “Keep it. You should enter.”
I look back down at it. I don’t need the money, and I don’t think I’m going to ever get a recording deal. “I don’t think so.” I tuck the flyer into my guitar case.
“You should! Your voice is amazing.”
I shrug, as always uncomfortable with the compliment. “Thanks, but I doubt it’s good enough to win.”
He shakes his head.
“You should enter,” I say.
He holds up his hands. “Okay, point taken.”
“Maybe we can both enter.”
“Ugh. Forget it.”
I grin. “Done.”
I set up, tune my guitar and finger a few notes, then start playing and singing.
I love singing. I love music. I’ve loved it all my life. My father was a Broadway musician, and there was always music in our home. When my mom started my piano lessons, I was so eager. I never had to be forced to practice. After Dad died and my mom remarried, my stepdad bought me a gorgeous grand piano, more to impress her than me, but I loved it. I wanted to learn to play more instruments. At school, I played clarinet and saxophone in the school band. I learned guitar more or less on my own.
I had dreams of making music my career, but that was years ago. I’m realistic about my talents—I don’t have a Broadway show voice—but I possibly could have followed in my dad’s footsteps or…who knows. I gave that up when my little sister needed me.
About a year ago, I decided to try busking. I was terrified at first. But most people walk right by and ignore me, and that’s fine; it was mostly the possibility of attention I was afraid of. I spent my teenage years feeling invisible, and busking suits me for that reason. I can make music and be invisible.