21. Hockey Power #2
The only parts of me that aren’t covered in paint are my hair and my eyes thanks to my helmet.
I wipe the clear visor that protected my eyes to glare at her.
Bex is appraising me with a satisfied smirk. “Don’t worry, this paint isn’t toxic. What I want you to do now,” she instructs me, totally unfazed by my reaction. “Is to skate forward and hit any of those canvases with your body as if you were sending your opponent against the boards during a game.”
“Come again?” I shake my head, unsure I’ve heard her correctly with paint still in my ears.
She doesn’t roll her eyes when she explains. “Skate as fast as the length of the room allows you and hit any canvas you want. Fair warning, they’re hanging on plexiglass so they don’t tear with the impact.”
“But why?—”
“Do it, Keene. More skating, less talking. We can talk later.”
Not two weeks ago, I would have argued with her. But my curiosity is piqued, so I do what she asked.
I slam my full body against the middle canvas, holding my stick in my hand as if that was a winger headed to Tucker’s crease.
“Great. Come back here, please.” Bex calls.
When I join her back on the red tape X, I see what she’s looking at.
There’s an impression of me on the canvas. It’s not as neat and precise as if I had drawn it. The edges are a little uneven, and some of the paint is dripping. There are also some spots where the paint didn’t take completely. So the effect is more like a handprint on condensation.
“That’s perfect.” Bex’s praise makes me want to smile, but I resist the urge. “Don’t move, Keene.”
Splash !
This time it’s less unexpected, but I still spit paint out of my mouth and give her a pointed look. I’m now covered in black paint.
“You know the drill, Keene,” Bex says. “Try to hit the same canvas but don’t worry about aiming for any spot in particular. Just land on it. It doesn’t matter if you hit some of the paint you already put on it.”
I do as she asks and again, leave an impression of my body on the canvas. Some of it overlaps the previous one; but rather than looking messy, the effect is actually very cool.
The next color is white.
“You see what we’re trying to do now, yeah?
” Bex asks, putting the bucket of white paint back on the floor.
“I want you to play with it. Try hitting the canvas at different angles. Maybe go in more with your shoulder, change the position you’re holding your stick.
You can also hit one canvas after the other, so we have more paint on some images and less on others for a more faded effect. ”
For the next hour, I skate back and forth between Bex and the canvases. She plays with different colors and after the first moment of surprise, I begin to enjoy the process.
Like she said, I play with my body, hitting at different speeds and different angles.
When two of the three canvases have paint on them, Bex deems herself satisfied. “I think we’re done. All we have to do is sign those.” She offers me a smaller can of paint and a medium paintbrush.
I go and put my initials in the bottom right corner of each canvas, admiring what Bex and I have created.
“This shit’s so cool.” I can’t help but say when I skate back to her, still holding the can of paint and the paintbrush in my hands. “How did you even think about it?”
Her smile lights up her entire face when she explains.
“I can’t take credit for the original idea.
A famous NHL player has used the same technique to create art he sells for charity.
I’ve been watching hockey reels for inspiration, trying to decide what we should do after your last painting, and I thought this would be cool. ”
She’s right. Each canvas looks unique, but what I like is that in each of them you can get a tremendous perception of power. You can feel the speed, the strength of the impact between my body and the canvas. You can feel hockey coursing in your veins the same way I do when I’m on the ice.
“Wow, that’s… I hope the other player won’t mind us borrowing his technique.” I muse.
Bex shrugs. “You can’t own a technique. And other artists have used their bodies to create art in a very similar way.
But these are unique to you because it’s your body, it’s your power on that canvas.
If Cantucci doesn’t give you an A this time, I’m going to go to the Dean.
Because this is really good, Keene. Looking at it, I can feel your skill, your passion for hockey, your power. ”
I can’t help but smile at her words. I especially love the way she says that she can feel my power .
Fuck. A man could get addicted to this kind of praise. And she looks so hot, so perfect while she delivers those compliments. Her green eyes are shining with excitement, her voice full of enthusiasm.
I want to thank her for this. She single-handedly saved my ass with Professor Cantucci. Even if I don’t get an A, there’s no way I’m not going to get a passing grade if I present one of these two paintings.
I open my mouth, but somehow saying thank you don’t seem enough. Especially when she’s still looking at me with that much admiration.
My hands work before my brain can decide if this is a good idea or not. I dip the paintbrush in the can and flick it at her face, leaving a splatter of paint on her cheeks and mouth, all the way down to her chin.
“Keene!” she scolds, her startled tone similar to my own when she hit me with the first bucket of paint.
Again, I act before I can think about it too much. I swipe the paintbrush over the tip of her nose, all the way down to her lips, and then discard it on the wooden floor, ripping my helmet off my head and throwing it in the same direction.
I cup her face with both my gloved hands and crush my mouth on hers.