You're the words that come out easy,

And I am speechless at best.

Your star it seems to shine above the rest.

You're the face before the cameras,

The smile i'd like to earn.

The closest thing to perfect,

In a hollywood to burn.

You're the beauty that is deeper,

Than eyes can merely see.

The closest thing to perfect.

But the farthest thing from me.

 

You're the dream that hasn't ended,

And I'm still anxious for rest.

Your words they seem to hang above my head.

You're the bud before the flower,

Unfurls into full bloom.

Captivating beauty,

But it maybe all too soon.

You're the song that writes a story,

But leaves alot to read.

The closest thing to perfect,

But the farthest thing from me.

 

And like I really deserve a chance to,

Sit across the table,

And tell you that I think you're wonderful.

And I think you're something special.

I guess this is my only chance to,

Say I wish I knew you,

Because I'm sure you're wonderful,

If I'd get to know you.

 

I'd love to be,

The shoulder that you cry on.

I'd love to be,

The friend you call when things are great.

-The Juliana Theory, “The Closest Thing”

 

 

 

             We won. On their night, in their building, we played a strong game against the Detroit Red Wings and won. The Joe Louis Arena visitor's locker room was bubbling over with the celebration.

 

            Which was why I left as soon as possible.

 

            Spending the entire game on the bench had been hell. I wanted to be on the ice, to play, to help my team. I was happy with the two points we'd gained, but it had hurt to sit there and watch everything happen. Besides, when I was on the bench, I had too much time to think. I had too much time to think about things I shouldn't be thinking about. I had too much time to think about another player who had to just sit and watch his team tonight.

 

            He'd walked out there, amid a shower of love and applause, as well as a standing ovation, in a suit that had to have been stitched specifically for his perfectly muscled form, with that big Olympic commemorative ring glinting off of his finger, and he had taken my breath away. Despite the fact that he was the hero of the citizens of Detroit, he was humble. The quiet appreciation in his smile had left me dumbstruck; I was glad that it was too loud to make conversation, because he'd left me speechless. How could it be any different? I'd fallen in love with that face, that body, years ago, and seeing him in person only made the infatuation more potent.

 

            Its pitiful, but I'd had to blink back tears and grasp the wall for support when he'd come out. I'd never thought he would come out in a suit. I'd expected him to skate out onto the ice in full uniform, ready to play. Crazy, really—but if anyone could have made a miraculous recovery of that magnitude, Steve Yzerman could.

 

            I wondered if he was aware of how many people appreciated him, adored him, admired him. I doubted it—based upon the modest smile he’d given during his standing ovation, I was convinced he was more likely to focus on his faults than boast his accomplishments.

 

I shook my head as I walked down the corridor by myself. I had to stop thinking about him. I would drive myself insane if I kept deifying him. Not only did it make fantasizing about him seem that much more inappropriate, but it also left me with standards far too high for anyone else to reach.

 

            I pulled my cell phone from my pocket as I reached the exit, and while information connected me to a local cab company, I leaned against the wall next to the doors. “Twenty minutes?” I asked incredulously when they told me the wait. I rested my head against the wall, “Fine. I’m at the exit of Joe Louis Arena that faces Civic Center, thanks.”

 

            “Would you prefer a ride to the hotel now?” the most soothing voice in the world asked. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who it was—but I looked anyway.

 

            I smiled at Steve, “That would be great,” I told him, trying to keep my voice from going high and squeaky like it always did when I got nervous.

 

            He opened the door for me, “No problem. Lisa took the girls home an hour ago, so I can take you there without Maria talking your ear off.”

 

            I smiled again, but didn’t tell him that I would be perfectly happy to have that happen. Instead, I shivered as the cold breeze cut through my suit jacket to chill my skin. “It seems far too early in the year to be this cold,” I commented.

 

            “Definitely,” he said with a laugh, which I immediately decided was my favorite sound in the world, “I mean, its not even Halloween yet, and I’ve got my furnace on. I was in Canada yesterday to get my Olympic ring, and it’s already so cold up there. It’s like, ‘Oh. My. God. I have six months of this to look forward to?’”

 

            “Tell me about it. I live there.”

 

            He raised an eyebrow at me, “Oh, and Detroit is so much warmer than Montreal.”

 

            I laughed, “Good point. So, how was the Olympic thing?”

 

            “It was really awesome. But its hard to see Pronger as anything other than a Blue right now,” he explained with a grin, “But then, I think he hates me for taking him out of the playoffs, so it was a little tense.”

 

            I let my mind wander for a moment, wishing that I could’ve been a part of that team. If I somehow got to be on the 2006 team, I would be honored—but I doubted

I would get to play with him. Why couldn’t I have gotten to play? Why couldn’t Brodeur have pulled the same ego trip as Roy had?

 

            Hell…why can’t they trade me to Detroit?

 

            “But really,” he continued, “It was nice to see Wayne and Chris and Eddie and everyone else. It brought back some good memories. First that, and then getting to raise the banner tonight—its been a good week for me,” he finished as we reached his car.

 

            Once we were on the road, an awkward silence filled the air. “So…” I started, looking for something to talk about. “How’s your knee?”

 

            “Better. It’s hurting a little right now, but that’s because I’ve pushed myself a little too hard the past few days; the cold isn’t helping much either. But its good, I’m working out again, which is nice. I can’t wait to get back on the ice,” he paused, then added in a quieter voice, “I really miss playing.”

 

            I bit my bottom lip, wondering whether I should keep my answer to myself. But apparently, my mouth didn’t agree with my brain. “I was almost surprised to see you in anything other than uniform tonight. I was a little disconcerting at first.”

 

            He laughed, “I had surgery two months ago, but don’t think I didn’t want to get out there and play tonight. I miss it.”

 

            “It misses you too,” I murmured, looking at my hands.

 

            “Really?” he asked, just as softly.

 

            I nodded, then swallowed hard when I glanced up to meet his eyes, “It isn’t the same without you.”

 

            He pulled into the parking lot of the Detroit Marriott Renaissance Hotel, then turned in his seat. “Thanks, Jose,” he said simply, reaching over to touch my hand.

 

            “Sure,” I squeaked, wincing at the sound.

 

            He just grinned. “Have a safe trip home, okay?” he said, running his thumb over the back of my hand, “And…um…” he added, searching his jacket pockets, pulling out a pen. He scribbled his numbers, home and cell, on the back of a receipt and handed it to me. “Call me sometime, when you have a night off or whatever. The press box gets kind of lonely sometimes.”

 

            I folded the paper carefully and tucked it in my wallet, “Okay.”

 

            “Well…good night,” he said, almost reluctantly.

 

            “Good night,” I replied, staring at where our hands met.

 

            The kiss caught me off guard. It was just a soft pressing of his warm lips to my cold cheek, but it was electric, and left me feeling like there was no ground under my feet and no sky over my head.

 

            As I walked to my room, I let my fingers rub over the spot where he’d kissed. With just that one gesture, he’d carried me out of the depressed mood I’d been all day, into pure elation.

 

            Steve Yzerman drove me home.

 

            Steve Yzerman asked me to call him.

 

            Steve Yzerman kissed me.

 

            And suddenly, the night was the closest thing to perfection that I’d ever experienced.