Three

The plane landed without event. And by that I mean nothing happened to the plane itself. I, of course, was a wreck trying to get myself together and to the Olympic Village. After I got a hold of myself and got a look at the room assignment, I flipped out again. There it was, in plain ordinary black-and-white text. ROOM 682—SATAN & PALFFY.

Holy shit. Oh God Oh God what do I do now well obviously you go to your room and get organized what if HE is there already what do I say ‘hi I’m your roomate’ does he already know what if someone only told him of his and he doesn’t know that I’ll be there what if he think I’m annoying I wouldn’t be able to stand it it would be a huge disappointment what are you talking about this whole thing could be a huge disappointment man I wish I was back in Buffalo so I wouldn’t have to worry—STOP IT, BRAIN, STOP IT! It was a big moment, right? So that was kind of like a big game. What did I do before I had a big game? I got in the ZONE. Aha, my solution! I’d create a ZONE around him. I’d call it the ZiggyZone, or Z-Zone for short. Then I’d have to get into the Z-Zone before every time I saw him.

So, basically, I was going to have to be in the Z-Zone all the time. Well, that wouldn’t be a problem, would it? I stopped in the hallway where it was quiet before going to my room.

Breathe. Breathe, stay calm. Think about something impartial, like celery or couches or the new faucet in your house, I told myself. I took a drink of water. Breathed. Touched my lucky penny. Breathed. There, I would be fine. I was in the Z-Zone. I’d be fine.

I knocked on the door. Stupid move! Stupid move! You don’t knock on your own door, unless you have a roommate that you’ve never met. What if he wasn’t even in there? Well, I’d just open the door and go in and go through his stu—No, I wouldn’t go through his stuff! That would be weird and –no, must be in the Z-Zone. Must calm down. Breathed. Ah, much better.

He opened the door. Oh my God, he was even more handsome in person than he was on TV on ESPN or something. And he was RIGHT THERE. ZIGGY PALFFY WAS STANDING A FOOT AND A HALF IN FRONT OF ME. OH God what do I say?

“Miroslav? Nazdar! I was wondering how long you’d be,” he smiled. (Translations: Miroslav? Hello!) He SMILED. At ME. HE SAID HE WONDERED HOW LONG I’D BE. WHAT DO I SAY?

“Um, nazdar, Ziggy. Can I call you Ziggy? Or what?” I babbled. Quit it! Just stop—talking—there, get back in the Z-Zone. There.

“What else would you call me?” he laughed. He LAUGHED. “Come on in.” OH GOD, he laughed at me! Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Was it a ‘hey, you’re such a funny guy’ laugh or a ‘I can’t believe I have to share a room with this dork’ laugh? Well, clearly, I would have to decipher that later.

“Um, come on in?” he gestured. I’d been standing there like a deaf-mute. I thought I was in the Z-Zone! Obviously not enough!

“OK. Call me Miro.” Well, that was pretty random.

I went into the room. He’d already claimed a bed and dresser, so I was relegated to the one across the room. He had the better bed, further from the door, but there was no way I would let him have the bad bed. He deserved the better bed. I set my duffel down on my bed and sat down next to it.

“Did you have a good flight? Mine was bumpy as all hell,” he said to me. TO ME. I had to get over this thing about him talking to me. If I didn’t, it was going to be a looooong (and exciting) time.

“And anyway, I’m going to go say hello to Marian Hossa. I think his plane got in about twenty minutes ago, so I’ll see if he’s here yet. Good?” Ziggy looked at me.

“Uh-huh…I’m going to finish unpacking. I’ll see you later,” I nodded, trying not to look in his eyes. If I did, I’d either pass out, die, or kiss him, and none of those sounded very attractive at the moment. He left the door and locked it behind him.

I flopped down on my bed, nearly kicking off one of my good shirts. I lunged and caught it, because it would suck to spend my Olympic time trying to iron a shirt, or worse, wearing one with a scorch mark and wrinkles. Neither of those would make a good impression on Ziggy.

It could only have been about ten minutes later that he came back in, but hey, I wouldn’t know. I had been staring out the window until he came over and put his hand on my shoulder. I nearly started to hyperventilate again, but managed to remain calm. Well, sort of.

“Man, are you OK? You’ve been staring out the window for a long time. What’s out there?” he asked, leaning his hand on my arm.

AUGH. TIME FOR THE Z-ZONE! Breathe, breathe, breathe. Now say something.

“Um.” SAY ANYTHING ELSE. SAY ANY WORDS. ANYTHING. YOU SOUND LIKE A DEAF-MUTE. “No, I was just looking at the snow. Maybe I’ll have time to go cheer for the ski team.” Well, that was stupid. I’ve never cheered for anyone skiing in my life. I’ve never even been skiing. No wonder Ziggy is quiet. What do you say to that? Does Slovakia even have a ski team? Was I unpatriotic for not knowing?

“Well, not right now. We’ve got practice in twenty minutes. Come on, let’s go. Marian is already here, and I think he was the last one. Cutting it a little close, I think.” He picked up his keys and opened the door. “Are you coming?”

Was I going? Of course I was. Not only did I have to go to practice, I was going somewhere with HIM. But I wasn’t nervous, and do you know why? I was in the Z-ZONE. Kind of.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” I followed him; he seemed to know where he was going. I wouldn’t look like a total dork wandering around the Olympic plaza.

We were the last ones to show up, partly because we were walking at the pace of sloths, and partially because Ziggy didn’t exactly know where he was going. That was fine by me, the more time I got to spend with him, the better. The locker room was, true to form, insane, with twenty guys all chattering in Slovakian, and all the other random equipment people and coaches who had wound up in there. I had an end locker, next to Pavol Demitra, which was a relief. I would have a break from being the Z-Zone. It was hard work, remembering to breathe and respond to his questions and blink and keep my heart beating.

Practice was the same as every practice that I’ve ever had, except for the monumental difference that HE was there, skating along, taking the same shots I was taking. It took all the self-control I had not to leap onto him because for once, he was on MY TEAM. My very own team.