you will never win if you never begin
It didn't start with the Ducks or the hand shake that could have been; it didn't really start at all, as hard as Adam might have tried to remember, because they only ever had hockey and that was always enough.
They were little kids, living big and playing hard. To each other they were team-mates, subparts of one whole, another number to figure into the sum. They joked and teased and made friends, in a sense, but that was all knee pads and helmet gear; never seeing the cuts and bruises well beyond. Charlie just looked at Adam with rose tinted view, threw an arm around his shoulder and spoke rehearsed words his mother had probably fibbed in his ear to help him sleep – it will work out Banksie, you'll see. Charlie wore plaid and backwards caps, shrugged at a dirty scoreboard and jostled Jesse whenever he was sending Adam death glares. He didn't care that Adam used to be a bully who wore black and white, he just cared about today and how the weather was.
Charlie was the hero of the story, in the end, because Bombay couldn't even skate anymore. Bombay drew the line, the Ducks tight roped across and Charlie handed them their hockey sticks for balance. Back then, Charlie just wanted to play the game, because he hadn't found the taste for winning.
if winning isn't everything why do they keep score?
Adam actually met Charlie when they were 14 years old and ten shades of drunk, loitering the grounds of Eden Hall at two in the morning. Adam was going to Varsity and Charlie wasn't going anywhere and they had been separated from the rest of the team – who were probably asleep in their beds by now. Charlie cussed through misery stories, of how to be a son and how to win back Captain and what the fuck were the Ducks going to be now without Bombay? Charlie muttered, grumbled, pushed Adam up against a wall and said – can I be you cake-eater? – and in moments, like the puck hits the net, kissed him with an open mouth and a hand clenched around his waist. Adam kissed back and neither of them had a clue but it soothed their burning guts and shredded will.
Behind ceramic skin and baby blues, Adam had his share of defects. Weak in his convictions, Adam never fought his father, never left the Hawks by choice, never told Bombay about his wrist. He gave away the person he might have been so his parents could show him the person he should be. The champion son. It just seemed easier that way. What he knew in spite of all of this, in spite of poor defence, was that Charlie couldn't see past the pretty portrait – Charlie didn't want to see past it. Charlie wanted to be Adam Banks – two parents, double storey house, a name other people spoke on over their dinner tables. Charlie wanted to be somewhere, something, someone that didn't exist. Having Adam was the win he needed; the next rung up, another step closer.
Adam never learnt how to say no, wasn't so sure he wanted to, and so Charlie won the match, no contest.
let me win but if I cannot win let me be brave in the attempt
Adam found out about the scheme three minutes and six seconds beforehand. Riley had Adam's hair in his fist and his lips drawn taut and all that he said was – they're paying their dues. Adam was scared and confused, not sure how he got there – betraying the best friends he ever had for a war he didn't believe in. There were excuses for his silence, plenty apt, but mostly he just wanted Charlie to see the real him. Mostly he wanted Charlie to give up.
Charlie was at his door the night after the grudge match, angry and vengeful and his hands curled in fists. He shouted about Duck Season, about leaving this shit hole and making new memories instead of bleeding the old ones dry. He said they're all plastic anyway, boxed up and shelved and on sale at Toys'R'Us for Half Price. Just the glassy eyed dreams of children and he's not a child anymore, isn't that what Orion keeps saying? If Charlie wasn't a kid he should have been after something bigger and better than High School Hockey, away from horse turds and rubber duckies.
Charlie grabbed Adam by the belt holes in his jeans, pulled him in and kissed him, spoke quiet words amongst the moist warmth of their breath – if only I could be a Warrior like you. Adam kissed in anger, pushed Charlie away and wiped his mouth with a sleeve, not breaking eye contact. He was a Warrior – face paint and fancy dress. He was money, talent, good looks; a name, a parcel, a promise. He was a two-bit hockey player who had every chance to go all the way but didn't know how the hell he was going to get there. If he did get there one day – bus, train, thumb and backpack – he didn't know if he'd want it after all.
Adam had a lot of things, belongings, but he didn't have a someone and he'd never win Charlie.
we didn't lose the game, we just ran out of time
It didn't end with the Ducks or a kiss that could have been; it didn't really end, as hard as Adam tried to forget, because all they ever had was hockey and it was never enough.
When they beat Varsity and everything was easy street and they only had Chemistry to worry about, Charlie kissed Adam for the last time and it tasted like defeat. They were backed in a dark corner of the locker room, a shower tap dripping nearby with their hips bones touching and Charlie said – we won. Adam said - did we? – and Charlie laughed and they pulled apart and that was all there was. Charlie had chased him down, caught him off guard and conquered with stolen kisses and wild eyes. Whatever he found in Adam – and Adam would never know what – Charlie abandoned with the thrill of triumph. He couldn't just stick around to remember, couldn't be sated with 'what once was', needed to find a new trophy.
Adam didn't mourn the goodbye, didn't feel the weight of being lonely, he just kept moving, kept playing along. Adam threw away what he 'should have been' or what he 'could have done' and started thinking on the now, on how the weather was today. They never said a word of what used to be, of what would never be again, because Charlie had lived it and watched it die, eager for another contest. What he finally understood – what he probably always knew – was that Charlie would never win big enough.
Adam didn't want to play that game. He welcomed the loss.