"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all."—Emily Dickinson
Tune without the Words
Curled up in the corner of the windowsill of Manhattan hotel room he shared with Rob McClanahan, Mark Johnson tried to discipline his mind: to not think about the rout the Soviets had given them in Madison Square Garden; basically, kicking their collective butt and handing it to them on a platter. After all, he certainly hadn't expected to win, tie, or even not get beaten into next year by the Soviets. These were the players he had grown up idolizing, wearing jerseys with their names written on the back as if that could infuse him with some of their greatness. They were World and Olympic Champions, and he was just a scrawny college kid pretending that he could be them…
Resting his forehead against the cold glass and watching his breath form mist on the windowpane, Mark wished his father were here. Badger Bob, Mark's dad and the coach of the Wisconsin hockey team, would be able to find the one thing that had gone right in the debacle at Madison Square Garden, and he would emphasize that with enough enthusiasm that even the biggest doubter would believe they could build some kind of success out of the wreckage of their game against the Soviets. Dad wasn't here, though, so Mark started blankly at the neon billboards flashing false promises at passerby across the boulevard from his and Rob's window, thinking that it was ironic that in a city of bright signs and blinking signals, it was still possible to not see a light ahead…
"There is a light at the end of the tunnel," Mark murmured more to himself than to Rob, who was pressed against the opposite corner of the windowsill, icing an ankle that had received during the game against the Soviets a nasty purple bruise that would probably hurt every time he laced his skates for the next couple of days.
"Sure." Rob snorted, fogging up their window. "It's an oncoming train, or, worse still, in this part of the country, New Jersey—America's stinking armpit."
"Hope isn't a luxury, Rob," said Mark quietly, shaking his head. "It's our duty."
"Thoughts of my duty always make me feel hopeful," Rob observed dryly, smiling slightly, and Mark, as always, chose not to take his line mate's sarcasm personally.
When he had first met Rob and realized that the Minnesotan left-winger rarely used positive adjectives except in a distinctly ironic fashion (so that, in actuality, they became negative), Mark had been convinced that Rob was going to be a drain on locker room morale. It had taken time for him to appreciate that Rob's cynicism was little more than a mask for his compassion so that people wouldn't spread rumors about him being a softy.
If a teammate was slumped on the bench after a lousy shift, often it would be Rob, master of the devastating one-line zinger, who muttered just the right compliment or joke into their ear to turn their frown upside down. Rob's sarcasm was just a front he put on so nobody would notice that he was more sensitive than most to the suffering of others. In the end, he could feign cynicism all he wanted, but his determination—his stubborn refusal to give up any fight no matter how badly he was losing—revealed an optimist who sincerely believed there were things worth fighting for and any battle could be won as long as the warrior never surrendered.
"I just mean that we need to stay focused despite everything that went wrong tonight." Mark allowed himself chuckle at his own expense, because he had learned months ago that it was more enjoyable to laugh at Rob's piqued remarks than to become miffed.
"Focused," echoed Rob, his dull tone suggesting that the word held no meaning, and Mark felt his stomach knot. Rob was always focused—whether it was on a stick he was fastidiously taping in the locker room, a puck he was passing on the ice, or a classic he was reading before they flipped out the lights for the night—and so to hear him talk as if the intensity that drove him to do his best in everything had burned out on the ice tonight was terrifying. "On what, Magic? Our imminent defeat during the Olympics? Yeah, you're right. It would be a pity to diminish any of the shame by letting our attention wander for a moment. We want to feel every crushing second deep in our souls."
"Not all teams are like the Soviets, Mac," Mark reminded him. "We could still be successful at the Olympics."
"Maybe against the Japanese." Rob rolled his eyes. "That's the only team ranked beneath us."
"You're supposed to be the person who goes barreling out to prove everyone wrong when they say you can't do something, so you of all people shouldn't be talking this way." Mark gazed reprovingly at his roommate. "Your old Gopher teammates would be particularly upset to hear you running your mouth like this. You're their most determined player, the one who always is there to lead a charge down the ice to force a shift in momentum during a difficult game."
"Most determined player," scoffed Rob, wrinkling his nose as though the title disgusted him. "What a joke. I'm supposed to be the one who plays with intensity and tenacity even if the scoreboard says 10-0 not in our favor. I don't know whether the last laugh is on everybody else for thinking I'm strong enough to do what they can't, or on me because I'm scared all the time—afraid of failing: of letting down the team, Herb, my family, and my whole county now."
"That's what makes you so determined." Mark clapped his roommate on the shoulder. "Any idiot can be not afraid when they should be. That's stupidity, not grit. Grit is being scared, but doing what you have to do anyway. People call you the most determined player, Mac, because they know you'll always be stronger than your fears."
"I just feel so small right now." Rob drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, looking like an armadillo trying to trick a predator to chase a more exciting prey. "And New York City is so big and bright. It's the economic center of the world, and you could roam around its streets for a hundred years before anyone really saw you."
Mark bit his lip, knowing that Rob, who was gazing at the city gleaming around them like a deer trapped in headlights, was too sophisticated a person to enjoy feeling like some ignorant boy from what Easterners derisively referred to as flyover country, but surely anyone who hadn't been raised in New York City or its immediate environs could be excused for being overwhelmed by the immensity and impersonality of this place. This was the city that never slept. The city that always had shadows of people streaming up and down the sidewalks no matter what time of day or night. The city with its congested streets and honking taxis. The city with its global economy that assured you in the coldest way possible that you would never be worth more than a penny.
"Yeah, but if nobody notices you, think of the crazy outfits you could wear." Mark snickered, trying to provide his friend with a mental image of an uncultured bumpkin to distract him from his fears that he was one. "I bet there are some clueless Texans walking around Central Park, wearing their underwear as hats and not being arrested for indecency as we speak."
"Texans are famous for their unerring fashion sense." Rob smirked. "Life's a rodeo, y'all, so dress like it. Them Texans are as cuttin' edge as their spurs." Then, as quickly as it appeared, Rob's cocky grin vanished to be replaced by a frown and crinkled forehead as he asked, "Mark?"
"I'm listening." Mark waved an encouraging hand. "Go on."
"I'm worried about O.C.'s injury." Rob tapped his fingers against the window as if punching out a telegraph message. "If he's torn ligaments, he might not be able to play for weeks, and the Olympics—well, it's a couple of games, not a whole season."
"I know." Mark sighed, since he had been striving not to think about that since Doc escorted O.C. out of the arena into the locker room. Between O.C.'s injured knee, Bob Suter's recovering broken ankle, Mark Wells' sore throat, and Robbie's bruised ankle, they'd arrive in Lake Placid as the walking wounded, assuming they all even arrived, and there weren't any last minute, terrible changes to the roster due to injuries. "And there are only twenty spaces on the roster. Can Herb afford to fill one of those spots with a player who comes into the Olympics with torn ligaments in his left knee?"
"On paper, I know he can't," Rob said in a voice so soft it almost died before it left his lips. "But teams exist more off paper than they do on it, and off paper, I don't know if he can afford not to keep O.C. If O.C. goes, our team chemistry gets all messed up." His brown eyes pierced into Mark's blue ones, and he finished more firmly, "Your dad is a coach. Would he let O.C. stay?"
Mark hesitated, and then answered, "Dad is big on team unity. At Wisconsin, we wouldn't get a stipend for meals on the road, because we always ate as a team, and stuff like that. I think he might keep O.C. on the roster since it would get the team excited, and he believes it's hard to lose when your team is feeling on top of the world."
Seeing the hope and relief flare in Rob's eyes, Mark, hating himself for being a killjoy but also overcome by the compulsion to be honest, added, "Look, Robbie, Dad and Herb are on opposite ends of the coaching spectrum. You can't think of what one might do to get a clue what the other will do, because all they share is a passion for hockey and a love of beating challenges."
Except, Mark thought, perhaps you could guess based on what Badger Bob would do what Herb Brooks wouldn't do just as you could define darkness by the absence of light, but he wasn't going to ride that train of thought to its depressing station of O.C.'s doom on the roster.
"I understand." Rob's thick tone made it sound as if he could hear the horrible ideas whirling around in Mark's brain. "It's just a comfort to hear that there's at least one college coach in America who would keep an injured O.C. on the roster."
"I think there might be two," Mark pointed out, as if it mattered what anyone else beside Herb would do with a hurt O.C. on the eve of the Olympics. "All the BU boys always talk about Coach Parker like he is a sort of second father to them, so I think he'd have O.C. stick around."
"Must be nice having a coach you know cares about you." Rob gave a wistful grin. "Way back in high school, I had that, but then I got stuck with Herb for four years. I mean, Herb might care if I turned up as a corpse in an alley, but only because he'd have to do a complete overhaul of his lines, so mostly he'd just be mad at me for dying at an inconvenient time."
"Stop being morbid." Mark kicked Rob's unbruised ankle lightly in reprimand. "Jokes about your own death aren't nearly so funny as you seem to think."
"I wasn't joking." With an expression of exaggerated affront, Rob clutched his chest melodramatically. "I was serious as a heart attack."
"The fact that you totally ignored what I just said does not send me into cardiac arrest," mumbled Mark, rolling his eyes.
Further proving Mark's point about his listening skills, Rob, glossing over Mark's comment, asked in a rush, "Do you suppose O.C. is back from getting his knee checked out at the hospital?"
"I hope so." Mark shrugged to indicate that he was as uninformed about O.C.'s status as Rob. "I wouldn't put much faith in New York City emergency rooms if he isn't, that's for sure."
"Yep, I wouldn't either." Rob nodded, hopped off the windowsill, and shoved his feet into his slippers in one fluid motion. "I'm going down the hall to knock on his door and see if he is here."
"Are you nuts?" hissed Mark, standing up as well. "Coach Patrick has already been around over an hour ago to check that we're in our room. If Herb catches you out after curfew, he'll—"
"Say that he's too busy tearing out his hair over who is going to be on the final roster to muster up the energy it requires to rip me a new one for putting so much as a toe out of this hotel room after lights-out?" interrupted Rob, acerbic as ever. "How terrifying. I hope I don't wet myself just picturing that scene."
"Don't run the risk of crossing Herb tonight," Mark warned, wondering why he always had to be the voice of reason with his roommate when Rob's mind was sharper than a honed skate blade. "I bet he is just looking for someone to take his temper out on, so don't set yourself up to be the victim of his anger. On top of everything else, I couldn't handle you being cut for doing something idiotic. You're my left-winger, and I'm supposed to keep track of you, so just wait until tomorrow to see O.C."
"Herb's not going to give me the ax for breaking curfew." Rob's chin lifted in the rebellious way it always did when he was ready to take on the world and win. His eyes glinting as if it to state that Mark was welcome to regret siding with the world, Rob went on resolutely, "He is always saying that bed-checks are dumb, because, in all his years of coaching, he has never lost a single bed, so I figure as long as I don't defenestrate my bed, I'm safe from his ire."
"Why test that?" Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding himself sternly that he only got so aggravated with Rob because the other young man was such a close friend. He didn't want to imagine an Olympics without Robbie anymore than he wished to envision one without himself, and if Robbie was cut from the team the only reason Mark wouldn't cry was because you couldn't at your own funeral. If Rob got cut, Mark had always sensed, it wouldn't be because he wasn't fast enough, creative enough, hard-working enough, or determined enough to satisfy Herb—no, it would be because Herb had finally had enough servings of Rob McClanahan sass to last him a lifetime. That was what made Mark's stomach coil like a snake whenever Rob opened his big mouth to defend Mark from some criticism Herb made of him, because he didn't need protection, and he just wished Rob didn't constantly need his reproachful head shake to pipe down. Mark would not have been able to forgive himself for a very long time if Rob was cut for defending him, especially when he didn't need protecting, and he suspected that O.C., however much he feigned dislike for Robbie, would never want Rob to get in trouble for visiting him. Rob's fierce dedication to his teammates was one of his most endearing attributes, as far as Mark was concerned, but it also meant his friends had to do a lot of damage control. "Why not just wait until tomorrow?"
"I've never given up a challenge in my life, and I've never waited until tomorrow to do something I could do today, either." Rob folded his arms across his chest and glared at Mark in the way that usually meant he was trying to goad his line mate into some passionate but foolhardy action. "Anyway, Herb always says that the best player is caught out after curfew. Now, are you really going to let me get away with calling myself the best player?"
"If it makes you happy, you can hang over your bed a gigantic, glittering gold banner proclaiming that you're the best player in the world." Mark smiled. "I'm not going to be provoked into doing something stupid that easily, Robbie."
"Fine. Stay here and be a stick in the swamp," snapped Rob, spinning on his heel and stalking toward the door. "See if I miss your sanctimonious company."
"Wait," Mark said, and Rob froze at the doorway, his palm on the handle. Figuring that if he went with Rob, he could at least ensure that Rob's sarcasm did not dig too deep a grave if Herb caught them roaming the hotel hallway after lights-out, Mark slid into his own slippers and walked over to stand behind Rob. "I'll come with you and prove that Herb is wrong. The best player is never caught out after curfew, because he's just too smart for that."
"That's what I like to hear." Rob pounded Mark on the shoulder, and then peeked through the peephole in the middle of the door to check that it was safe to open their door a crack. Obviously discovering that it was, he cracked it barely an inch, so that a sliver of light from the chandeliers in the corridor joined the streams of illumination from the window dancing on their hotel room carpet.
Rob's head flicked left, right, and left down the hallway, as if he were trying to cross a busy street, before he stepped out into the hall, frantically motioning for Mark to follow him. This is it—there's no turning back now, Mark thought as he left the room, half-expecting an alarm to pierce the quiet and alert Herb to their violating curfew.
When nothing that momentous happened, Mark closed the door as softly as he could and padded down the corridor behind Rob, who was moving as swiftly and as silently as he could. After what seemed like an eternity to Mark's hammering heart but could not have been much more than a moment, they reached the corner that turned onto the hallway where the room O.C. shared with Silky was located.
Trying not to contemplate at any length the fact that Herb's room was just two doors down from O.C.'s, Mark watched as Rob glanced into the mirror hanging on the wall opposite, checking the reflection around the corner to make sure the corridor they were about to enter was empty of everyone, especially Herb.
That's pretty clever, Mark told himself as they rounded the corner into the other hallway that was blessedly empty. We wouldn't make bad scouts, I guess.
A second later, as they approached O.C.'s door, the absurdity of this notion occurred to him, as he imagined them trying to sneak through a warzone in the baggy sweatpants and faded T-shirts they wore as pajamas. Besides, with their track record of obeying orders, any self-respecting military force would court-martial him and Robbie in a week for flagrant curfew violations.
When they reached their destination, Rob rapped his knuckles against the door, and Silky, his hair scraggly from sleep, opened it a moment later. He stepped back to admit them and once they had stumbled into the room, shut the door immediately, demanding in an irritable whisper, "What the heck are you two doing here, huh? If Herb catches you here, all of our heads will roll."
"We just wanted to see O.C.," Mark soothed. "Relax before you blow a major artery, Silky."
"Let it go, Silky," put in O.C. languidly from his bed, and Mark tried not to look at the bandages on his leg. "That's no way to greet company, even company as unwelcome as Mac."
Silky emitted an exasperated snort but returned to his own bed without any further verbal protest. As Silky wrapped himself back up in his blankets in a huff, Rob walked over to stand near the night table next to O.C.'s stack of pillows, asking, "How is your knee doing, O.C.?'
"A little torn up." O.C.'s smirk looked more rueful than confident, and Mark's heart ripped. "The hospital says it's definitely torn ligaments in my knee, and it'll probably take weeks for me to recover, but Doc wants me to visit some orthopedic surgeon named Dr. Steadman, who might be able to put me on some rehab program that would give me a chance at playing. I guess I'm lucky that this happened in New York City where there are so many doctors available to give second and third opinions."
"Yep." Rob's tone and grin were shaky. "Remember that if you have to wait more than an hour to see a doctor, you have the legal right to give him a shot."
"Really?" O.C. arched a dubious eyebrow.
"Nah, but a competent defense attorney could convince a jury of your peers that you do." Rob chuckled as Silk made an annoyed click of his tongue and flipped over in his bed, pulling his pillow over his ears to drown out the conversation. "We've all been put through the torture of a waiting room more times than we want to think about, and American law is really just anything that a jury of your peers will let you get away with."
"Drumming up business for your dad?" O.C. offered his typical quarter-moon smile, and Mark snickered, knowing that Rob's father was a defense attorney whose success indicated he probably didn't need much help in advertizing.
"My dad is licensed in Minnesota, not New York," Rob said matter-of-factly. Then, much more gently and tentatively, he continued, "Jack, you know that we're friends, right? And that if you ever need anything, you can just ask me, and I'll give it to you without making fun of you because I would never mock you for coming to me for help?"
"Of course I know that." O.C.'s smile was definitely more sad than happy. "And if there is anything that me and my busted knee can do for you, Robbie, you just mention it, okay?"
"Stay with this team." Rob's voice was hushed but fierce. "Don't leave us now."
"That's Herb's decision, not mine." Tiredly, O.C. shook his head. "I reckon everyone except you understands that, but I guess your ignorance shouldn't be a surprise, because if what you don't know can't hurt you, you're practically invulnerable, Rob."
"And there are still forty-eight hours until Herb has to turn in his final roster." Mark tried to sound more assured than he felt, because if one of them started crying, they all would be bawling, and Herb would come storming down to discover what all the waterworks were about, which was the last thing any of them needed at the moment. "Lots can change in two days, right, and who knows what the orthopedic surgeon will say?"
"Exactly." Seizing on this ray of hope, Rob bobbed his head energetically. "I mean, a cure for cancer could be discovered in forty-eight hours. That's not impossible."
"Sure, but it's not very likely." O.C. snorted. "Give your brain a rest, Mac—it obviously needs it."
"No, hear me out, O.C." Resolute as ever, Rob's jaw clenched. "Just think about how much more likely it is that your knee will show some improvement in the next two days than it is that a cure for cancer will be found in that amount of time. That will give you the optimism you need to fight the odds and be a medical miracle."
"All right." O.C. leaned back against his pillows. "If you want me to be a medical miracle, I'm going to need my sleep, so get lost somewhere they don't have a found department."
"Sleep well," replied Mark, as Rob joined him at the door. Once Mark had checked through the peephole that the hallway was clear enough to open the door, he slid it open a crack, looked in both directions to ensure that the coast truly was clear, and stepped into the hallway, gesturing for Rob to follow swiftly.
Less than a second later, he heard the door shut almost silently behind him as Rob joined him in the hallway. Then, with Mark in the lead this time, they reversed their journey through the hotel corridors, moving as quickly and quietly as possible. They were standing outside their door, Mark fishing out his key to unlock it, when they were rudely interrupted in the midst of their mental celebrations of having dodged curfew by the sound of Coach Patrick's door, which was diagonal to their own, swinging ajar.
"What are you boys doing?" Coach Patrick frowned at them as he stepped out into the hallway.
"Getting back from a Broadway musical in the pajamas only the most sophisticated people in the city wear to the theater," Rob responded, all facetiousness. "I thought that would be obvious to anyone with a single functioning eyeball."
Plainly, it was too late (or too early, technically, given that it was definitely past midnight now) for even someone as patient as Coach Patrick to deal gracefully with blatant sarcasm from a player.
"Sarcasm is not going to solve your problem, Rob, and will probably make it worse." Coach Patrick paused, as if to allow this declaration ample time to sink in. "Now, you boys can either tell me what you're doing in the hall after hours, or you can explain yourselves to Herb if you think he'll be more understanding. You have five seconds to make your choice before I make it for you by getting Herb."
"We went to see O.C., Coach," explained Mark, speaking before a second of the time limit elapsed, and glaring at Rob in a way that made it clear that if Rob opened his big mouth, there would be nothing left of him to kill when Herb arrived, because Mark would have already done the job. "I know that curfew is supposed to keep us safe and well-rested, but we were just going down the hallway, and it's not like we could get much sleep worrying about O.C. Now that we've spoken to him, we'll be able to rest a lot better. I promise."
Coach Patrick sighed. Mark could see that he was exhausted, he didn't really want to punish them anyway, and he did sympathize with the concern that had driven them to visit an injured friend after lights-out.
"All right, boys," Coach Patrick announced after a moment of making them sweat. "This will be our secret, but if I catch either of you putting so much as a toe out of your room again tonight, I'm involving Herb in that discussion. Understand?"
"Yes, Coach." Mark nodded, and thanked God for small blessings when Rob, for once meek, did the same.
"Then get back to bed." With that last order, Coach Patrick returned to his room, as Mark went back to fumbling for his key in his pocket.
"At least we're safe now," remarked Rob, as Mark pulled out his key and twisted it in the lock.
"No thanks to you," Mark muttered bitterly, glaring at Rob as they stepped into their room and closed the door after them. "Your tongue, which could try the patience of a saint, almost made Coach Patrick want to strangle you. You should be on your knees thanking God that I was there to save your neck."
"Oh, shut it." Rob shot Mark a withering glance and then went on in an uncanny imitation of his roommate, "I'll come with you and prove that Herb is wrong. The best player is never caught out after curfew, because he's just too smart for that."
"One day," Mark said, not meaning a word but wishing he did, "someone is going to attempt a serious assault on your person, and, instead of stopping that person, I'll cheer them on."