Bucky VI: Off Season

Mom took to packing his lunch of nutritionist-approved foods, each day including a picture of a famous soccer player as 'motivation' to finish it. Bucky found it rather juvenile but sweet all the same. "Who do you have today?" Gabe asked him.

"Ulysses Klaue," Bucky announced, holding up his picture. Gabe scrutinized it with a frown.

"Never heard of him."

"I sent you a video of him right after I was diagnosed, remember?"

"Isn't he that amputee soccer goalie you aspire to be?" Steve asked.

"Exactly," Bucky confirmed. "He plays for the Netherlands and he's literally the best goalie I've ever seen."

"Better than David de Gea?" Gabe asked doubtfully.

"Yes. But it's not exactly fair to compare the two."

"If you love this Klaue guy so much, why don't you ask the Make-a-Wish people if you can meet him?" Jim suggested. Bucky had completely forgotten about the Wish. His parents told him about it last Christmas right after he started treatment, and at the time he hadn't had a clue what he might want to do with it. Would it really be possible to meet Ulysses Klaue—or better yet, get a one-handed goalkeeping training session from him?

"Dude, that's the best idea you've ever had," Bucky said. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Jim shrugged. "I dunno."

"Hopefully he'll agree to do it," Steve said. "I can't think of a better way for you to spend your Wish."

"Me neither." Bucky knew in his heart that if Klaue said no, he probably just wouldn't use his Wish at all. Now that the idea of meeting him had entered his head, there was no chance of it ever leaving or being replaced by another one. That evening after dinner—which he finished, much to his mother's delight—he brought up the subject of his Wish.

"That's a fantastic idea," his father agreed.

"If he agrees, can we ask them to schedule something for this summer?" Bucky asked. He wanted to have enough months of recuperation and training under his belt to maximize what he could put into, and therefore get out, of the training session.

"We'll have to pick a week you're not at McCoy, but I'm sure it can be arranged."

"Camp?" Bucky hadn't thought about summer camp since the last time he was there, which would've been the summer before freshman year. That was the summer Steve was at Gravesen for two weeks with Carol, when they first met. This past summer it hadn't even been an option since Bucky was still in treatment. He'd secretly hoped Dad would forget about that particular summer tradition after everything that happened.

"Yeah. Aren't you glad you'll be able to go again?" he asked.

Bucky stared at him silently for a few moments with a thousand thoughts running through his head. Practically his entire life he'd pretended to enjoy going to summer camp to his father's face, while constantly complaining about it to Steve and his other friends. The few times he'd mentioned not wanting to go back, Dad shot him down and insisted on 'building character.' He could lie and say yes, that he was bummed he missed it last summer, but that would doom him to returning. Or he could tell the truth, that he never wanted to go back there again, and potentially disappoint his father or make him mad. Pre-cancer Bucky would have rolled over, but now he understood just how valuable his time was, and he didn't want to spend it in the middle of nowhere for a month when he could be here in Brooklyn with his friends or off in the Netherlands learning from the best amputee goalie in the world.

"No," Bucky stated confidently. "In fact, not having to go to camp was a silver lining of having cancer."

"What?"

"I hate it there. I always have."

"I know you sometimes didn't want to leave here, but once you were out there didn't you have fun?" Dad asked.

"Not really. I don't enjoy cabin camping in the middle of nowhere in Wisconsin for a month of my summer when I could be here with Steve and Gabe and all my friends. Plus, I'm not even sure how we'll I'd manage out there now," he added, gesturing to his missing arm. "Dad, I know you grew up going there, and I know you want me to have that same experience or whatever. But if you try and give me the building character excuse again I'm going to lose it. No amount of roughing it builds character like having cancer does."

Bucky had never seen such a look in his dad's eyes before. His expression shifted and Bucky braced himself to be yelled at, but instead he just said, "Okay."

"Really?"

"Really. If you really don't want to go to McCoy, I won't force you."

"Thank you. So, can we call the Make-a-Wish people and see what they can do?"

"Yes, we can call the Make-a-Wish people."

~0~

Bucky continued going to soccer practice after school, improving slowly but steadily under the watchful eye of Coach Phillips. He also kept up with his homework, taking more breaks while working than he used to because chemobrain affected his attention span, and ensured he followed the plan the nutritionist had laid out for him. At his next check-up one month later, he'd gained two pounds, and Dr. Potts cleared him to continue soccer as long as the trend continued.

Bucky didn't get to play in any of their games, which was a massive disappointment, but he strived to be the best benchwarmer he could be, offering encouragement to his fellow players at all possible opportunities. Gabe joked that he could be the guy in the mascot suit, but Bucky pointed out that it would look weird if one of the mascot's arms remained completely limp. Besides, that was one experience he was content to never have in his lifetime.

He found he missed goalkeeping drills. Every time they practiced shooting, he couldn't help but wish he was on the other side. And every time the team's current goalie let one slip past him, Bucky couldn't help but whisper, "I could've saved that." Despite this, he tried to have as much fun as possible with the exercises he did get to do. He'd spent ten months without any physical activity beyond walking and vomiting, and the sensation of his heart pounding in his chest and his muscles aching was one he'd missed terribly. Even the conditioning he used to hate now felt like a privilege. The one thing Coach Phillips never made him do was push-ups, for obvious reasons. Bucky decided that doing one-armed push-ups was a goal he could set only after he managed to make it through a practice without having to take extra breaks.

Soreness after a workout was a good kind of pain as far as Bucky was concerned, but on a few occasions he knew he pushed it too hard. That day, they'd spent the first hour of practice on lower body conditioning and Bucky had grown fatigued enough that his form faltered on the last set or two of some exercises, resulting in an aching knee. Seated at the dinner table, he kept fidgeting to try and get comfortable to the point where his parents grew annoyed.

"Why can't you sit still?" Mom questioned. Bucky froze in his current position and apologized. He put his fork down temporarily to try and massage some of the pain away and managed not to move for another few minutes after that. It worked so well that he decided just to do that periodically instead of shifting around to find a comfortable position. Dad paid him no mind, but Mom's eye drifted to his hand every time he set his fork down. "What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing," he replied. "My knee just hurts from practice is all."

Her eyes narrowed and her tone dropped to deadly serious. "Are you sure that's what it's from?"

"Yeah," Bucky said. Without warning, her hand shot to his forehead to gauge his temperature. He leaned away from it and told her, "Stop that, I'm fine."

"But how can you be sure? Is it warm to the touch? Do you have any other symptoms?"

"Mom, it's nothing. I overworked it a little. I'll make sure to go easy for the next week or so."

She responded with her face turned towards her plate, almost inaudibly, "That's what we thought last time."

Bucky sighed. She was even more paranoid about Bucky potentially relapsing than he was. Yes, it was a possibility, but that didn't mean he would freak out at every little ache and pain, especially when this particular one had another, infinitely more likely, explanation than a recurrence of his tumor. Bucky didn't know what else he could say to convince his mother it was nothing, and his next scans weren't until January.

"Mom, I would tell you if I thought something was actually wrong," Bucky assured.

"I know, I know. I trust you, but sometimes I can't help but worry," she said, looking flustered. "I'll get over myself. You just take it easy at practice tomorrow."

"Definitely."

~0~

They didn't make it to the playoffs that season, and Bucky struggled to quiet the side of his brain that wanted to blame the goalie for letting in too many shots. It wasn't his fault, of course. Bucky saw how hard he worked at practice, and he was doing the best he could, but Bucky knew he could do better. Well, he used to be better. Now, he could only strive for another defensive position by next season.

They transitioned into off-season workouts for the winter, which fortunately entailed a lighter schedule. Bucky doubted he'd survive the entire year at this level of activity. Coach Phillips wanted them in the weight room two to three times a week for lifting and indoor cardio. Last year, Gabe had said they were all required to do three days, and Bucky couldn't help but wonder if Coach had opened up the option for two just for him. He was glad the new rule applied to the entire team and not just to him. Coach respected that he didn't like to be singled out, though he didn't hesitate to do so when it was truly necessary. Still, it was nice not to be the only one taking the less intense route.

Everyone on the team worked the same conditioning drills during regular practice, and they had standardized workouts that they were all supposed to do during the off season. Bucky knew chemo had degraded his muscle mass, so he didn't expect to be able to lift what he used to. He was right, and he was actually pleasantly surprised by what he was still able to do. Maybe that was because he'd set his expectations lower to avoid disappointment. Still, he sequestered himself as far away from his teammates as he could manage during sessions because he didn't want their looks of pity when they noticed how little weight he was working with. On the bright side, he could do arms in half the time because he only had one to work on.

After the last session of the first week, Coach pulled him aside for a chat while the other boys headed off to the locker room. "I know I have a long way to go, but I'll get there," Bucky started.

"That's not what I'm concerned about," Coach assured. "I just wanted to ask if you wanted to switch one of your days to Friday when no one else is in here."

"Why would I want to do that?" Bucky asked, though inside he'd never been more relieved.

"Maybe you'd be more comfortable working at your own pace without everyone else here working at theirs. It would be just us two."

"Coach, you don't have to stay on Fridays just to work out with me," Bucky insisted.

"I know I don't, but I'm offering."

"Thank you. I think I might take you up on that."

"You're welcome."

Bucky couldn't believe Coach's incredible generosity. It would've been so easy for him just to say Bucky couldn't be on the team because he wasn't fit enough, but he decided to put in extra effort to help him get back up to speed. On Tuesday, Bucky shyly worked through the day's regimen, trying not to garner the attention of any of his teammates. He grew more eager for Friday, when he could stop worrying about looking like a weak loser in front of his friends.

In Bucky's opinion, Coach Phillips had already gone above and beyond just by offering this extra session and taking the time to show up for it. It turns out Bucky had underestimated him. He showed up to the weight room on Friday having done actual research on rebuilding strength and stamina after chemo and adapting typically two-armed exercises for one. His dedication completely blew Bucky's mind.

For the most part, they did the same exercises that all the guys on the team did, only with fewer reps per set and more breaks between. And anything with weight, he just worked with less of it than his peers would. Bucky felt so much better about doing his own thing when he didn't have a gym full of perfectly fit friends there to watch. They would never bully him about it of course—they were all good guys and Bucky could tell they supported him in his slow trek back to health—but he still didn't want them looking at him. Besides, watching them in action in the gym only served as a solemn reminder of how far he still had to go.

Improvement happened incrementally, and far too slowly for Bucky's liking. It was hard to avoid discouragement when he plateaued for weeks, occasionally even sliding backwards on days his fatigue was particularly bad. By the time winter break rolled around, he'd made a barely noticeable gain, but a gain nonetheless, in stamina. By keeping up with the nutritionist's recommendations, he continued to gain weight, some of which even turned into muscle tone. His remaining arm saw the most difference, though he supposed having to use it for literally everything could do that.

Starting in January, Coach added another exercise to his training: dead hangs. "By your senior year I want you cranking out one-armed pull-ups," he said sharply. That seemed like an awfully ambitious goal to Bucky, who could barely hang for a few seconds, but the time period was long enough that he could feasibly accomplish it. He strived for adding one second to his max every time, and for the most part he stuck to it.

"I won't be able to come next week," he informed Coach Phillips as they took a water break during his individual session. Coach didn't ask why, but Bucky told him anyway. "I have my six-month scans."

Coach looked at him with a combination of awe and bewilderment in his eyes. Bucky sort of regretted telling him, because he clearly didn't know what to say. He decided on, "Good luck."

"Thanks."

The first time around it hadn't really hit home, but now Bucky realized his life existed in three-month increments. He knew his body pretty well at this point, and he certainly felt fine, but he also knew Ewing's could pop back up somewhere else and he'd have no idea until a bone scan or a CT found it. Just the thought of relapsing made Bucky almost as violently nauseous as chemo. It wasn't just the thought of having to endure another round of treatment, but the knowledge that one relapse increased his odds of a second, and that multiple relapses often led to an exhaustion of treatment options. He'd already reached his lifetime maximum dosage of the Red Devil, so they'd have to try something else to treat his cancer if it came back, something likely less effective.

The only person more nervous than Bucky this week was his mom. She got like this the last time he had scans, cleaning the house with a ferocity she hadn't used since Bucky was still immunocompromised and checking on him 'just because' while he was in his room doing homework. He didn't know what to do to reassure her, and frankly he probably couldn't no matter what he did. The only thing that would put them at ease again was hearing those three wonderful letters NED.