February 21, 2002
Cont.
It wasn't that Adam didn't look good.
He did.
And it wasn't that he hadn't done very well, because he had.
But Julie wasn't prepared for this.
.
As she'd watched the jersey retirement ceremony; as they'd talked on the phone, she'd begun to imagine that with enough hard work, there was some kind of reset button. That miracle recoveries were exactly that: That he would one day get up out of his bed and go back to what he was before.
But now...now as she watched him struggle with a forearm crutch; as she watched the effort that was obviously going into every step, it hit her that this was the miracle recovery.
The gulf between 'okay' and 'not okay' was wider than she'd ever realized. Wider than it looked on TV.
Wider than he'd ever be able to finish swimming.
.
She stared at the way his right foot dragged behind, and the way that the scar down his neck was still an angry red. She stared at the awkward paunch where his abs were supposed to be, and the way that his right arm was too still. The way that his shoulders were uneven, and the way that nothing moved in any logical harmony anymore; each limb apparently in business for itself.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
He wasn't supposed to spend the rest of his life like this. He wasn't supposed to be disabled; not the consummate Adam Banks who could make the world bend to his will.
He was supposed to wake up one day and be okay, just like he always had before.
He was supposed to be perfect again.
Just like she remembered.
.
As he walked towards her, she wracked her brain for the appropriate pleasantries, but nothing came out. All she could do was stare. Think about the things that were no longer as they should be. About the things that would never be the same again.
This isn't okay.
This isn't okay at all.
"Okay, so who all hasn't been skating since college?"
As Adam and Julie continued their discussion about zombies and clown pants, Charlie and Jesse had moved on from Larson's racism to Jesse's lack of hockey in recent years. Much to Charlie's chagrin, it seemed that a number of his old teammates had not only quit playing hockey post-high school; quite a few hadn't been on the ice at all.
.
As Charlie looked around the living room, more and more of his teammates nodded with guilt.
"I do live in Miami..." Luis explained. "It's an hour to the nearest rink."
"Same."
Much of the Sunbelt contingent chimed in with the same excuse; secretly relieved that geographic realities had absolved them. Even Charlie couldn't deny the dearth of ice in Florida or Texas.
"This is just sad."
"Sorry man." Jesse shrugged, picking at his plate. "We can't all be hockey coaches."
"Yeah, but come on."
Taking another bite of bagel, Goldberg shook his head, his words muddled by the amount of cream cheese in his mouth.
"I sound like I have the Rice Crispy elves living in my knees."
"Just your knees? Because they've claimed my whole body by this point. It's like the Keebler treehouse in here for Snap, Crackle, and Pop."
"The Keebler elves were different elves."
"Same thing."
"Why were there so many elves, anyway?"
"I don't know..."
Charlie rolled his eyes.
.
Tangents only worked when they were his tangents, and in this case, the topic was far too important to be derailed by something as silly as cartoon spokescharacters.
.
"Really guys? Really? You can't tell me that this many of you losers haven't been skating since high school."
"Who you callin' a loser?" Jesse asked. "I ain't the one coaching at a school I spent four years bitching about."
"I did not bitch about Eden Hall that much."
"I wasn't even there, and I got tired of listening to your shit."
"Trust me. He was even worse to be around in person." Adam groaned, Julie still curled up in his lap at the end of the couch opposite Charlie.
"I was not."
"Were too."
Charlie rolled his eyes.
"And what did I do that was so bad?"
Adam snorted, one eyebrow raised as he looked back over at his old friend.
"Do you uh, do you really want the whole list here? Or would you prefer to stick with the highlight reel?"
"There is no highlight reel."
"Okay, let's see here..." Adam began. "There's the time you walked off JV. There's the time you threw a bitch fit because I sat next to Crawford and like, I guess you didn't want me to have friends or whatever. How about-"
"That was all freshman year."
"Okay, how about the time you got mad that Averman was talking to Larson at a party? The time you tried to stage a protest because you didn't want homework on the weekends? The week you spent sulking because Thad got to borrow his mom's Mercedes..."
"All valid complaints."
"Should I remind you of the practice after Coach Wilson named me captain?"
"That's because you were a dic-"
Charlie's face flushed as he said it, the full memories of that practice flooding back before he could finish his sentence.
.
Adam was right on that one.
The rest of the adolescent angst could be written off easily enough, but that one was pretty unforgivable. He'd turned the practice into a blood bath; their newly minted captain spending the next three days on crutches thanks to his brilliance.
He really should have kicked my ass for that one.
.
"Yeah, well, at least I have one." Adam joked, throwing Charlie a bone in the form of continued banter.
Charlie smiled, well aware of what Adam had just done for him, and appreciative. Grateful that he never had given him nearly as hard of a time for that as he really should have.
"Heh, screw you."
"Once again, things I do not want to do."
"Strong words coming from the guy who's been known to wear his wife's scarves."
"Yeah yeah yeah, whatever." Adam chuckled, Julie's head rested against his shoulder. "Hermes scarves are gender neutral. And they're quite nice."
"Words no straight man has ever said..."
"You're just jealous."
"Yup." Charlie chortled. "Your faggy-ness never ceases to inspire envy."
"Whatever. Queer."
"You're a preppy Liberace."
"But straight."
"Straight as a question mark."
February 21, 2002
The awkwardness continued as the hostess lead them to their seat, no words seeming quite right.
As they sat down, the pit in her stomach only grew. She watched the way that he had to reach across himself for the water, and the way that he fumbled with his fork; his pinkie and ring finger curled into a lame hook.
It wasn't that obvious, but somehow, that only made things worse: Things that were terribly, horribly wrong often got better. But this? This had all been tirelessly practiced; this was the culmination of nearly a year spent trying to look normal again.
By the time she finally met his eyes again, it was too late.
He'd seen her stare.
Now, as he carried on his side of the conversation, the sparkle was gone.
"Laura's great." He continued, his eyes focused on the salad in front of him as he tried not to think about Julie's reaction. "She's...really nice."
"She seems like it."
"And uh, I'm supposed to intern at Goldman Sachs this summer. The real one. In New York. So that should be exciting. Everyone says they're the best at what they do."
"I've heard."
"It's...you know. It's all going really well. All things considered. I think I'm going to like investment banking."
"I'm sure you will."
"And it pays well. I shouldn't have any trouble supporting a family. So that's always important."
"Definitely."
As he reached over for a piece of bread, his arm accidentally brushed against a water goblet, sending the glass to the floor. As it shattered against the parquet, the whole restaurant seemed to turn to stare.
Shit.
Sitting there across from him, Julie could feel all of the sets of eyes boring into them. All of those people looking. Watching, trying to figure out this grown man who couldn't navigate the intricacies of getting a slice of bread. She felt her own cheeks flush as she watched their eyes move from the metal crutch and his awkward movements, back to their own menus and glasses of water, thankful that it wasn't their problem.
She did the same as the waiter came over to clean up the mess; suddenly very interested in the shredded cheese atop her salad.
She listened as the glass clinked against the dustbin, and she thought of all of her teammates who were out partying with good-looking, athletic guys; guys who didn't knock over the water glasses at restaurants.
She found herself longing to be with them. To be doing shots in a place with thumping music and admiring strangers; enjoying life as a 21 year old Olympian, rather than sitting across from the great reminder of life's uncertainty, listening to Adam apologize to the waiter for the fourth time.
"It's okay. I'm sure you'll be more careful next time, won't you?"
Damn it...
She wanted to be angry with the waiter.
She wanted to remind him that he was talking to a former NHL prospect, not a wayward toddler; that Adam had accomplished far more in his life than any guy who carried plates of pasta for a living. She wanted to point out that it must have taken an incredible amount of determination to have made it to this point; to have gone from needing someone to roll him over in bed to thinking about Goldman Sachs and providing for a family. But mostly, she wanted to be literally anywhere else.
Because this, she realized, would always be life for him.
No matter how great of investment banker he might one day be, there would always be spilled water, and people having to clean up after him at restaurants. There would always be strangers staring, and life would always revolve around things like available parking and having adequate seating. No amount of money would ever change that. No amount of money would ever make him normal.
"I'm glad I get to back to New Hampshire..." She thought, staring down at the shreds of mozzarella.
"Okay, that's it. We're fixing this." Charlie stood up, petting his pockets for his keys as the other Ducks picked at their plates of brunch.
He couldn't magically freeze Miami, but this? This was Minnesota.
This was something he could fix.
Averman looked at him, not quite sure where this was going.
"You know that doesn't work, right?" He asked, his face serious.
"What?"
"Trying to fix faggy-ness." He deadpanned, only the sparkle in his eyes giving away. "You can't pray the gay away, no matter what Mike Pence says."
Over at the other end of the couch, Adam snorted, thankful that his drink was empty.
"Crap. No. Yeah, I'm not trying to fix that." Charlie shook his head. "He can wear Laura's wedding dress if it'll make him happy. What I meant is that you losers are going ice skating."
"Hey now!"
Momentarily abandoning Julie, Adam reached over for his cane. Giving the old Duck captain a friendly whack to the shin, Charlie yelped.
I knew that had to be good for something.
"Jerk."
"Whatever." He reminded Charlie, wrapping his arm back around Julie's waist. "I'm not the one who tried to make out with me."
"That wasn't gay. That was to show Rachael I was sensitive."
"By sticking your tongue down my throat?"
Charlie shook his head, laughing.
"Extra sensitive. So sensitive. No idea why she didn't fall in love with me after that."
"Based on how you kiss? She made the right choice."
"Aww, you know you loved it." Charlie joked, reaching over to ruffle Adam's hair.
,
He thought about repeating the performance right then and there. Straight or not, the fun of torturing Adam far outweighed his distaste for kissing another guy...plus, from what he recalled, Adam did have very nice lips.
However, as he glimpsed back over at Adam's cane, he thought better of it. He'd grown rather attached to his testicles over the years, and the the idea of having his pork and beans removed by a brass duck did not sound appealing.
.
"You're tongue is like a dying epileptic slug."
"Yeah. But a sexy dying epileptic slug."
"No. No it is not." Adam reminded him. "I can say with upmost confidence that if I were gay, you would not be making my Top 1,000."
Charlie clutched his chest dramatically, plopping down beside Adam on the sofa. Resting his head against Adam's shoulder, he looked up at him with the biggest brown eyes.
"I'm so hurt."
"Dumbass."
"But-but my feelings." He pouted, running his finger against Adam's jawline for added effect.
"Fag."
"You know you love it."
"I'll kick your ass like Matthew Shepard if you don't get up." Adam replied, well aware that based on the ass kicking the night before, this was probably an empty threat.
"Somebody's playing hard to get."
"Go back to Brokeback Mou-"
Just as he was pushing Charlie away, Adam caught Dwayne staring down at his plate.
.
He remembered the "sleepovers" Dwayne used to have when Charlie was gone-first with a freckled soccer player named David, and later a brunette from the swim team.
He thought about the kinds of jokes he and his friends always made about that sort of thing; the way he and Thad would laugh that their English teacher was going to die of GAY-DS, or how some of the other guys on varsity would play 'smear the queer' with one another.
He thought about what that would be like for a good Baptist boy, and how he probably hadn't helped matters. A sea of guilt washed over him as he looked down at his lap; his banter with Charlie no longer quite so hilarious.
Closing his mouth, he made a note to talk to Dwayne later.
To remind him that guys like himself, and the Texas Cattleman's Association, and Billy Graham probably don't have all of the answers in life.
.
"You good?"
"Yeah."
February 21, 2002
A few minutes later, after everything had been cleaned up, the conversation shifted.
Desperate to put the water incident behind them, Julie began talking about life back at Dartmouth, and women's hockey, and the way that sometimes she did feel a bit lacking next to her classmates.
She talked about the way that everybody else had been to Europe, and their summer houses, and how sometimes she worried that no matter what she did, they'd always be better than her. That they all had the keys to this secret world that she'd never be a part of.
She talked about how it was awkward.
About how even though she fit in on the surface, she'd sometimes catch herself mid-story before remembering that none of them would understand what she was saying: That none of them had brothers who worked at the bowling alley, or that none of their elementary school friends were going go fight in Iraq.
As she continued to talk, she noticed that his eyes lit up at the happy parts, and the way he'd chew at his lip when she got to the unhappier subjects; his brow furrowed with concern.
She continued on, admitting the pre-med was stressful. That she wasn't sure if that was what she wanted to do with her life-that it sucked, devoting that much time and money to something that she wasn't sure would be a good fit. She talked about how she envied the people with less stressful majors; about how it felt like they had so much more freedom to explore the world around them.
The longer she talked, the easier the words seemed to flow, and the more she realized how she'd needed to get all of those things off of her chest.
It also dawned on her that no other boy listened to her this way.
.
They guys at Dartmouth hadn't all been bad. They really hadn't. But they'd started to run together.
Every story about boarding school, every story about backpacking through Europe had begun to sound the same. Worse, it seemed like that was all they were interested in. Every word she said was just a disruption of their own epiphanies.
Minute by minute, her focus began to shift.
.
Before long, the scar along his neck faded; his clumsy movements receding into the background.
She found herself swimming in those crinkly blue eyes, and basking in one of those smiles that grew until it consumed his entire face. She wanted to tousle that perfect hair, and explore the imperfect contours of his body.
Broken water glasses no longer seemed so important, and it sank in that after everything he'd been though, he still cared about her as much as he ever had.
He still cared enough to fly out to Salt Lake City. He still held doors for her, even though she could tell it was no longer easy. He still brought flowers-he'd had a giant arrangement complete with Olympic laurel leaves waiting there at the table for her, determined that his inability to carry things not preclude him from being a gentleman.
.
After everything he'd been through, he was still him-a distinction that ran far deeper than six-pack abs or the ability to pick her up and swing her around when they hugged.
.
"Goldman Sachs would be lucky to have somebody like that." She realized, looking back up at those chiseled features she knew so well.
Anybody would be lucky to have somebody like that.