I still want to know perfection, to really know it. To feel it beneath my fingertips and to memorize its touch...I want to taste it, to breathe it in.


It has always been so far from my grasp. Even on the ice, even when I discovered my talent for puck handling...it's the only thing I ever found that I'm truly good at...and it still just isn't enough. Hockey doesn't fill the gaping hole I feel inside my chest, the gaping hole that, at age thirteen, at that moment with Adam, I had finally recognized as loneliness and longing. Hockey doesn't make me whole; hockey doesn't make me perfect.


But hockey brought me to perfect. Hockey has been the driving force throughout my entire life. Hockey brought me to the Goodwill Games, hockey helped me figure out what I was missing, hockey helped me recognize what (or, rather, who) I needed to fix it...


**


I'm lying here in the dark, like every night, trying to sleep, finding it impossible. I managed to avoid the team all day, by spending my hours in the library. Little work was actually accomplished, but I was pleased that there would be no confrontations. Restlessly, I roll over, rustling my sheets and sighing loudly.


"Dwayne?" Adam whispers.


I freeze; all noise stops. I hadn't known he was awake.


I try to stay quiet, but curiosity gets the best of me. "Yeah?"


There are long moments of silence, and I wonder if maybe Adam said my name while he was sleeping, while he was dreaming about me...I let my thoughts wander gloriously in that direction, until I hear his whisper again, "Why did you...?" He stops, and the silence stretches out like a drowsy summer afternoon...and when he speaks again, I know it's not what he really wants to ask, "Why do you call me Adam?"


Because I know he likes it. Because I know I'm the only one who does it, and I like the feeling it gives me...it makes me feel like I'm unique, like we have a shared secret. Because it's a beautiful name, and "Banks" just doesn't do him justice.


But I can't say that.


"It's your name, isn't it?"


"But why not Banks like everyone else?"


"If you prefer it..."


"No," Adam is quick to interrupt. "I just...I like it, I was wondering, I just..."


I smile brightly, wanting to untwist the knot of tension in my stomach, trying humor. "If you'd like, I'll call you Cake-"


"Don't even finish that thought."


I laugh softly. "Sorry."


"Dwayne." Something in the way Adam says my name...the tone between us has changed from lightly playful to serious.


I don't respond to him, though. Right now, I don't trust my voice.


"Dwayne," he repeats it, more quietly but with more intensity.


"Yes?" I whisper. That's all I can manage.


"Don't forget what I said this afternoon. I meant it. You can tell me anything. I thought we were friends."


"That's just the problem," I mutter. He hears it anyway. Of course. I mentally curse Murphy and pull my blankets over my head.


"What does that mean?" he asks.


I'm pretty sure he has a good idea, so I don't feel the need to respond.


"Dwayne," he says for the third time in as many minutes.


"Adam," I take a deep breath. "I just want you to know now...you're going to start drawing conclusions that are probably going to be correct. You're going to realize things that are going to be true. And you're going to start asking me questions that I desperately, desperately want to answer...but just...can't."


"Okay," he says and I hear him roll over.


"Okay," I echo gratefully and turn to face the wall.


"Actually..." And I hear the rustle of sheets once more. "Not okay. I'm worried about you." He sits up. "Talk to me."


I cross the room and sit next to him on his bed, on top of his covers. "Adam, please, you've got to understand. I do trust you and I do care about you."


"Well, you sure don't treat me like I'm your friend."


I bite my lip nervously, almost to the point of drawing blood. Fine, Adam, you want me to talk to you? "You're the best friend I have on this team and you..." I sigh heavily and hope he knows what he's getting into, because I sure don't. "And...there's always been this gaping hole in my life. It's always been a part of me and I could never explain it; something was always...just...missing. And now, and suddenly, I've found what I need to fix it, but I can't have it and I can't fix it, and...I don't know what I'm going to do. There's...there's what I've yearned for since I was eight, and it's almost within my grasp. But I know I'm not allowed to touch it. There are certain things that I just can never have." I pause significantly. "You'll never...what I want, what I need...I can't have. It's not allowed to be mine. Never has been, never will be."


Adam leans forward and gazes at me. With the moonlight drifting through the window, providing the only light in the room, I imagine that the scene appears somewhat romantic. His gaze is serious and intent and I am lost for a moment before I realize he's speaking.


"How do you know?" he asks.


"Because...it's just a fact. I've always known."


"But how? Why?"


I shake my head in frustration. He'll never understand. How can he? He has everything that I want.


Aw, hell, he is everything that I want.


I feel wetness on my cheeks, and I hadn't even realized that I'm crying. Adam reaches up and tentatively stretches his hand toward my face. I blink and feel tears cling to my eyelashes, a few escaping to slide down and drip off my chin.


Before I know what he's going to do his fingers are gently brushing away my tears. I close my eyes and allow myself this moment. And it's almost like I'm there.


It's like..it's this bright, glowing ball hanging before me, dazzling me, tantalizing me. And it's right there, within my reach....


But still, no one is more surprised than I am when I grab perfection by the wrist and taste perfection on my mouth.


**