Name: Chris

Title: The meaning of…

Fandom: High School Musical

Genre: General

Rating: T-ish.

Summary: "Reinvention. It's a powerful thing." Slight AU future-fic. [Troy/Sharpay] For Meagan.

A/N: Keep in mind that I still have yet to watch Senior Year, thus its 'slight AU.'

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Ennui: (noun) boredom from lack of interest, weariness and dissatisfaction with life that results from a loss of interest or sense of excitement.

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"…and there's Troy Bolton, newly appointed team captain and leading scorer, with the ball. Bolton seems to be having the game of his life tonight with forty-seven points and seventeen assists. There's no stopping him ladies and gentlemen, Bolton is on fire."

…0…

Sports movies, despite popular opinion, were never something that Troy Bolton liked. They were too forced, too fake. No real athlete was ever going to admit their fears to some random in love with him chick on a set of bleachers or own up to playing because "it's the only thing I've ever been good at."

The game, whatever it may be, meant way too much to any serious athlete. And it had taken him a long time to realize that.

Another thing Troy has never cared for; hospitals.

So now here he sits, backless gown and all, watching as his life's work swirls down the proverbial drain like some Hollywood cliché come to life.

His foot twitches, rubbing against the scratchy plaster of his cast. Just one more reminder of what's happening to him. As if he needs it when he's still sitting on thin polyester sheets looking at the blank institutional walls of San Antonio Memorial Hospital.

"It's not really as bad as it seems right now."

Troy's eyes flicker from the window to the face of his assistant Shelly. Her big brown eyes sparkle with sympathy behind her small wire framed glasses. A chuckle forms in his throat. One of the reasons he'd hired her was because of her upbeat attitude and never ending optimism. Now, well frankly, it's beginning to get on his nerves.

"Really?" he asks sarcastically. "What part of having my life ripped away from me isn't really as bad as it seems?"

A small faction of shame rises up in his gut when he sees her take a step back, away from him, and her eyes fall to the floor. Shame, yes. Remorse…not so much.

"Oh, stop your whining Pretty Boy."

At once it seems his entire room is invaded by a blur of pink and blonde, the clacking of heels and heady aroma of thick perfume swirling in a meticulous madness. Ironic that a woman as tiny as his publicist could take up so much space just by standing there.

"You haven't had your life ripped away," she states and throws open the standard issue Mojave print curtains. "It's just a little setback."

Troy snorts. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear his mother scolding him for the rude gesture. The statement is just trying a little too hard for his taste to even care though. "Setback? Come on, Joyce," he implores, "my basketball career is over." Hands wave toward the cast so new it still smells like plaster covering his left leg toes to thigh.

"Small potatoes, Darling." Joyce's southern accent is thick; coloring her words in such a way that Troy has long gotten used to tuning out anything and everything else in the room that could distract him in order to know just what the hell she was talking about. He wondered, as he often did, if it were deliberate. "You, Try Bolton," her hands land on the foot of his bed as she leans toward him dramatically (all for effect), "are meant for much bigger and better things than drooling a ball down a court for the next twenty years."

"Dribbling," he corrects.

She waves her hand dismissively. "Whatever. What if I told you that I had plans for you?"

"I would say that I need more morphine."

…0…

"Dude-you're just like Rick Fox!"

Not an analogy Troy would ever apply to himself, but he'd long since given up on the idea of his friends ever making sense.

"This is a pretty sweet setup," Chad declares, replacing the ten pound weight in his hand for a fifteen pound, surveying the array of machines and equipment littered about. "For a hospital. And Rick Fox retired, he wasn't injured."

"Still," Zeke insists, "acting. That's so cool man. Think you'll get to work with Jessica Simpson?"

Sighing, Troy lifts his leg higher, willing the ton of rubber and steel he was sitting on to work its magic and restore him back to playing form and tuned out the bickering of his friends. He appreciates them coming all the way to Texas, truly he does, but his recovery is slow-slower than he'd anticipated and his mood has steadily gone downhill from sour to all out bitter. He doesn't even need to turn around to know that the muffled 'thwack' sound is Chad's hand landing on the back of Zeke's head.

"Guys," he pleads and hears the weariness in his own voice. "I'm trying to concentrate here. Comebacks don't just happen on their own."

He'd have had to be blind or completely oblivious to miss the look that passes between Chad and Zeke, a look that plainly says 'Troy has flipped his lid.'

Zeke steps closer to the weight machine Troy's sitting on. "Um, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you tear your Achilles tendon and about half the cartilage in your knee."

"And fracture your femur," Chad supplies.

Zeke glances at him. "Thanks man."

"No problem."

With a grunt, Troy lets the weight fall to the floor and takes hold of the crutches propped against the side to stand shakily." I'm gonna get there. Its just going to take a little time."

"That's the spirit!"

All three men turn their eyes toward the rehab room door and see Joyce striding through, silk scarf billowing out behind her. She comes to a stop between his friends and looks them up and down in a quick appraisal, sniffing slightly when her eyes light on Chad's hair. He pats it in self-consciousness, a pout forming on his face.

"So," she says brightly, "I have been on the phone to LA all morning trying to find you the perfect project for your debut film and…" A script appears from inside her bag and she waves it in his face like some sort of half crazed challenge. "Voila!"

"That's…uh, that's something." Troy wipes at the sweat on his forehead with a towel, hoping it will distract her from the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. "But I told you that I'm not entirely on board with this whole idea yet."

When she waves her arm around, the stack of bangle bracelets around her wrist jangle and clink together, pulling his focus momentarily from what she's saying. "That was before I knew you were a born thespian."

"Did she just call him a-" Zeke starts to whisper (a little too loudly) before Chad clapped a hand on his mouth, looking at the other two sheepishly.

Without sparing a glance in Zeke's direction, Joyce hands the script off on Troy, forcing him to grapple with it and his crutches, and extracts a photo from her bag and holds it proudly like the grand prize in a scavenger hunt. "You never told me about this…Arnold."

It feels like someone has just punched Troy in the gut. He stands, too stunned to speak, staring at a ten year old photo of himself dancing around the East High auditorium-in full costume-with Gabriella in the winter musical.

Zeke's free from Chad's grasp now and eyeing the photo over Troy's shoulder. "Where did you get that?"

"The internet is a wonderful tool." Her smile reminds Troy of the Cheshire Cat and a chill runs down his spine. "And every school loves to boast about their star alumni."

"Not to interrupt," Zeke's head pops back up over Troy's shoulder and leans closer toward Joyce. "Is there any chance you're single?"

"Dude," Troy complains with a shake of his shoulder just as Chad jerks him backwards.

Joyce sniffs, rolls her eyes as if this is a common occurrence, and adjusts the shirt that's now bunched around Troy in sweaty clumps around his crutches. "Read it. You'll love it. Trust me sweetie."

And she's gone, leaving a cloud of perfume and the sound of stilettos in her wake.

Chad props an elbow on Troy's shoulder, taking the script away from him. "That woman," he states, "is scary."

"Think she'd go out with me?" Zeke wondered aloud.

As he made his way back to his hospital room, Troy heard the thud of Zeke hitting the floor, and Chad's laughter behind him.

…0…

"All we're doing is talking," Joyce reminded him, smoothing down the back of his jacket. "Nothing's been decided yet." She turned her head, snapping her fingers a Shelly. "You have the script changes I asked for?"

"Right here." And like that, they were in her hand.

"Good, good. Wait-where's the billing clause?" She stops, whirling around, fingers outstretched. A pen is in her grasp in two seconds. "There." Squaring her shoulders and smiling brightly, she pats down Troy's hair. "Let's go, shall we?"

Sometimes, Troy forgets that there was ever a life before pro ball. He certainly never imagined one after it, that's for sure. And then there are times-like when Joyce waves a decade old picture of him and his high school girlfriend in his face-that the past jumps out and takes him by surprise. Not even Chad and Zeke are enough to water down the shock when he remembers the boy he was when he thought there were other things out there more important than the life he wants.

Times like this, when he hears a voice he hasn't heard since he was eighteen says in heated indignation, "Troy Bolton is not in my movie."

Brown eyes, glittering in anger, meet his and he's hit at once with the memory of golf clubs and tanning lotion, sequins and sheet music.

Sharpay Evans. Of course.

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