Power Play

Chapter 1-3

The coach stops by the first week he’s home

from the hospital. Jacoby’s with him, the guy was Ryan’s roommate

the past three semesters and his best friend on campus, more or

less. Ryan wheels into the living room to meet them, his mother

already smiling—she’s always smiling anymore. No one looks at his

wheelchair or the brace on his leg, and when the coach talks, it’s

to a spot just above Ryan’s left shoulder. He has to resist the

urge to turn around and see who’s standing there behind him.

“Very sorry,” the coach says, as if

the accident were somehow his fault. “Whole team misses you.

Greatest player we ever had.”

“We’re hurting this season,” Jacoby

tells him. “Could really use some of your magic out there on the

ice.”

“There is no more magic,” Ryan

mutters. They’re talking as if he decided to quit but this isn’t a

decision he made, it’s not like he can be convinced to come back.

He wants back, and the doctors say he’ll be out there one

day, but Ryan’s seen the scarred skin on his legs, he’s seen the

twisted bone. He’s not holding his breath.

His mother smiles so hard, he’s sure her

face will crack. “Thank you for the flowers,” she says, not looking

at him. The coach nods, grateful for her presence. It’s like Ryan’s

not even there. “They’re lovely, simply lovely. Ryan really enjoys

them, don’t you, dear?”

He doesn’t answer, just glares at the coach

and Jacoby and wonders how he can get them to look at him,

to really see him. If only someone would mention the

wheelchair, or ask how he’s doing, or if he’ll ever walk again. But

they don’t, they’re scared of the answers, they’re scared of

him, they’re scared of what they don’t know and they’re

afraid he’s not the same boy he used to be. Even his parents are

scared, they don’t talk about the injury, they use euphemisms and

oblique phrases when they speak of his handicap, and then only in

low voices so he won’t overhear, as if he’s a child dying of a

dread disease that no one wants him to know about. He wants to

shout out, Look at me! Look—but he’s afraid, too, afraid of

what they’ll say then, afraid of the stares, afraid that maybe

their fears are true and he never will walk again, and when

they do look at him, he’ll see that in their eyes, he’ll see

himself reflected back, he’ll see the wheelchair and the rest of

his life and his legs, his hopes, his dreams destroyed.

So he says nothing at all.

They sit in an awkward silence, Jacoby

scuffing his feet along the carpet, the coach frowning at his

folded hands, his mother smiling through it all. “Can I get you men

something to drink?” she asks suddenly. What a brilliant

idea, her smile says. Something to drink, glad I thought of

it.

But the coach shakes his head and Jacoby

follows suit, they’re trying to find a way to say they have to

leave without sounding overly rude and a drink will just prolong

the agony of this visit. Finally the coach clears his throat,

speaks to his fingers twisting in his lap. “We were thinking,” he

starts, and then he looks at Jacoby, who nods as if in

confirmation. “The guys and me, we really want to do

something—”

“That isn’t necessary,” his mother

says. Shut up, Ryan thinks. Anything that makes them feel as

uncomfortable as he does now in this chair is necessary,

anything at all.

“We’ve collected some money,” Jacoby

tells them. “Not much, but we hiked the ticket price up a dollar

for home games and the students are more than willing to pay it.

They call it the Talon Fund. It’s in a jar in our room…” He trails

off, then corrects himself, “My room, I guess, now, though housing

isn’t going to give me a new roommate just yet. They said in case

you come back.”

It’s the closest anyone’s come to saying he

might not be able to return to college. Classes, maybe, but his

room was on the third floor of the dormitory and with no elevator,

he’s not going to be living there any time soon. As if to cover

over Jacoby’s faux pas, Ryan’s mother says softly, “That’s

real nice of you kids, real nice. Every little bit helps.”

“We sort of retired your number,” the

coach says. “Talonovich twenty-eight, it’s hanging in the rink, you

should see it.” He stops when he realizes that Ryan probably

won’t see it. He hasn’t been out in weeks, and the rink’s

out of the question. What, they think he can just get in the car

and drive there? They think it’s that simple? “The guys have

a jersey for you,” the coach continues, as if he realizes Ryan’s

not going to answer so he wants to fill the silence between them

somehow. “All the team signed it. It’s back at the locker room but

we’ll bring it next time, promise.”

Ryan hopes there isn’t a next time. They’ve

retired his number, so now what? “What happens when I come back?”

he asks.

The coach looks up, surprised, and Jacoby

glares at the floor as if he blames it for Ryan’s question. “I’m

still a part of the team, right?” Ryan asks. “What happens when I

get back on the ice? You bring my number out of retirement, or

what?”

Confused, the coach glances at Ryan’s

mother, whose smile threatens to slip under such scrutiny. “I

thought—” he starts, and she laughs like Ryan’s just told a joke.

“Ryan, honey, that’s not really—”

“I’m still part of the team, right?”

Ryan asks again.

“Of course,” the coach assures him,

but there’s something shifty in his face, something that Ryan

doesn’t care for one bit, something that suggests he’s simply

humoring the boy, they all know he’ll never go back on the ice, the

thought is absurd. As if to convince himself, the coach says it

again, “Of course you are.” Then he leans forward, steeples his

fingers in front of his chest and for the first time since he said

hello, he looks Ryan in the eye. “We were thinking,” he says,

lowering his voice, “the guys and me. How’d you like it if we

turned the official web site over to you, hmm?” He glances at

Ryan’s mother, sees her relieved smile, and grins at Ryan. “What do

you say, Talon? You got a computer, right?”

“Sure he does,” his mother replies.

Ryan wonders what he’s even doing in the room, if they can carry

this conversation on without him. “You’ve got that brand new Dell

your father bought, you remember, dear?” To the coach, she

explains, “It’s on the desk in the den, right by your flowers. That

was such a sweet gesture. He’d love to do the web site.”

“Why don’t you do it, mother?” Ryan

asks her. The web site. So he can what, update it with the

team’s scores and photos, pour salt on his wounds, rub in the fact

that he’s not the one out there on the ice? He starts to wheel

away—this visit is over for him. “Thanks for the offer, coach, but

I don’t need your pity.”

“Ryan,” his mother starts, but he’s

not listening. Why should he? No one’s listened to him. He hates

the door frame where his father removed the molding so his

wheelchair can just barely squeeze through, he hates the nail holes

filled with spackling, he hates the fresh paint. He didn’t ask for

this, for any of it. He hates it all.

As he heads down the hall to the den, he

hears his mother tell the coach she’ll talk to him some more, he’ll

work on the site, he won’t let the team down. He hears the coach’s

low voice, hears Jacoby say, “Thank you, Mrs. Talonovich,” hears

footsteps as she walks them to the front door. He wonders if they

take the ramp, just for convenience, the way some people have a

tendency to do. He hates that ramp.

In the den, he closes the door and locks it

behind himself. Then he wheels over to the hospital bed, which he

hates. He pulls up the brake on the wheelchair, hating the faint

squeal of rubber on the tire. He climbs into the bed, careful not

to hit his knees on the edge of the mattress or get his brace

caught up in the leg guard of the chair.

He buries his face in his pillow and tells

himself he’s not crying, but he hates the image that’s burned into

his mind—his jersey hanging above the goal box, Talonovich

and under that, 28, retired. He’s nineteen and already

retired from his game.