Power Play

Chapter 1-4

When he wakes up later, he thinks he should

at least look at the team web site. It occurs to him that in

the year and a half he’s been on the team, he hasn’t really ever

visited the page, but that’s because he spent too much free time at

practice, devoted to his game. Studies came second after hockey

with partying a close third. He never really turned on the computer

unless he had a paper to write, and the only time he ever used the

school’s Ethernet connection was to listen to live broadcasts of

the Devils’ games. Besides, he reasons, checking out the web site

is not agreeing to work on it. It’s interest, that’s all.

Mild curiosity. That’s it.

His mother, ever resourceful, doesn’t think

it necessary to put a chair by his desk—what for? He’s in a

chair, though it probably never occurred to her that he hates it.

The best money could buy, she told him when she wheeled it into the

hospital room to take him home. He doesn’t care how much the damn

thing costs, he still hates it. Even if it were electric, which

it’s not, he would hate every little thing about it, from the skid

marks it leaves on the hardwood floors to the way the seat creaks

when he shifts in it to the muscles in his arms that have built up

from wheeling himself around. But it’s the only chair in the den,

and his mother has made room for it throughout the house, removing

one of the dining room chairs so he can just wheel right on up to

the table, taking out the extra wingback chair from the living

room, even having a plumber reposition the sink in the bathroom so

he doesn’t have to switch seats to brush his teeth. What he

wouldn’t give for the plush comfort of a sofa, or the hard wood of

an Adirondack, or even the leather cushion of a barstool. Anything

but this canvas stretched between metal bars across his back.

Still, it’s the only chair he has, and his

parents have rearranged the den so he can wheel himself around

easily enough. When he positions himself in front of his computer,

he has a great view of the backyard and his mother’s birdbath, iced

over. He could sit for hours and stare out the window at that

miniature pond, where he sees himself whole again and skating. He

can almost feel the ice beneath his feet, hear the shush

shush as he moves across the surface, hear the crowd go wild as

he sinks another puck. Daydreams, that’s all they are anymore, like

the ones he used to have as a child, watching hockey on tv. He’ll

never play again, who are they kidding? He can’t even walk. The

doctors, his parents, his coach and teammates, they’re all just

humoring him.

As he waits for the computer to boot up, he

glances at the flowers on his desk. Wilting now, they didn’t last

long. That’s how he’ll be in the minds of his friends, the other

students—sure, they’re all about raising money for him now, his

jersey flies above the goal box so they have to remember him, but

how much longer will that last? Another player will come along,

someone to steal his spotlight, and he’ll just be that kid in the

wheelchair who got messed up at practice. He’ll fade away. One day

they’ll take his jersey down to wash it and simply forget to hang

it back up again. Someone will want his number and no one will

remember quite why it was ever retired in the first place. He’s not

the Talon anymore—he’s just Ryan Talonovich, who used to play on

the team.

Used to. He hates that phrase.

Beside the flowers are a handful of floppy

disks, a book on html, a digital camera. Presents from the coach,

given to Ryan’s mother when she assured him that Ryan would do the

web site. That seems like days ago. She gave them to Ryan, told him

he could at least try to help out the team, it’s not like he

has anything else to do. And that’s just the thing, isn’t

it? He has nothing to do. Sit in this chair, stare out at that

birdbath, imagine himself skating again. Physical therapy Monday,

Wednesday, Friday. And now this.

He’s not going to do the web site, he knows

that in his heart. But when he logs online and the page loads in

his browser, his breath catches in his throat. It’s himself staring

back, one of the photographs the team had done at the end of last

season with him in full gear, stick in hand, helmet, pads, jersey,

the whole works. He’s posed on the ice, puck in front of him as if

he’s about to shoot for the goal, grinning at the camera and

there’s a cocky expression in his eyes that says, I’m the best,

I know it. The Talon—I AM this team.

Or rather, he was.

Above the picture, his name. Dates as if

he’s dead now, though it’s just the seasons he played. His dorm

room address, where concerned students can send donations. He

scrolls down.

A photograph of the rink with his jersey

above the goal box, looking as forlorn and out of place as he

imagined it would. Another photo, this one of the whole team, taken

shortly after the first game of the new season, and the players in

the front row hold a banner with his name on it, Ryan

Talonovich, he’s there in spirit if not body. A short blurb

about his accident, the same thing that appeared in the campus

paper. A handful of links along the bottom of the page, directions

to the rink, practice times, team roster, game schedule for this

season. But those are almost hidden, an afterthought, like someone

realized this wasn’t a Talon tribute page and thought maybe they

should add a little something about the rest of the team as well.

Ryan scrolls back to the top again, looks at his picture, his legs

wrapped in padding but whole, he’s standing and that’s so out of

date, he doesn’t stand anymore, he hasn’t in over a month, not

without the help of his therapist. He doesn’t stand. That

picture is wrong.

This whole site is s**t. It’s not a team

page, it’s dedicated to him. He hates that. His hands start to

tremble as he slips the first disk into the drive, just to see what

all’s on it. Maybe he can just do some minor tweaking, get that

stupid picture off the main page at least. Maybe…

This whole damn site needs to be

redone, he thinks.