“Yeah,” Andy says and clears his throat. He licks his lips, straightens himself, and looks me in the eye. “It was time for my annual haircut,” he jokes and I laugh, but it sounds forced. Andy’s shoulders deflate again, and he looks away. “Can I come in?” he asks, and I hurry to get out of his way.
He takes off his shoes and jacket and goes to the living room, holding his backpack in front of him like a shield.
I go after him, and we take a seat on the couch. Andy gets his books and notes out in complete silence. Why is it so awkward? And then it hits me. I’ve hurt his feelings. As easygoing and low maintenance as Andy seems, he wanted this makeover because he didn’t feel comfortable in his own skin. Didn’t feel like he was good enough for people to notice him. And instead of giving him a compliment, I’ve stared at him like he’s grown an extra head. I officially suck. But I can do better.
“I like your hair,” I say. “You look good.”
He clears his throat once more and throws me a quick glance over his shoulder. “Yeah. I met up with Tricia the other day, and she sent me to this hair stylist. Umm, she wanted to do a pompadour. I had no fucking clue what it was, and I couldn’t exactly do an internet search in front of her, so I opted out of that one. She was disappointed, but I looked it up after, and no way would I have been able to style it so that I wouldn’t have looked like I had an unfortunate incident with a lawn mower. So yeah, good thing I didn’t say yes to that. Anyway, this is what she came up with.” He fiddles with the ends of his hair. “It’s less hair than before, but I don’t look unrecognizable, so I figure it’s a win.”
He’s rambling, but it’s kind of cute. I’ve never seen Andy so flustered before.
“You look hot,” I say and immediately start overthinking it. Is that something you’d say to a friend? Would I say it to Mark or Jordan or any of my other teammates? And that’s a no. Mark would laugh his ass off if I were to give him an estimation of how sexy I think he looks. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it? Andy and I are friends, and friends do not flirt with each other.
But Andy visibly relaxes and smiles at me. The real, wide, toothy Andy-grin that I’ve come to like, and I think, fuck it, he’s hot, why shouldn’t I let him know? Andy could use a boost of confidence, and what kind of friend would I be if I wasn’t the one to give it when opportunity presents itself?
“Thanks. I like it too. For a second there, I thought that I couldn’t go through with this makeover thing, but I like the result. Gives me hope for when Tricia and I get to the clothes-buying part.”
“When is that happening?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know yet. I’ve got to come up with a budget first, but probably soon. She already cleaned out my closet, so from now on, if you see me wearing only two shirts and one pair of pants, it’s because I literally don’t have other clothes. Apparently my closet is a disaster zone.”
“She threw away your T-shirts?” I ask, startled. “I like your shirts. They’re hilarious.”
Andy flushes and shrugs. “She left me some, but they’re not exactly screaming successful grown-up, so most of them had to go. It’ll be fine. I can live with shirts that don’t have slogans on them.”
I paste a smile on my face. Andy doesn’t look like he’s missing the clothes too much, so I guess he’s fine, and there’s no reason for me to be upset on his behalf.
“As long as you’re happy,” I say because I’m being a supportive friend and that’s what I’m supposed to do.
“Eh.” He shrugs one shoulder and shoots me a half-smile. “I can always go back to the way I was if I don’t like the result.”
I nod. “Sure. Hair grows back and all that.”
“Exactly.” He nods.
And I nod.
We’re like a pair of ventriloquist dolls with our heads bobbing up and down.
“Should we get started?” Andy asks.
“Oh yeah. But before we do, I just wanted to confirm that you’ll be at the tutoring session tomorrow?”
Andy looks resigned. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Guilt gnaws at me. I’m being a shitty friend, and I feel like crap doing it to Andy, but we need him, and it’s not like I’m forcing him to talk or anything. He can just sit and listen, and maybe later he’ll have some thoughts on how to make this process less painful. Yeah. It’s a reasonable enough request. I mean, it would be different if I made him teach the class or something, but he’s just there to observe. Or that’s the way I’m spinning it in my mind.
“Okay. Good,” I say.
“Yeah,” he replies. The awkwardness is back, and it lasts ’til Andy leaves two hours later.
I might have screwed up on that one.
Andy is late.
“He’s not going to show,” Mark says, ever the optimist.
I check my phone. No messages.
“He’ll be here,” I repeat stubbornly, like I’ve done countless times over the last twenty minutes.
Mark just shakes his head and throws himself onto the couch sulkily. I have a whole new appreciation for parents of teenagers.
“Hey coach.” Kevin, one of the rookies, hovers in the doorway that leads to the dining room, which we’ve set up for tutoring. “Can we maybe start? I’ve got this thing later.”
He disappears as I get up and drag myself to the dining room to entertain everybody with my take on Newton’s three laws. With each lesson, I feel my confidence take so many hits that the thing is already beaten black and blue. I need this lesson to go well or it’ll be very difficult to continue telling everybody, myself included, that this secondhand tutoring is a good plan.
I’m in the middle of an explanation when I lift my gaze and see Andy slip in the room.
“Sorry,” he mouths as he rests his back against the wall and settles in to listen. It’s nerve-wracking, to give a tutoring session in physics when an actual physics major is present. It doesn’t matter that I’m reciting what Andy has told me word for word.
I explain force, inertia, and mass before I recite the three laws of motion. I think I’m doing pretty well, but when we whip out the section where the formulas come out to play, it all goes to shit. As much as I try, I’m out of ideas for how to explain this topic in a way that won’t have people staring at me blankly. I parrot whatever Andy has written out for me, but it’s obvious that I’m about as knowledgeable in Newton’s laws as a squid.
The guys are looking defeated. My shoulders drop. I’ve failed. In fact, I’ve screwed the team over because Mark is right. If I hadn’t meddled and gone to the dean, the man wouldn’t have forced Shaw to repeat the course and he wouldn’t hold a grudge against the students.
Logically, I know that I should have just let it play out without sticking my nose into it, but I love hockey. Have always loved it and will always love it, and coaching is the only way I get to be part of the game.
The doctor’s diagnosis of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy came as a complete shock, and coming to terms with the fact that I had to hang my skates up at the grand old age of twenty-two, when I really thought I was heading for the NHL, has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Somehow, I kept going, even though back then my only prospect for the future was working for my dad.
But then Coach Williams approached me and offered me the position of assistant coach, and suddenly, my life didn’t look so bleak anymore. I threw myself into work, and it turns out, I’m not half bad at this whole coaching thing. At first, I was afraid it’d feel like a consolation prize. That I would end up resenting the guys who still had a shot at the NHL, but I’ve been at it for two years now, and with each week, I like it more and more.
Which is why it’s so important for the team to do well. I have to fix this physics situation or the team is screwed, and I can’t help but feel like my chances will be screwed along with the team. And I already know how bleak life was, thinking that I’d have to spend the rest of my life working for my dad, so failure is not an option. I’m doing my MBA to please my parents. I’m not
going to give up on my own dream because of physics.
I look at Andy, prepared to see an expression of pity because of how badly I’m fucking this lesson up, but I’m in for a surprise. Andy stares straight ahead, pale and sort of looking like he would rather make a run for it than stay here a moment longer. He doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he slowly straightens himself, and even though he looks ready to bolt, he clears his throat and starts speaking.
“Okay, imagine you’re on the ice. There’s a goal and there’s a puck. Since you’re a hockey player, you want to give the audience what they’re looking for and score. So you hit the puck, and it slides over the ice. But wait! There’s a player from the opposing team, and he sticks his stick where it shouldn’t be and touches the puck. The puck changes its motion, and you don’t score. So essentially, what Newton says is that the only way to get something to change its motion is to use force. If nothing stops the puck, it’ll keep moving in a straight line. Forever.”
All the guys have turned around to face Andy. The look on his face is pure terror, but instead of running away, he looks at me, bites his lower lip, and slowly and hesitantly makes his way to the front of the room. He’s still pale and looks like he’d rather have lunch with a fire-breathing dragon than be here, but he soldiers on.
“Can you maybe all look at your notes and pretend I’m not here?” he asks. As if recognizing that Andy might be their saving grace, everybody snaps their eyes firmly to their notes. Andy lets out a deep breath. In a quick bout of inspiration, I push a chair toward Andy and grab one for myself and sit down in front of him.
“Tune them out,” I say. “We’re in my apartment, and this chair is just a very uncomfortable couch. So… repeat what you told me yesterday. I’m a shitty student, so I can’t remember.”
Andy takes a deep breath. He still looks a bit green, but he keeps his gaze on me and starts speaking again. “So now you say, but Andy, there’s no such thing as a perpetual motion machine, and you’d be right. There isn’t, but…”
And he’s off. It only takes a minute for Andy to get going. He keeps his gaze firmly locked on mine, and slowly relaxes enough so the lesson really starts to feel like it’s just one of our sessions. The ones we hold in my living room. Eventually, Andy looks away from me, sending furtive glances toward his audience, and he stands up to write a formula on the whiteboard.
Andy goes through all the three laws using everyday examples. He inserts formulas into his lecture almost seamlessly and even cracks a few jokes. Granted, they’re physics jokes, so absolutely nobody gets them, but the guys seem to realize that Andy is their best shot to pass Shaw’s class, so they chuckle politely and keep their what-the-fuck faces for when Andy turns his back to them.
Andy explains all the problems so effortlessly that I’m having a hard time remembering why I couldn’t talk about Newton with the same ease. The guys look more engaged than I’ve ever seen them.
At the end of the session the guys clap Andy on the back. “Dude, why didn’t you bring this guy from the start?” Jared asks me as he passes me on his way out. “No offense, but you kind of suck at tutoring.”
“Thanks,” I say as Mark snickers somewhere behind me, but he sounds happy. “You better get him to agree to keep on tutoring. I don’t care what it takes. Money, your car, a fucking blowjob, just get him to agree to continue,” he mutters before he stalks out after the others.
Andy has taken a seat. He looks dazed, but he’s not as pale anymore, and there’s a small smile on his lips.
He looks up as I approach and his smile widens. “Is it pathetic that I totally got an adrenaline rush from this?” he asks. He shakes out his hands. “Is that how BASE jumpers feel? Because if so, sign me up.”
“Good, I’m kind of hoping you’ll want to repeat that, say twice a week, same place, same time?” I jump in to ask, and I’m not joking. Not even a little bit. I feel guilty for pressuring him, but not enough to let it go. I mean, if Andy refuses to come back here, there’s nothing I can do about it, but fuck do I hope that’s not the case. I think the guys would riot if they have to endure my pathetic attempts at teaching.
“I’m pretty sure this is what being high feels like,” Andy mutters to himself. “Fuck it. I’m sure I’ll regret it later, but I’ll do it.”
Relief. That’s all I feel. I’m pretty sure I can now safely say that I’ve done all I can for my team.
9
Andy
Adrenaline highs are short. Who knew, right?
I do.
Now.
I’m in the bathroom, hyperventilating. I’ve got tutoring in an hour, but I can’t seem to force myself to move. What was I thinking agreeing to this shit?
Better yet, why didn’t I just remain quiet while Law was trying to fumble his way through Newton’s Laws? But no, I just had to feel sorry for the guy, and have my moment of bravery where I stormed in and saved the day. That was probably my one and only heroic deed I’ll do in my lifetime, so why the hell did I choose to waste it on a measly tutoring session instead of, say, running into a burning building to save a puppy? It’s anybody’s guess.
A knock on the door brings me back to reality and reminds me that I’ve been occupying the bathroom for the last forty minutes. I remember that I have roommates who might need to use it for something other than staring at themselves in the mirror, cursing and swearing, while simultaneously breathing into a paper bag.
“I’ll be right out,” I call weakly as I splash another handful of cold water on my face. I open the door and find a scowling Falcon. He’s back in town for a teammate’s birthday party, but it’s the first time I’ve seen him since he arrived because last night I was hanging out with Law again, and this morning we went to gym, then I had work, and now I’m supposed to prepare for tutoring.
“Shit,” I yelp as he grabs my elbow and pulls me into my room, slamming the door behind us.
“Sit,” he orders, and I immediately drop into the chair by my desk. Judging by the speed with which I follow his order, I would have made an excellent soldier.
“What?” I ask defensively as Falcon glares at me from across the room.
“Are you doing drugs?” he asks.
I laugh, but Falcon doesn’t crack a smile. “Wait… are you serious?” I ask. His answer is in his humorless expression.
“I’m not… Why would you… What the hell, man?” I sputter.
He drags his hand through his hair and shakes his head. “What else am I supposed to think? I’ve been gone for two weeks, and you barely pick up your phone. You don’t answer any of my texts. Rory and Paul tell me they haven’t seen you in ages. And now you’re talking to yourself in the bathroom, all pale and shaky.”
“And your first thought was, Jeez, Andy must be on drugs?” It’s such a weird accusation that I’m finding it hard to decide if I should be offended or laughing my ass off.
It’s true that I’ve been busier than usual. With tutoring and work and perfecting my application to MIT, I’ve hardly had time for my afternoon naps. In fact, lately I’ve been skipping them more often than not.
He looks embarrassed, which is good because: drugs? Seriously? What the fuck?
“It might have been a gut reaction, but look at it from my perspective. I leave again on Sunday, Andy. I don’t have time for an intervention,” he says.
“Oh. Well, that makes it all right,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
He stares at me for a long time and with each passing second, he frowns more and more and starts squinting his eyes. “What the hell happened to your hair?” he finally asks.
My hand flies to my head and I pat at my hair self-consciously. “I got a haircut,” I say defensively.
Don’t ask if he likes it. Don’t ask if he likes it.
“Do you like it?”
Damn it, Andy!
He glares at my hair like it has somehow offended him, which is crazy. If anything, my previous messy excuse for hair should have been considered a pu
blic eyesore. I did everybody’s retinas a favor by finally fixing that mess.
“Well, I like it.” I raise my chin higher.
He must detect something in my voice because he raises both of his palms. “It’s very neat,” he says, but he keeps glaring at me like he doesn’t appreciate the change.
“What a glowing review,” I mutter to myself.
“What do you want me to say?” He lifts his hands in exasperation.
“I got the haircut two days ago,” I say. “I sent you a picture.”
Jesus Christ, we’re having a married couple’s fight, and we’re not even close to being one. What the hell is wrong with me?
He must realize the same thing. Falcon sits on my bed and looks at me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For the drug things and for the”—he gestures toward my head—“hair thing.”
I sit down next to him. “I’m sorry too,” I say. “I’m just nervous, I guess. Gah!” I groan. “It’s embarrassing. I’m trying to tutor some people, and I’m freaking the fuck out because it’s a group and, well, you know me and public speaking don’t exactly mesh.”
“You’re tutoring?” Falcon asks with raised brows. “When did that happen?”
“It’s the thing I’ve been doing when you thought I was at my super-secret drug meetings with my new drug buddies.”
He smacks the back of my head as I duck and snicker. “We’ve been injecting umm… ecstasy? Can you inject ecstasy?”
Falcon shakes his head. “You’d make a shitty drug addict.”
“Aren’t friends supposed to be supportive?”
“Not about this.”
I sigh dramatically. “Fine. Be that way.”
We sit in silence for a few moments. Falcon is the first to speak. “I miss hanging out with you. In the past, we called and texted a lot more, but now it’s like I don’t hear from you at all.”
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