Hard Knocks

by Ruby Lang

  But her own body kept betraying her. She would sit down and try to read or think, and her concentration would wander. She would get indignant only to have the outrage die away when she got too tired. The only thing she managed to do was sleep and watch TCM. Every time she woke up, she was in the middle of a different black and white movie.

  It would have been easy to start watching hockey again, she thought, sitting in her bathtub. But Adam hadn’t contacted her, even though she suspected that he should be able to find a way if he wanted to—she could probably get his number if she tried. But she didn’t. And she didn’t watch any of the games, although she did check the Wolves’ schedule and learn that they were on an extended road trip. That made her feel a little better.

  She did not have a crush on him. Except, she probably did.

  She also did not sit in the cool water of her bathtub and think of how his lips felt on her shoulder and neck or imagine her fingers passing over the soft bristles of his hair and wonder how they would feel wet. Except, of course, she did.

  She thought of how his big hands cupped her ass and drew her to him, how gentle his fingers had been, the feeling of his breath on her chest. Her middle and index finger were trilling at her clit now. She had to stop thinking about him, she told herself, midstroke. Desperately, she replaced Adam with someone—anyone. Zachary Quinto. Christian Bale. The guy who invented the Dyson vacuum cleaner. The water splashed as she worked herself tensely. But although the painful knot of arousal was there, her mind kept going back to Adam, to his pale eyes and his rueful smile. She pictured his lips curving up at her breast, and she threw her head back and came with a series of splashes. Her panting seemed to echo in the bathroom.

  Almost immediately—while her muscles were still calming themselves—she picked up a bar of pale green soap and began washing the hand she’d been using. She cleaned under her fingernails and sniffed to make sure that her scent was gone. It wasn’t. Her fingers smelled like cucumber and self-pleasure.

  Sex salad. Just what she’d ordered.

  She stepped out and heard someone downstairs. She toweled herself off and threw on a clean sweatshirt and another not-so-immaculate pair of yoga pants. It was Joanie.

  “This came for you at the office,” Joanie said, pushing a box toward her. “It’s Harry & David! Open it up!”

  Inside was a box of salty caramel popcorn.

  “Wow, whoever sent it really knows you,” Joanie said.

  Joanie looked at it longingly. She was on some sort of complicated diet that involved juicing. She and Sarah had a lot to talk about during off hours.

  “Wasn’t there a card?” Helen asked.

  She checked the box. Adam Magnus, the gift slip said. No message.

  Helen’s face flamed. She stared at the box, feeling a little as if masturbating to his image had conjured up a big package of sweet and crunchy. Had she psychically contacted him across thousands of miles? If so, should she expect similar packages from Dyson guy?

  She took a deep breath, and her inner scientist reasserted herself. The more important question was when had she mentioned her love of popcorn? Or was it simply a coincidence?

  The next morning, Petra ferried over a delivery of artisanal Pop-Tarts that had come to the office from Adam. She also mentioned, casually, that she had texted Adam to assure him that Helen was doing well enough to be on her own now.

  So yes, Helen admitted to herself, he knew certain things about her. He’d recalled bits that she’d dropped in casual conversation. No damage to that memory. Petra or Sarah might have gotten her these kinds of snacks, if they thought it would make her happy, or if they thought she was as unhappy as she was. Although, they were more likely to simply bring her the real thing, in grocery bags, from an ordinary store. Adam’s presents had a moreness to them. The extra salty sweet layer of the popcorn, the rough-hewn edges of the homemade Pop-Tarts—they were about her, but they were also about him. If she cared to read more into them, that was. It was funny to think of Adam, hunched over his iPhone, ordering treats for her. The gestures were, well, almost romantic. Which suited her idea of Adam Magnus, she supposed. He could produce small acts of delicacy with that large body of his.

  Definitely reading too much into it, she thought with a shiver.

  Thank God she was going back to work tomorrow, because she would likely spend the day diddling herself and muttering his name if she didn’t have something to occupy her hands and mind soon. She supposed that she should write some sort of thank-you note: I appreciate the gifts. So thoughtful for you to have remembered! My many fond memories of you have caused me to rub one out—several, actually. Looking forward to more lively debates! Helen.

  Oh yes, she had just the stationary for that.

  The caramel corn was really delicious.

  She racked her addled brain for a gift. What did she know about him? He had been a farm boy; he sang in the choir. He was pretty good at softball. Something about seraphim and cherubim.

  A Google search revealed some music by Handel. She listened to the choruses, and tried to imagine a young, skinny Adam Magnus, standing in the midst of a choir, singing his heart out. She could almost picture white blond hair, ears that stuck out a little too much, and an eager mouth opening wide. The image made her breastbone ache. With a few clicks, she had downloaded him a Christmas present. If only she could figure out his e-mail address so she could send the music.

  Because yes, it was almost Christmas. Her ticket home was booked, and she felt guilty that she had already taken so much time from work. But home could not be avoided either. Her mother would have her head on a platter, decorated with cranberries, Helen supposed, to suit the season.

  Home. Well. Vancouver was where she would slink off to now. Stephen and Gordon had probably decked out their home in tasteful white lights. But the holidays had never been a huge deal in their family. Her father was usually on call, and her mother turned her nose up at red and green decorations, loathed cooking large, bland potato-based meals, and didn’t believe in giving presents to children without ample reason. So basically, May Yin and Harry Frobisher disliked everything about it. Still, Helen had enjoyed it because she was at home, sitting in the den, watching old movies with Stephen. They would both drowse under several layers of afghans, because her parents were of the “If you’re cold, put on another sweater,” mentality. And she and Stephen were always cold.

  But now, that old house was cleared of furniture. The piano that her father wanted her to have, sold. There was no reason to drive down to the Okanagan Valley anymore. Likely, they would just go out to dinner on Christmas, and there would be no snuggling. Stephen and Gordon kept their place at a reasonable temperature, partly because, Helen suspected, they liked to go around in tight t-shirts and stare at each other’s pecs.

  But really, she was happy for them.

  There would also be her father. Christmas was probably garish and loud in the facility. Her mother might have to listen to carols, and her father would be confused. Were they allowed to check him out for the day? She wondered if they would be able to stay in the facility. She wondered how much he knew about what was going on at this point.

  She wished she could stay in Portland.

  Adam Magnus, she supposed, was going back to Minnesota. He hadn’t told her much about his family, but she could imagine snow-covered fields and a big farmhouse.

  She had a sudden impulse to talk to him. Petra had mentioned casually (maybe a little too casually) that she had Adam’s number. Helen needed to thank him, and she wanted to know where to send these mp3s, anyway.

  She texted Petra and held her breath.

  • • •

  “I could spread the rumor that Yevgeny paid the golfer to finish her off, and that when the golfer didn’t do it, you tried to clean up and you pushed a bunch of people aside in order to hug her to death,” Serge said.

  Silence.

  Serge had been talking, talking, talking over the drone of the plane for hours, i
t seemed, and Adam had not responded. The cabin lights were dim, and most of his teammates were asleep. A few watched movies on their phones. They would land in about twenty minutes. The Wolves had lost two games, and now they were off to Minnesota. Adam’s family would be in the arena—his nephews, his brother and sister, even his mother and father. He would try to go out with them afterward, but they had a long drive and were early risers and he was sure to be tired. Judging by the exhausted silence that hung around them after his games, he wondered why they insisted on seeing him. There was nothing quite like the cranky, dutiful love of one’s family, was there?

  It wasn’t that he disliked them. They weren’t unpleasant. But they treated him gingerly. He wondered exactly what he had done to merit this treatment.

  Plus, he would be back so soon for Christmas. He had already found great presents for his nephews.

  Personal toy shopper, he thought. That could be a career.

  He told himself to make a note of it in his smart phone, but he didn’t move.

  Adam wasn’t sure why Janel was so annoyed with him. Yevgeny wasn’t distressed with Adam—or at least Adam hadn’t received any sneering e-mails or phone calls from his big billionaire boss. Plus, a picture of Helen Frobisher dressed in those ugly leggings shaking the hands of the hospital chair and her anti-Yevgeny developer husband was making the rounds, too.

  Of course, all of the gossip and innuendo was playing out in the admittedly narrow circle of Portland municipal politics. Frankly, Adam was surprised that Yevgeny even bothered trying to win in that arena.

  Serge was still nattering. “I suppose Dr. Helen is going to argue that we ban charity softball, too. Maybe golf. Definitely golf. Is it even a sport? Of course, now that she has a brain injury, you could tell Yevgeny to start a campaign questioning her judgment.”

  “I’m sure that’s already underway.”

  “Well then, Janel’s doing a great job diverting the argument.”

  They landed smoothly, and they made it off the plane fairly quickly.

  Adam breathed in the air of his home state.

  Outside the large windows of the airport, snow glittered on the ground like diamonds. He used to like the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport. It was large and airy, like a giant art gallery. It was the kind of place that made one feel simultaneously larger and so much smaller. There was life everywhere, but somehow muted, as if the midwestern attitude had just taken everything to a civilized notch.

  But still, he felt that familiar guilt settle over him. The air was layered with the sense of his failure, pushing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

  The players were hushed as they came out into the chilly air and then shuttled to their hotel. Adam had just put his luggage down in his room when his phone beeped. He read

  IT’S HELEN. WHAT IS YOUR E-MAIL ADDRESS?

  He had to read the simple message several times because he couldn’t quite believe it was Helen—his Helen. On screen, her named looked so simple compared to the complicated feelings she summoned up. He told himself to stay cool.

  IT’S MADAMIMMAGNUS@GMAIL.COM. WHY NOT JUST TEXT?

  Her reply came with an eyeroll emoji.

  I DON’T WANT TO GET MY PHONE STICKY WITH DELICIOUS CARAMEL CORN.

  He snorted.

  IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE A THANK-YOU?

  He heard the ping of a message to his e-mail account just as her answer came.

  INCOMING E-MAIL IS THE THANK-YOU. GOTTA GO.

  He opened his e-mail. There was a file attached. He downloaded the file and clicked. The music of strings started up, and then the voices, the beautiful voices, flooded the room.

  He sat down on the hotel room bed, and he listened.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “I am trying not to feel weird about the fact that I essentially made a mixtape for you filled with sacred music,” Helen said into the phone.

  It was late at night. She was in her bedroom, sorting through a pile of laundry. She had put the phone on speaker. Tomorrow, she planned to go back into work.

  Adam had called her later that afternoon. Now she had dialed him up. It was very late in Minneapolis, and he sounded tired.

  Their conversations had started out odd, stilted. She felt as if she were always on the verge of blurting something overly confessional to him within the first few minutes. There was so much more that she wanted to tell him, despite the fact that their acquaintance didn’t warrant this level of naked feeling. Or did it? She had kissed him and had sex with him, after all—it didn’t get more naked than that. But no, that wasn’t it. She had told him a secret about her relationship with her father that she hadn’t known was a secret. He’d tried to soothe her when she was injured.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time a woman did that for me,” Adam said. “Although I don’t know if I would classify a tape filled with Rebecca St. James songs as sacred, even if it was Christian rock.”

  “I have never heard of Rebecca St. James. Who gave you that?”

  “A high school girlfriend.”

  Helen paused for a bit. She picked up a pair of boy shorts and folded it into tiny, tiny squares. “Did she put out?” she said, because it was fairly close to the question that she wanted to ask.

  Adam laughed. “No,” he said. “And I was okay with that. Or rather, I wasn’t, like, delighted about it, because my hormones were hopped up and frankly terrifying. I was barely fifteen, and I was a mess. But we got over each other fairly quickly. I remember the tape—CD actually—though, because she’d made a collage of hockey sticks and Jesus and hearts—”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Exactly.”

  They laughed uncomfortably.

  Helen sat on the bed cross-legged.

  “How does it feel to beat people up?” Helen asked.

  The line was quiet for a while.

  “I’m not trying to antagonize,” Helen said. “It’s just ... I watched the game tonight. And I can’t help but think about it every time you start circling someone with your skates. He circles back, and I look at the screen and my stomach drops. I can’t read your expression. Are you tense? Are you scared? What do you think is going to happen? It’s hard for me to watch, sometimes.” She laughed. “Every time. But then I can’t look away.”

  Another pause.

  “What are you doing now?” Helen asked softly.

  “I’m sitting on the hotel bed. I’m icing my knee, again. And I’m trying to think of what I’m thinking when that happens.”

  “When that happens,” Helen said, lightly. “You sound as if you’re not in control of it, like it just is this whirlpool that draws you in.”

  “It’s like that, in a way. I mean, I’m very aware of the things going on around me, the sound of my skates on the ice. I’m looking at where his stick is, and where the other players on his team are. I’m staring at him to see how much this means to him, too. Like, are you going to pull that move again? Am I really going to have to go in there? Does everyone expect it right now? And sometimes, I feel how tired I am. And if I’ve been playing awhile, I’m wondering how much of what I’m doing is a warning. I’m gauging if what I’m doing is enough. If by simply stopping to look at him, it’s enough.”

  “It sounds like a complicated calculation.”

  “It is. A calculation and a ritual, in a way. But it only takes a few seconds. And the whole time it’s happening, my adrenaline is pumping in anticipation of a blow.”

  Helen swallowed. “Sometimes I feel like I’d really like to beat someone up,” she said. “What’s worse, it’s usually ... well, I was in the hospital elevator after biking to work last week and I saw a man in a bowtie, and I wondered, what would it be like to kick his head in? I felt like I could really do some damage. And then I could assess the damage, speaking as a neurologist, of course.”

  Adam laughed a little. “I didn’t know women had these feelings that often.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Like, random ph
ysical aggression. The desire to test out your impact, maybe.”

  “Well, I don’t like speaking for all women, so I’ll just say all people do, and it depends on their personality.”

  “Well, I like speaking for all men,” said Adam. “I like to think I’m in charge or that I could run things better.”

  He sounded relaxed now.

  “No, violence doesn’t have to be a series of sudden blows, I think. I mean, when I danced, I hurt all the time. I developed a condition called female athlete triad, which was amenorrhea, disordered eating, and osteoporosis. Um ... I never was anorexic. I definitely ate.” She winced, knowing she sounded defensive. “But yeah, my bones became thin, and I tore my ACL, and I had to quit because I was—”

  She couldn’t finish.

  “Anyway,” she said.

  “Helen.”

  “Dancing looked beautiful. But for me, anyway—not for everyone, but for me—it was also painful, and it was good for me to get out of it. I know it’s not anything compared to the abuse that other people, other women, suffer the world over. But it was a slow violence for me, and it came from expectations that other people had and that I had of myself.”

  They were both quiet for a minute.

  “Thank you,” he said, and his voice was so gentle that she felt calm again.

  They talked a lot over the next few nights, between her shifts, after games, in their separate, very separate, beds. She didn’t know what it was. She didn’t know what they were doing. It wasn’t friendship. It was too sex-tinged to be that simple or complicated. On more than one night, she ended up with her hand down her pants while on the phone with him. Afterward, they laughed self-consciously, still a little awkward, still unsure.

  He wasn’t the person she thought he was, she thought as she arrived in the hospital parking lot a few days later. It was now her last day before she took off for Vancouver. He was set to fly back to Minnesota. She wondered, although not aloud, if the phone conversations would continue.