I can’t wrap my head around this. It’s so antithetical to the unathletic guy Quinn’s always projected himself to be. “Wait, the first time you brought me over to your mom’s place, she had that old baseball card–style magnet on her fridge of you in a batting helmet. I didn’t say anything, but I saw you take it down and stick it in a drawer so I wouldn’t see it. I assumed you were embarrassed.”
He says, “I was, just not for the reasons you probably assumed. I was the star player that helped take us all the way to the championship, which is laughably small potatoes thinking about it now, but it was big then, especially to my dad who was a first-year coach and always bragging about how well we were doing to our neighbors. The night before the final game, I got up to use the bathroom and heard my parents arguing. Their bedroom door was open a crack.” His gaze wanders away dolorously as referees and snowball rollers prep the field for the second game.
“What were they arguing about?” I ask.
“Everything and nothing. That’s how it always went,” he says. It’s as if he’s watching the scene from his childhood played out on one of the JumboTrons hovering above us. “But my dad shutdown the argument by saying, ‘You’re going to wake Quinn. He’s got a big game tomorrow. It’s very important. To both of us. He needs to be rested. We need to win. Winning is going to make him into a man.’ My dad was always saying stuff like that to my mom, ‘More veggies will make him into a man’ or ‘Babying him less will make him into a man.’ Then, I heard him start collecting stuff, which made me worried he was packing a bag to leave us, but then I realized it was just stuff to take down and sleep on the couch. I ran back to my bedroom, heart absolutely racing, one, from almost being caught eavesdropping and two, from the anxiety of maybe not winning. And guess what?”
“You lost?”
He nods glumly. “It was all my fault. I think they call it the yips. If you can even get the yips that young. I fumbled a catch in the outfield that would’ve kept our lead, which wouldn’t have normally mattered because my superpower was my throwing arm. I could’ve gotten the runner out. Only something short-circuited. I didn’t let go on the follow through. The ball made it maybe a foot in front of me before it hit the grass and started to roll. The kid on third base wasn’t sure whether to leave his position and run for it or stay, so the kid on the other team got a home run and got the kid who was sitting on second all the way home. My dad was pissed for a long time.”
I lean forward in my cushy chair. “I’m sorry. That’s ridiculous. It was one bad throw.” I have met Mr. Muller only a handful of times. One of those times was our wedding day where we barely exchanged eight words total, one of them being “hi” and another a brief “congratulations.”
“It wasn’t just one throw, though. It followed me into the next season. It got so bad that I quit after the second game of the second year and refused to try another sport.” His shoulders slump as if he’s encumbered by this experience all over again. “Because of what he said, I got this idea in my head that I’d never be a man because men in my family were supposed to be athletic. Well,athletic or smart—preferably both—but since I fumbled the bag on the sports part, I threw myself into books.”
“There’s no one way to be a man,” I say. Though I feel hypocritical saying it. Moments ago, I was pouting over losing a silly sports match.
“Sure, right, but that’s not something I could internalize at twelve,” he says. He shakes his head. “Then, my dad served my mom papers not that long after and I felt like it was all my fault. I wasn’t talented or smart enough; I wasn’t enough of a man to make him stay.”
“Quinn.”
He holds up a hand. “I know. I don’t believe that anymore, especially after that.” With his right hand, he gestures out to the field. The players are beginning to take their positions once more. “That game felt like it exorcised me of something.”
“I can’t believe,” I say, “that I didn’t knowanyof that.”
Quinn shrugs. “It never came up and if not for today, I’m not sure I ever would’ve talked about it.”
I grab my drink and finish it off. “I’m glad you did, my secret all-star.”
He lets out a little snort-laugh. “Me, too.”
31AN ENGAGEMENT TO REMEMBERQUINN
A MEMORY
Sorry, can’t make it. Held up at work.Patrick’s text thrusts a disappointed sigh out of me.
I’m standing behind a concessions window handing out cups of water and hot chocolate to grabby, sweaty students in ice skates and winter coats.
Across the way, on the other side of the rink, the school choir is singing, accompanied by Mrs. Birch on a keyboard plugged into an amplifier that is more static than sound, but we’re making do. It’s not a wealthy school district by any means so we’re scrappy, and that often entails teachers taking on multiple duties beyond the classroom.
Case in point, I am now the drama club’s co-advisor. As such, I helped put together this fundraiser for the spring musical,Frozen Jr., which is off to a pretty solid start despite Patrick’s absence.
That’s okay. See you at home.Though I’m worried I won’t see him. Since he began at Carver & Associates last year, if I arrive home any time after eightP.M.,he’s either locked into his work or conked out in our bed. It’s silly maybe, but some nights I find myself missing him, even when he’s inches away on the opposite side of the bed.
I give my uneasiness away alongside mini marshmallows in another cup of cocoa. “Thanks for lending a hand tonight,” I say to Veronica, needing a change of topic.
“Oh, it’s no biggie.” She offers a cookie to a passing kid. “I would’ve been here anyway.” Her head rocks back like a bug has flown in front of her face.
I’m about to ask what she means by that and what that reaction was for when a girl from my class, Katie, comes over holding a pair of ice skates that look to be about my size. “Mr. Muller, you’re needed out on the rink.”
I kindly maintain that I can’t leave my post, but Veronica assures me she can hold down the fort.
Minutes later, confused, I skate out onto the rink on Bambi-legs. Under the sound of my heart in my ears, the opening notes of “Love Is an Open Door” ring out, then when the chorus kicks in, the doors to the rink thud open.
Patrick, surprising me, skates out onto the rink, cheeks pink and eyes bright, green scarf flapping in the breeze behind him. Effortlessly, he slides down onto one knee, stopping an inch from me. He plants himself, and then in front of a majority of Oakwood Elementary School, he pops the biggest question there is.
“Mr. Muller, will you marry me?” Patrick’s blue eyes sweetly bore into mine. Veronica, off to the side, is filming this spectacle on her phone, surely so we can share the happy moment with our families after the fact.
