Chapter 6 #2
Andrew closes his eyes like he's reliving a trauma.
"Cheeto smoothies," he whispers, and I blink.
"Cheeto what?"
"Smoothies. She couldn't keep solids down. She wanted Cheetos, and ice cream. Her solution was blending them. There was fluorescent orange sludge everywhere. I'm still finding the dust in cracks where the sun doesn't shine."
I picture an orange-stained ass crack.
"That's no' right."
"Shannon craved tiramisu," Declan chuckles. "Doesn't sound so bad until the one bakery she'll tolerate runs out and she's sobbing on the kitchen floor, claiming no one loves her."
"Didn't you drive to New Hampshire for a pickle?" Andrew reminds him.
"Yes. But on the way home, I found a great piece of land near a ski resort and we've seen a two hundred percent ROI on it."
Andrew nods sagely.
"At our house," Gerald says, "it was cold pineapple and ham pizza with ranch dressing, three times a day. And if the crust wasn't crispy enough, it was my fault."
"McCormick, you're on borrowed time." Vince means me. "That woman's body is about to control every second of your life. Get ahead of it."
“Her body already controls every second o’ ma life, even when she’s no’ pregnant,” I say with a wink. No one laughs.
"Also, say goodbye to peeing alone." Andrew seems to be just getting started. "Doors mean nothing after the first year. You'll have an audience. Tiny little fingers under the door, searching like alien scouts."
"'Daddy, your butt is weird' is an actual quote in my house," Declan adds.
"Take your phone in the bathroom, lock the door—I put in a deadbolt at the top—and answer emails there.
It's the only way." Gerald nods solemnly.
"Suzanne says I spend too long in the bathroom and she got a recommendation for a gastroenterologist. Now I have a colonoscopy scheduled, just because I wanted some peace and quiet and couldn't tell her the truth. "
"You lot are horrible at encouragement," I protest. "Kids are a joy. A blessing, a miracle from heaven above."
They don't so much laugh as bray.
"You'll love the kid more than your own life," Andrew says finally, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "That's the messed-up part. I love my career, but I would burn it to the ground before I'd let anything happen to my kids."
"That's why you're all soft," Vince cuts in. "Speaking of which..."
He marches over and jabs a finger into Andrew's midsection.
"You sit all day in meetings, then you go home and eat your kids' leftovers. This is not a six-pack. This is a twintastrophe."
"It's not that bad!"
Vince pinches a fold and Andrew jumps away.
"You could rent this to a warehouse for packing material."
He moves to Declan.
"You. Desk shoulders, knotted up from clutching a laptop and controlling everyone. When was the last time you did a full-depth squat that wasn't to pick up a kid's backpack?"
"I run a multi-national coffee empire." Declan glowers. "I'm busy."
"Run your legs, too, or you'll be a sixty-year-old billionaire with a walker."
He turns to Gerald. "And you, Mr. Art Teacher. 'I was a bodyguard, but now I don't need to spar, I paint.' If someone rushes Suzanne at a gallery opening, can you move or are you going to smack them with a palette? Squirt paint in their eyes?"
"I lift." Gerald's eyes flash.
"And we're going to keep it that way. Being a dad is not an excuse to couchrot."
"And you." He's back to me. "Commentary is not rehab. You show up out of shape and the camera will expose you. You think HD is your friend? It's not. It's a backstabbing frenemy who wants your pores to look like meteor strikes and your suit to show every loose thread."
“Whatever yer point is, I’m losing the thread o’ this conversation, too.”
"You cannot control scar tissue," Vince says. "And you can't control when that kid decides to shoot out like a cannon from Amy's crotch. You can't control the blood, the tearing, the inside-out anus - "
"It's me that's got the boak now," I snap.
"Boak?" they all ask at the same time.
"Nausea. Puke. Yer makin' me boak talking about ma wife's crotch like it's an explosive device."
"Oh, man, you have no idea," Declan says, sharing a look with Gerald.
"Amanda had a C-section, so..." Andrew holds his hands up in self-defense.
"The explosive crotch analogy is decent," Gerald says as Declan nods. "That's why they have the ice packs, the numbing solution in a spray can, and the mesh underwear."
"Mesh?" I perk up. "I could get behind that. Like black fishnet?"
Declan just rubs his chin, sighing, sharing looks with Gerald and Andrew. "We can't give him too much reality at once. We need to dribble it out, slowly."
"You cannot control Amy's symptoms," Vince resumes, "but you can control how strong you are when Str1kecast sticks a camera in your face."
He slaps another plate on the sled, metal ringing.
"Push. Then we do planks. Then we teach you how to walk like you don't have a butt plug up your ass."
"Mesh panties and now butt plugs? I like the direction we're goin' in. I didna ken that was an option," I say.
"Save it for ratings week," he replies. "Go."
I push. This time, the sled feels heavier because my brain is along for the ride.
Amy on the bed, thumb over the pregnancy app, frowning at a cartoon embryo.
The faint, terrified joy in her laugh when she said, "We're really having a baby," followed immediately by, "I don't know how to do this.
" The look on Mum’s face when we made the announcement.
The contract with Str1kecast as Jody went over it, crunching numbers.
Halfway down the lane, my phone buzzes, but Vince would whip it across the gym if I stopped. By the time I hit the wall, I'm seeing stars.
"Water," Vince says. "Two minutes. Then planks. Check your phone. If that's your agent telling you you're doing mesh underwear ads, I need to check the gym for listening devices. Again."
I fumble the phone out.
Jody: Str1kecast just locked your first studio date. Season opener panel. Four weeks before Amy's due date window. This is the one we wanted. You in?
Four weeks before.
Travel. Rehearsals. Live panel. Amy very pregnant, somewhere I'm not. If everything goes smoothly, I can do the show, fly back, and we wait. If anything goes sideways, I'm that guy stuck in the wrong country when his whole life explodes.
What are the chances I’ll be that guy?
"Str1kecast opener," I tell them. "They want me four weeks before the due date."
"Then you say yes, and you and Amy build the plan together," Andrew says. "Don't try to figure it all out solo."
"Everything in your life is a joint decision now," Gerald adds.
"Look at the three of you being emotionally mature. Disgusting." Vince jerks his chin at my phone. "Answer him."
I reply: Have to talk w/Amy. Need full schedule asap. Timing's tight with baby but I'll make it work.
Jody: That's my guy. I'll send details. This is big, Ham. Str1kecast is betting on you.
I slide the phone away. Decision made, consequences pending.
"Planks," Vince says. "Front of the mirrors. Forearms. Flat back. No sag. Smile."
"I canna smile while planking," I tell him as I drop to the mat.
"Then grimace. Str1kecast wants a smile. They didn't say what kind."
Forearms planted, legs straight, core tight. My whole body vibrates with fatigue. Vince squats so his face is in my line of sight, timer in hand.
"Camera's on. You're tossing back to the hosts. Give me 'charming ex-player who describes the game like an art history major having an orgasm in the Louvre.'"
I bare my teeth.
"Less serial killer, more color commentator," Andrew says from somewhere behind him.
I soften my mouth, thinking about Amy's laugh.
"Better," Gerald says. "Now, thoughtful analyst. Injury during the match, they cut to you. Concerned eyes, sucking air through your teeth, shaking your head."
Somewhere deep, the memory of being carried off the pitch rises.
"Too real," Vince snaps. "You look like a kid in one of those 'sponsor a starving child' ads. Save the real emotion for your therapist. It's sports, not a docuseries."
“Ye’re killin’ me.”
"Forty seconds. Don't drop. Or I text Amy that you said planks are harder than pregnancy."
"I never said that," I grind out.
"Smile again," Vince orders.
I meet my own eyes in the mirror. Messed-up knee. Str1kecast contract. Baby on the way.
I hold the smile anyway.
"Ninety," Vince says at last. "Drop."
I collapse onto the mat, roll to my back, stare at the ceiling. The crack in the concrete that I picked for balance is still there, running jagged across the gray.
So am I.
"See?" Vince leans over me. "You can hold more than one concept at once. Tension. Fear. Abs. You're a multi-faceted human being. Wild, huh?"
I grunt.
"Up, Hamish. Go wash your face. Look in the mirror and see who you could be. Head up. Shoulders back. Confident, not constipated."
"I always look confident," I say. "Because I am confident."
"You look like you want to tackle the camera. It's a player's look. You need to shift roles. We'll sand the edges."
But I am a player, I think.
A lie. A lie, now.
Andrew offers me a hand. I take it and let him haul me up.
"If you need late-night blender advice, text me," he says. "I have deep experience scraping Cheeto dust out of a Vitamix."
"If Amy ever asks for that, I'm callin' an exorcist."
"Call me first," Declan says. "I'll bring Marie. Maybe he could do a two-for-one."
"Also, I have a diaper brand-ranking spreadsheet," Gerald offers. "Nothing worse than a blowout in rush hour traffic during an August heat wave."
"Yer makin' me dry boak," I mutter, and Vince throws a towel at my head.
"Less talking. More moving. Thirty seconds."
I limp toward the locker room, sweat crusting on my skin. The fluorescent lights are brutal. Chipped metal stall doors have rust on the bottoms. The reek of the main gym is less in here, but only because the cleaning crew owns stock in bleach.
The mirror over the sinks has a crack in it, but it doesn't lie. I brace my hands on the counter and look at myself.
A man with a new wife, a baby coming, a career change, and no idea how to do any of it, except to keep doing it.
I try a smile. Friendly. A little crooked. The one I imagine for the camera when some host says, "Hamish, you've been there, what's going through the player's mind?"
It feels fake at first. It feels fake because I don't know how to be anything but a player. Over time, I'll learn the new role, tailor it until it fits.
From down the hall, Vince's voice booms.
"McCormick! We know you're pretty. Stop admiring yourself and get out here!"
I bark out a laugh and this time, the smile stays in place for real.
Then I turn away from the mirror and head back to the mats, where Vince will time how long I can hold my body in place while everything else in my life is shifting under my feet.