Break a leg #2
Everything about Maddy appears chaotic until you pay attention.
The laptop has fifty tabs open. Her files have names like FINALFINALUSETHISONE and NOACTUALLYTHIS.
Her notebook, which I saw once, contains arrows running in three directions and one shopping list written through the centre of a campaign budget.
But she remembers every client preference.
She knows which athlete hates being filmed from the left, which café owner wants women runners included and which campaign deadlines overlap with midterms. She can move from joke to strategy so quickly I don’t think normal people are equipped to understand her seriousness.
Their loss, really.
I admit, I thought she was humouring me because I am injured and trapped on the sofa. Then she starts arguing. Not pretending to argue because she enjoys provoking me. Actually arguing with hands and hair and that sweet smile of hers.
She disagrees with all the creative inputs. I tell her the copy sounds like an adult attempting to imitate student language. She tells me basketball players cannot use the phrase authentic engagement after referring to a behind-the-back pass as filthy.
Why not? I don’t exactly understand the metaphor but I’m arguing with Maddy of all people.
“The headline is stupid. Nobody will listen to ‘Build your strongest semester’.”
She scrunches her nose at me. “I know. I hate it with my gut and every other organ around it.”
“Training for more.” I think out loud.
She pauses typing. “More what?”
“Exactly. Let the next slide answer it.”
By the time the food arrives, we still haven’t decided what more means exactly but the first three slides have been changed, two photos have been removed and well, now we just need a new campaign hook.
In all seriousness, those minutes have been the only time my ankle temporarily leaves my mind.
Maddy collects the delivery from the door and brings my container to the sofa. She opens it, places the spoon on top and looks at me. “Can you manage?”
“I have bruised ribs and functioning arms.” I take the food from her. A pause where I just look at her. “Thank you!"
She settles onto the opposite end of the sofa with her laptop balanced across her thighs. Her bare feet disappear beneath the throw, close enough that her toes brush my uninjured leg whenever she shifts.
I eat quietly while Maddy adjusts the presentation.
The movie is already halfway through, and all I get from it is that the girl has someone’s phone, needs to use the toilet and the guy appears to be buying her coffee.
Simple romantic stuff.
Maddy glances up at me. “You hate people helping you.”
I turn to her at once. “I don’t.”
She clearly ignores my answer and goes psychology-student on me. “Why does it bother you so much?”
I’m about to say it doesn’t, or stay silent.
Then I remember psych students are taught silence encourages disclosure and that enables them to use it on everyone they know, so I take another piece of my salmon and nod. “I’m used to manage myself. I’d like to know I can be there for everyone else. Being injured is an useless use of time.”
“You’re still there for everybody else. Emotional support. Mental support. Past lessons being played out on the court. That’s huge, Will. Nobody will stop working just because your ankle looks like a melon.”
My lips curve up at Maddy’s voice. “It does not look like a melon.” I protest with a shake of my head.
“Fine. A small organic melon.”
I laugh and it hurts enough that I press one hand against my ribs.
“Why do you work this hard?” I ask.
She comes back to typing. “Capitalism.”
That is such a Maddy answer. I spend enough time with Collins to understand that the Fairfax family will remain financially comfortable through several potential economic collapses.
They have businesses, and something in oil, and probably own half of New York, depending how drunk Collins was on a particular night.
“It’s not like you need the money.” I take another bite of my salmon.
Yet she stresses over presentation fonts and athlete schedules.
Her fingers tap once against the cushion. “I want something of my own.”
“You already have things.”
She looks up at me, cheerfully. “Those are not important things. I want things that I could call my own because I made it. Things that are still mine even when I take my boots off.”
“You love those boots.” I tilt my head on the memory of every single day this week. A beat later. “You look great in them by the way.”
“The brown ones?” Her eyes beam in excitement. “They’re Celine.” She winks. “And you’re right. They’re my favourite pairs. Ever.”
That sounds like some expensive French brand.
I nod lightly. “You still make great things with or without those Ce-line boots.”
She opens her mouth like she’s about to correct me with something and decides against it. Then her eyes find mine and her gaze has softened from that cheerfulness, Maddy grins brightly.
The girl feeding me dinner sleeps so little it should raise a medical emergency across Princeton, all for something nobody asked her to make.
And somehow, she only makes me want to be on the court, training harder.
Fuck this organic melon ankle that I’m trapped in.