Chapter Text
Naturally, having long, slender legs made you good at running the 10,000-meter. Being impossible to wear down made you even better. These were the reasons Stebbins blew past the competition, mile after mile, and came in first place at the regional championship.
Which meant he was going to Nationals. As would the top one or two people in each event.
He didn’t pant when he reached the finish line, and only the top of his brow was slicked with sweat, his hair still falling in sickly blonde wisps around his ears, curling up at the base of his neck. His eyes scanned the crowd before falling on a family of five, each holding up a sign that read some variation of GO-GO GARRATY!
Woo-hoo! Maine’s own! Stebbins thought to himself, pulling his dry lips into a thin, tight line. Garraty had been long finished with his events, the relay and the 200-meter sprint. He’d already secured his place at Nationals; it was never even a question, really.
They didn’t bother Stebbins, those damned in-state spectators. He knew Garraty was and would always be a crowd favorite, even if Stebbins was technically better. Garraty had off days, as did practically everyone else. Except Stebbins.
But Stebbins couldn’t bring himself to blame him for it; even the Raymond Garraty was only human, after all.
As he regains his bearings, a tall, lean woman with a stopwatch hands Stebbins a cup of water and a damp towel. He takes it gingerly as the other participants cross the finish line. His time is given to him as he makes his way over to a bench by the track.
28:46:03. A personal record, and an incredible one at that. Stebbins should feel elated, right? But when he’d made his scan of the bleachers, the one person he couldn’t see was the coach: his father. He’d hit his personal record of all time and the bastard couldn’t have even been bothered to show up. He held his head down against his chest, paying attention only to his breathing, until he felt a pair of gentle hands on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw her: their assistant coach. The only one who seemed to give a shit about any of them.
“Coach Ginnie,” Stebbins nodded at her, eyes weary. “How’s it going, Coach?”
“It’s a great day for Freeport University,” she said with a kind smile. Stebbins relaxed a little at the way her eyes crinkled, feeling comforted. “You should be proud of yourself. I think more of you boys are going to Nationals than any of the years before. It’s got to be some kind of record for us.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure is,” she hummed. “You, Ray, Pete, Hank, Art, Collie, and Gary so far… But we’re still waiting on a couple more. I have no doubts Scramm will do alright.”
“Impressive,” muses Stebbins as Coach Ginnie takes a seat next to him on the bench. It was odd being the son of the coach, but even odder being closer to the coach who was the parent of a teammate who wasn’t him. “I’m excited.”
“Well, I saw you beat your P.R.,” Coach Ginnie reaches into her striped duffel bag and hands him a sandwich wrapped in foil. “Here, you deserve it.”
Stebbins accepts the sandwich and eagerly unwraps it, letting his teeth sink into the soft white bread. He lets his eyes flutter shut, mumbling a quiet thank-you under his breath.
“You really were incredible,” Coach Ginnie rubs his shoulder with her thumb. Stebbins’ eyes shoot right back open, looking almost-tenderly at her until she says: “I wish your dad could’ve been here to see it, kid.”
“Yeah, me too,” Stebbins bites out. He shoves the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and crumbles up the tin foil in his hand before tossing it onto the ground. He stands up abruptly. “Well, thanks again. For the sandwich.”
Stebbins bends down to retrieve his own gym bag before trudging across the gravel, each step crunching under the spikes of his old, ratty spikes. The sun had shifted lower than when he’d started the race, light glinting off the aluminum bleachers so that everything shimmered gold and, undoubtedly, white-hot. They were nearing summer vacation, after all, and the thought of a break relieved him even though he hated the weather. Why couldn’t track be a fall sport? Maybe he should’ve joined cross-country after all.
He eventually makes his way back to the stands, where he immediately spots Garraty, McVries, Olson, and Baker standing around by the bathrooms, sipping from the same can of Diet Coke. It doesn’t take long before McVries spots him and calls out his name, his wide grin visible even from where Stebbins was standing.
“Stebbins!” he calls, waving his arm in the air like a maniac. “Over here!”
Shoulders slumped, Stebbins makes his way over. “You’re in a good mood,” he says, a smile creeping back up on his face. “Congrats on Nationals. I take it the relays went alright.”
Stebbins reached for the Coke can as it was passed his way, took a small sip, and winced at the strong, metallic taste. He handed it back to Baker, rubbing the bridge of his nose to ease the clear tension in his face. “Yuck. Tastes like medicine.”
“I’d say everything went more than alright,” Olson says proudly, leaning against the brick wall. “We really showed ‘em what for.”
“Everything? Including you on pole vault?” McVries cocks an eyebrow at him.
“Hank is an excellent vaulter,” Baker says, taking a sip of Coke. “Everyone has bad days. Plus, it’s really hard. Look how tall that thing is.”
“I got nervous,” Olson agrees. “And the poles they use are… unpredictable. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ll make it next year.”
“Next year or not at all,” says Stebbins. “Last chance, Olson, but sure: No pressure.”
“Fuck off and die,” Olson flips him off and, somehow, that lifts Stebbins’ spirits a little. Olson looks around at the rest of them. “Fuck all of you, actually.”
“I didn’t even say anything,” protests Garraty, putting his hands up defensively as Baker gives him an insulted look and elbows McVries lightly. “I’m sure your vaulting couldn’t have been that bad. You’re one of the best I’ve ever seen.”
“Alright, alright,” Olson runs a hand through his sweat-slicked hair and twists his baseball cap onto his head. “Enough with the cocksucking. I get it, I’m incredible. But I also may or may not have totally slipped.”
McVries lets out a loud snort. “I know. I saw.”
“So did I,” said Baker, embarrassed, putting an arm around him. Olson crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his feet.
“Well, I would’ve given anything to have seen it,” Stebbins gives him a nod, his smile widening from a shy smirk to a more toothy grin. He was starting to feel a lot more like himself again. As he bends down to untie his spikes, he says: “And Ray Garraty, your mommy’s over by the track in case you wanted to pop over and give her a little smooch.”
“Already did, thanks,” Garraty smiles right back. “I think we can expect her to go real hard on us at practice next week. She’s got high expectations for us now.”
Stebbins huffed out a small laugh and dropped from his knees down onto the curb beside them, gravel biting into his palms. He flexed his toes and wiped his face with his rag while the Coke can made another lap through the group. Olson passed it to Garraty, who passed it to McVries, and Stebbins couldn’t help but think of the diseases they were surely giving to each other.
“Sure thing, but I’m ready for it,” says McVries, taking a swig of the gross, syrupy liquid like it was water. “Say, Stebbins, where’s your old man? I couldn’t spot Coach anywhere. Seems like kind of an important event to miss, don’t you think?”
The group’s laughter thinned, and Stebbins went quiet, his smile turning brittle as he leaned his head back against the brick wall. He stared at his discarded shoes, the laces fraying at the ends, just like his patience.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” he says mildly. “Guess he just had better things to do.”
Nobody said much after that. Olson kicked a pebble across the ground. “Way to make things awkward, Pete,” he quips, crumbling the now-empty Diet Coke in his hand, making a point to toss it into the recycling bin.
Stebbins noticed Garraty looking down at him, his jaw tightening, and that tiny, almost-invisible flicker of pity in his eyes made Stebbins want to shove his face into the pavement.
“Well,” Garraty said in a clear attempt to relieve the tension. “I think Barkovitch is about to do hurdles.”
“Yeah,” McVries nodded. “We should probably go watch. It being the last event and everything. Might as well cheer him on.”
When the others wandered off toward the track, Stebbins stayed behind. He overheard Garraty asking McVries: “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you ask him that?” as they walked. Stebbins let out a halfhearted snort in response, even though no one could hear him.
The stands were emptying now, the night slowly falling upon them. Stebbins ran a thumb along the back of his left calf, feeling the ache from his run sink deeper into the muscle. The tension helped to relieve it, but not by much.
28:46:03. His best time in almost ten years of running, and his father hadn’t seen a millisecond of it.
Yet Stebbins was supposed to be the bastard? Laughable.
He sat there until the light drained from the sky, the echo of the crowd still reverberating somewhere in his mind: faint, distant, and meant for everybody but him.
Barkovitch leaned over the bathroom sink, fumbling with the childproof cap on his bottle of pills— some new drug he’d heard of through the grapevine. The label on the bottle read Carbatrol. It had just been FDA-approved, so how bad could it possibly be?
The last drug Barkovitch tried, on the other hand, hadn’t worked so well— more prescribed for seizures than delusions. The side effects weren’t pretty.
He hadn’t stopped sweating since the bus ride to the event; his performance today meant everything to him. It was his shot to show the rest of the team he was just as good as them: that he was worth something. His performance in the long jump was good— excellent, even. He’d already secured a spot at Nationals, surely. But it all meant nothing to him if he couldn’t conquer the hurdles.
He stared at himself in the mirror, at the way his eyes drooped in the pale, flickering lighting. His hair, tied back from his face, looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks even though Barkovitch had taken a shower the night before— it was all sweat. With a sigh, he popped a single pill in his mouth, filled his palms with room-temperature water from the sink, and splashed it up into his mouth, swallowing quickly.
The clock on the wall told Barkovitch he didn’t have to be on the track for another thirty minutes, and that was enough to ease his nerves just a little. The pill would have enough time to sink in, and he would be an entirely different person: a confident, unstoppable version of Gary Barkovitch.
Hopefully.
As his heart pounded in his chest and his head began to ache, he didn’t even notice that his reflection was turning green, ever-so-slightly. Well, he didn’t notice until he began to feel a cold, clammy sensation creeping up his neck, one that Barkovitch couldn’t distinguish as a result of the drugs or his unrelenting nerves. Either way, he knew what it meant. He was going to be sick.
He rushed over to an empty stall, gripping the sides of the toilet seat. He dry-heaved a few times before he vomited, flushing after every wave as he sobbed into the bowl. He felt eternally grateful that he was alone in the bathroom and that no one would have to see him, well, like this.
That is, until he heard the sound of the door swinging open accompanied by a deep, mellow voice. “Barkovitch? Are you in here?”
Collie Parker.
Barkovitch didn’t answer, and instead threw up again. Collie must’ve gotten the message, because Barkovitch hears the sounds of his footsteps as he nears the stall towards the back.
“Jesus Christ, Gary, all the guys are looking for you. They need you at the starting line soon—” his voice, clearly annoyed, cuts off, and Barkovitch can see his shadow looming over him through the open stall door. Collie stands there for a moment in shock before rushing to his side. “Jesus! Fuck, Gary, what’s going on?”
Barkovitch heaves once, and nothing comes out, so he turns his head slightly— just enough to see Collie— and looks up at him, brown eyes blazing like he could somehow burn a hole through Collie’s chest. “Just—Just nerves. Go away, Parker.”
“Not with you like this,” Collie extends a firm hand to him, but Barkovitch doesn’t take it. He just stares. “Come on. Let me help you clean up.”
“Why?” Barkovitch wipes his bare arm across his lips, leaving it glistening with saliva. “Don’t act like you don’t hate me.”
“I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for the good of the team,” huffs Collie. “The fuck do you have to be nervous about, anyway? You crushed the long jump, you’re going to Nationals.”
“Hurdles are different,” Barkovitch narrows his eyes at him, but relents and still takes his hand, letting Collie lead him back over to the sink. “Hit or miss for me.”
“Well, you’re going to need to pull your shit together, and fast,” Collie says gruffly, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser and wetting it in the sink. Barkovitch flinches when Collie holds it up to his face, but decides fighting it would be pointless and leans against one of the sinks as Collie dabs at his face. “Isn’t it more embarrassing to have to forfeit than to suck it up and come in, say, third? And hold still, fuckwad. I’m trying to help you.”
Barkovitch hadn’t even realized he’d been squirming under Collie’s grip, and the sudden realization makes him freeze up. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, right,” Collie rolls his eyes, and Barkovitch thinks he’s gotten over it before they fall on something behind him. When Collie’s lips part in surprise, Barkovitch is plagued by a horrific realization.
Shit. He’d left his bottle of Carbatrol in the sink.
“Fuck, Barkovitch, were you doing drugs in here?” Collie grips one of his wrists with his arm and moves over to the sink, snatching up the bottle. “I don’t care what you do in your own free time, but during a meet? Fuck, no. What is this, some kind of steroid?”
“No— shit— It’s not like that,” Barkovitch protests. At least he can feel the heat returning to his face, but it’s not the right kind of heat. Such an unfamiliar feeling that he can’t even place it. Embarrassment? No, that wasn’t quite right. “I need them, Collie.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “For what?”
“There’s something wrong with me,” says Barkovitch, his voice beginning to quiver under Collie’s judgmental stare. “I don’t know what, but the pills help— fuck— I swear, I need them. They make me better.”
Collie’s eyes soften, just a little, but his voice is still harsh when he says: “That doesn’t mean you just take random pills, Gary. What if you’re taking too much? Where did you even get these?”
“Fuck you,” spits Barkovitch, and Collie winces at the smell of his breath. “I know a guy who knows a guy. What do you even care?”
“I might want you to eat shit sometimes, but I don’t want you to die.”
“Whatever,” Barkovitch spits, reaching for the bottle, but Collie holds them out of his reach, pressing him back against the sink with his free hand. “Just give them back.”
“I don’t think so,” Collie says, putting the bottle of pills in his pocket and retrieving a shiny red can. “But I will offer you an Altoid instead. Your breath stinks.”
Barkovitch grumbles but puts out his hand, and Collie gives him two round, white mints. He pops them into his mouth and Collie gives him a satisfied smirk. “Is that better?”
“I guess,” Barkovitch grumbles and points an accusing finger at him. He’d look threatening if it weren’t for his gaunt face and sunken eyes; he was about as menacing as a wet dog, and he knew it. “But I won’t forget about this, Parker.”
“I didn’t think you would,” Collie huffs. “But will you at least let me try and help you out instead of just guessing what you think could work? Look at you. You can’t possibly think this is helping.”
“Fine. Fine, fine, you can play the hero,” Barkovitch said, but it was more to get Collie off his back than anything.
“That’s what I thought,” Collie put a hand on his back and started to lead him out the door. On the way, he tosses out his stained wad of paper towels. “Are you still going to run like this?”
“Of course I am,” says Barkovitch, his face heating up. “Or all of this would be for nothing.”
He looks over at Collie with wide, pleading eyes. “I’m a real man, right, Collie? You’d tell me if I wasn’t, wouldn’t you?”
“Jesus, Gary, what are you talking about?” asks Collie, looking taken aback. He studies Barkovitch for a moment before shaking his head and forcing out an answer. “Yes, you’re a real man. Whatever that even means.”
“Right— Right, right,” Barkovitch nods, a weak, sickly grin forming on his face. “Thanks, man. I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” returns Collie with an uneasy smile, and Barkovitch claps him on the back before breaking into a half-jog in the direction of the track.
It was fitting that Barkovitch would be tasked with the last event of the day. Fortunately, that meant he didn’t have much of an audience; most of the spectators had trickled out, meaning that a lot of the faces in the bleachers were familiar ones, and that helped to ease his nerves. Even if he still felt a bit queasy.
He bent down by one of the benches to retie his spikes, double-knotting them for good luck, before taking his place in his assigned row.
Two-hundred meters. No big deal. He’s done it hundreds of times before. He should be fine.
The air had gone cold despite the typically-warm May weather, and goosebumps rose up on his arms as he set up on the starting block. But when he pushed off, he even amazed himself. He shot in front of the other competitors, leaping over the hurdles with what he was sure was less-than-flawless form. In short, he was sure he looked ridiculous. But he was winning, and that’s what mattered to him.
At least, he was, until he stumbled after his last hurdle. It took a moment for him to regain his balance, and a moment too long, because the tall brunette who had been his runner-up took the opportunity to pass him, leaving Barkovitch in second place.
The winner of the losers; that was how Barkovitch saw it.
He was able to keep his composure at the finish line, as the spotters gave him his time, and even as Coach Ginnie congratulated him and told him awards would be given soon. It didn’t matter to him that he would surely receive one for his performance in the long jump; he wanted to be like everyone else, and everyone he cared about had achieved something in a track event.
“Nice job, Barko,” said Garraty, coming up to him as Barkovitch took a seat at the bottom of the bleachers. He put a hand on his shoulder and moved to mess up his hair playfully. “Taking home the silver. Congrats!”
Was Garraty seriously mocking him? Barkovitch stared daggers up at him, but a genuine smile remained on his face, even as Barkovitch’s face remained less than pleasant.
Garraty’s smile faltered. “What’s wrong?”
“I stumbled,” says Barkovitch, his voice laced with venom. He brings up a hand and hits himself in the temple. “Fuck, I stumbled. Didn’t you see it? I fucked it all up, Garraty. I lost— I lost.”
Garraty takes a seat next to him. “Gary, you didn’t lose. You came in second, and who cares? You’re still going to Nationals. This won’t even matter in a week.”
Barkovitch’s chest rose and fell, his breaths coming sharp and uneven, like he’d just run another race and lost that one too. He shook his head, placing his palm flat against his forehead. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice rising to a pulpit shout. “You don’t get it, Garraty!”
Garraty frowned, that familiar crease between his eyebrows deepening. But he didn’t look scared, he just looked concerned. “Hey, come on. It’s one stumble, man. You’re one of the best jumpers we have—”
“It doesn’t fucking matter, does it?” Barkovitch interrupted. “Because I still went and fucked it all up.”
For a long moment, Garraty didn’t say anything. Just stared down at his hands, thumbs worrying at the hem of his jersey. Then, softly: “You’re too hard on yourself, Barkovitch. You know that, right?”
Barkovitch laughed, high and maniacal. “You’re just saying that. But I deserve it.”
He stood up too quickly, his knees popping from the sudden pressure, and started heading back to the track before Garraty could answer. The field was empty now; people had started to gather by the concessions booth for awards, and the cheers had long faded. All he could hear was the names of true winners over the loudspeaker. Distantly, it echoed.
Barkovitch kept walking until the sounds from the loudspeaker blurred into the wind. All he could hear now was the blood rushing in his ears. It could storm soon, he thought, with the way the clouds swirled above him. Maybe he’d like that. The rain would make him feel clean, wash him free of this failure.
He stopped near the starting blocks, the same place he’d launched from earlier, and stared at the lane numbers painted on the ground. They stared back, taunting him.
McVries made it over to the concessions booth just in time for awards. He’d accepted his on behalf of his relay team, which consisted of him, Ray, Hank, and Art. By the end of the ceremony, the better part of their team was decorated, and Peter McVries felt like a winner. He assumed the rest of his relay team felt the same.
By the time they piled onto the bus, the sun had slipped away, and the parking lot lamps washed everything in a flat, orange glow. Relaxing, after the long day they’d all had. And a stark contrast to how the the air on the bus smelled like sweat, Gatorade, and the cheap cologne Olson wore that he swore covered up his sweat-stench. It didn’t.
McVries flopped down into a seat near the back, his medal clinking against his chest. Garraty joined him quickly after with a tired smile, while Baker and Olson argued over who’d left their spikes behind on the bleachers.
“There’s no way those are yours,” Baker pinched the bridge of his nose, trying his best to retain his composure. He almost looked ready to burst out laughing. “Your feet are tiny.”
“But you’re always forgetting something!” Olson bit back. “Give me the benefit of the doubt for once, won’t you?”
“What I doubt is that those shoes are yours,” Baker reached for them halfheartedly, but Olson swung them out of the way, holding them by the laces. He looked over at McVries with a small smile. “The downside to getting matching spikes.”
“Well, the other shoes could be even bigger. Maybe I just wear big shoes. Maybe I just like some extra room. Didn’t you ever think of that?” Olson folded his arms over his chest. “You’d better go grab them to be sure.”
Baker let out a long, exasperated sigh, and caved. “Fine. I’ll be right back. I know exactly where you left them.”
Olson blew him an almost-mocking kiss and flopped into the seat in front of McVries and Garraty. “Some guys. Can you believe him?”
“I can,” said McVries, raising an eyebrow. “You’re totally holding his shoes, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” said Olson, leaning back against the window with a satisfied smirk. “Can you blame me? You guys have long legs. I get tired faster.”
“Don’t play,” McVries gave him a skeptical look. “You keep up just fine.”
Olson gave him a sarcastic “yeah, yeah,” and settled into his seat, becoming quickly absorbed in the scenery outside.
In all honesty, McVries was always grateful for the rare afterglow that followed an exhausting meet like today’s. It was moments like this, with his friends, that made him forget all the grueling hours he’d put into practicing every week.
Next to him, Garraty hums and looks up. “I have Barkovitch’s medal. You think he’s on the bus yet?”
“Don’t know,” McVries shrugs. “I saw him sneak back off onto the field.”
He stands up and scans the seats. And there he was, slumped against one of the windows in his own seat, his windbreaker zipped all the way up and the hood pulled over his head.
“Hey,” McVries called. “You dead, Barkovitch?”
A pause. Barkovitch lifted his head just enough to glare at him through the dim bus lighting. “Do I look dead?”
“I don’t know,” said McVries, tapping his chin. “You do kind of resemble roadkill.”
Olson let out a snicker, but Barkovitch clearly didn’t find his comment amusing. He turned back over to the window and shut his eyes. Next to him, McVries noticed that Garraty was clearly debating whether or not to get up and talk to him.
When Garraty stands up, McVries debates pulling him back down immediately. “It’s best not to poke the bear,” he whispers instead, but lets Garraty go over to him. It’s his funeral, he thought. He’d done all he could do to warn him.
McVries doesn’t hear exactly what Garraty says to him, but it couldn’t have been anything too bad, because Barkovitch accepts his medal graciously and visibly relaxes.
“See? That wasn’t so hard,” says Garraty, reclaiming his place as Collie Parker boards the bus, followed by Baker and Stebbins.
“You’re a better man than me, Ray,” McVries shakes his head. “I would’ve just kept it.”
“Aw, don’t say that,” Garraty settles in against him, but perks up as Collie sits next to Barkovitch. He points in their direction, subtly enough that Baker and Olson don’t ask any questions. “Wait, did you see that?”
“Yeah, I did,” mutters McVries. “Weird. I wonder what that’s all about.”
Garraty drops the topic as Baker moves his way down the aisle and sits back next to Olson, dangling a pair of worn spikes in front of him, clearly unamused. “These are yours,” he says, not unkindly.
“Oh, are they?” Olson acts surprised. “Well, thank you, Art. Very kind of you to retrieve them for me.”
“You suck, Olson,” Garraty snickers.
“What? I said thank you.”
“Give it up,” said Baker. “I don’t care anymore. There are so many more things worth stressing about. Like Nationals.”
Olson leaned his head back against the seat, smirking. “Nationals, huh? Sounds like a piece of cake to me. I’ll just not colossally screw up this time.”
“That’d be a first,” McVries says, kicking the back of his seat.
“Keep it up, McVries,” Olson said without turning around. “And I’ll make sure you’re running extra laps next practice.”
“Bold talk from a guy who can’t even clear a bar,” McVries shot right back. “Seriously, Hank, what was that?”
His performance hadn’t even been that bad, but McVries couldn’t resist the opportunity to take a few jabs at him. The bus rolled into motion, and as it did, the once-lively chatter dragged into something more mellow and calm.
Outside, the dark fields rolled by, mile after mile of empty highway. Across from them, Stebbins was listening to music on his Walkman in solitude, staring blankly down the aisle; Olson was half-asleep on Baker’s shoulder. The laughter had been long dead, replaced by the low hum of the engine and the soft creak of the bus’ suspension.
That’s when McVries decided everything was getting a little too quiet. Creepy, almost. He was in the middle of the liveliest group of men he’d ever known, and no one was talking?
He stood up suddenly, clapping his hands together. “Alright, everyone this is absolutely pathetic,” he said, a wide grin on his face. “We just wiped the floor with every other team out there and you’re all sitting here like we’re headed to a funeral. Where’s the fucking enthusiasm?”
Baker cracked an eye open. “We’re tired, McVries. It’s getting late, and it’s a long drive back.”
“Bullshit,” McVries said. “You can rest when you’re dead.”
Olson groaned, his breath fogging up in the cold. “Spare us the speech, Socrates. Some of us wanna catch a few Z’s while we still can.”
“Fine, fine,” McVries stood up and turned to face the rest of the bus. “But how many of us placed at Nationals today?”
Garraty looked up. “Eight, I think.”
“Eight!” McVries shouted, gesturing down to Garraty. “You heard him! That’s eight more than Wiscasset, eight more than Camden, and way more than whatever sorry-ass schools thought they could take us down in the relays!”
A few laughs broke out, and Harkness’ laughter rose above the rest. Funnily, he was the only one unable to participate today, on account of a broken ankle that was taking far too long to heal.
McVries moved to point at Olson. “And our boy Olson here only tripped over the bar once!”
“Oh, fuck off, McVries,” said Olson with a smile on his face.
McVries ignored him. “Who are we?”
“Freeport Musketeers,” said Garraty lazily, letting his head bounce against the front of his seat with the bus’ movement.
“What was that? Say it louder.”
“Mus-ke-teers!” Olson and Baker chimed in, drawing the attention of a few teammates nearby, even some of the freshmen whose names McVries hadn’t picked up quite yet.
After a little more coaxing from the four of them, the bus came alive, nearly every player shouting and hollering before coming together in a single chant. Even Stebbins cracked a smile, shaking his head fondly as the noise steadily built. “Mus-ke-teers! Mus-ke-teers! Mus-ke-teers!” they shouted, pounding the seats and stomping their feet in time. The sound filled the cramped space, echoing off the windows and the metal rooftop until the driver had to yell back for them to quiet down. Of course, not a single one of them cared to listen.
Barkovitch, still slouched at the front, had turned from the window. The corner of his mouth twitched; not quite a smile, but close enough. Collie elbowed him lightly, shook his head, and muttered something that looked like “idiots.” Even still, he seemed to be in a good mood.
McVries caught it instantly and grinned wider. “Damn right we are, Parker,” he shouted, his voice growing hoarse, but that didn’t stop him. “A bunch of National-bound idiots.”
And in that moment, Peter McVries was certain that nothing could bring them down.