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0.
Adam Banks was a parent’s dream child. He barely spoke unless he was spoken to, he did his homework and chores without complaining, and he was a hockey prodigy. What more could his parents want in a son? His fear of people wasn’t ideal, but his father figured he could be trained out of it. He didn’t cause trouble at school or in his extracurriculars, so it wasn’t a huge concern to him.
His wife Holly worried more about Adam. Philip thought she coddled him too much, to be honest. If the boy didn’t talk, then he didn’t get anything. He thought the best way to help was to make him talk to people and see that it wasn’t as scary as he thought it was. Holly, on the other hand, thought they had to ease him into it. By elementary school, they had a son who was both scared to speak up and scared to disappoint his dad.
1.
Adam had known Coach Reilly since his older brother made his pee wee team when Alex was nine and Adam was four. He’d seen the man at every game and heard his voice booming through every rink. He was terrified of him, always hiding behind his dad or his brother when he had to be close to him.
He didn’t properly meet the coach until he was six. His mom always made cookies before Christmas to give to all their friends, and she always made a big batch of gingerbread for Coach Reilly and the team.
His dad decided to make Adam carry the tray and ushered him in front of both him and his wife all the way from the car to the locker room.
“He’ll be your coach in a few years,” Philip told his son. “Being Alex’s little brother can only get you so far onto his good side, and being a scared little kid won’t get you anywhere.”
“Phil,” his wife scolded, the way she always did when he gave Adam a hard time, “be nice. He can’t help it.”
Adam had to be pushed through the door, and he wanted to turn around when Coach Reilly and his brother’s entire hockey team turned to stare at him.
“Hello,” Coach smiled, which only made Adam glue his eyes to his own shoes. “Did you bring presents for us?”
Adam nodded but kept his mouth shut.
“He’s shy,” his father told the coach, ruffling his son’s hair and taking the tray from his hands. “We’re working on it.” He started passing out cookies to the eager boys.
Reilly knelt down in front of the kid, trying to get him to make eye contact. “Your dad tells me you’re a good hockey player,” he said. “That true?”
Adam shrugged, then nodded.
“Good,” Coach laughed, “I like good hockey players. You wanna be on my team when you’re older?”
“Of course he does,” his dad called. “He’s gonna be a hawk, alright. Just wait ‘til you see that kid on the ice.”
With that, Adam finally nodded. Reilly grinned and stood up, patting him on the back.
2.
Just like his brother, Adam made the pee wee team in third grade. He quickly became Coach Reilly’s favorite, both because of his brother’s skills and his own. Coach gave him jersey number nine—the same one, he told him, that a previous prodigy kid had played under. Adam would have chosen a different one if he was given the option, but coach liked him so he’d take whatever he was given.
He took a lot of beatings. Coach Reilly said that it was important for everyone to be able to take checks from guys twice their size and keep playing without missing a beat, so he told everyone to go all out against each other. Adam rarely ever gave harder than he took. On good days, he went home from practice with new bruises. On bad days, he had to figure out how to walk without limping.
There was one time one of the taller kids shoved Adam into the goal post, and Adam didn’t think anything could hurt more than his shoulder against the metal. He fell to his knees, clutching his arm to his body. He half expected it to fall clean off.
Instead of checking on him, Coach Reilly started yelling for him to keep moving.
And he did. He held his stick in his left hand and glued his right arm to his body, moving it as little as possible.
“Banks!” Reilly shouted. “Why’re you skating like you just learned how? And why are you left handed now?”
Adam sighed and swapped his stick back, hoping that no one could see him wince under his helmet.
When Coach Reilly pulled him aside after practice, he thought he was going to check on his wellbeing. He wasn’t sure if he wanted that or not, but it didn’t matter. Coach didn’t ask him anything, he just started talking.
“You’re the best player on the team, Adam,” he said, which is how he started most conversations with the kid. “You don’t have to lower yourself down to anyone else’s level, make them get up to yours. I don’t want to see any more weird skating or hand switching, got it?”
Adam nodded silently, and Reilly patted him on the back before shoving him toward the locker room.
At dinner, when his parents asked why he was holding his fork with his left hand, Adam just said that his right arm was sore. It wasn’t a complete lie, he just left out the part where it hurt too bad to even lift it up to the table.
He snuck an ice pack from the freezer after eating and held it on his shoulder until it went numb.
3.
Though Adam was the most talented player on the team, he was by no means in charge of anyone. He was often grouped with Michael McGill and Rick Larson—two of Reilly’s other favorites—and they became a powerful trio both on and off the ice.
When Larson wanted to use the school field to play touch football on a weekend, that’s what they did. When McGill said they should go see what the District 5 losers were doing, they put on their rollerblades and started looking for them.
It wasn’t that difficult. Some combination of the team was always out doing something together, whether it was chasing dogs down streets or playing hockey in someone’s yard.
They found four of the boys stalking a cat in an alley, pouncing and trying to catch it. When it finally got away from them, it slipped out between the three hawks, and that’s when the other boys finally noticed them.
They skated closer, trapping the boys between them and a wooden fence that half of them were too short and weak to even try to climb. Adam managed to regurgitate words that the other two said whenever they were making fun of the district 5 team. He wouldn’t say he was proud of himself, but he liked the way McGill and Larson laughed with him. He didn’t know the other boys, so while their scowls didn’t make him feel great, they didn’t mean as much.
Then their giant friend, who didn’t even play hockey but always seemed to be around, came up behind the trio and threw them over the fence. They were all lifted surprisingly easily—even McGill, who was a solid few inches taller than the other two boys, but still shorter than the giant.
On the way down, McGill’s shirt got caught on a large splinter, and he landed with a tear across his back.
“Aw man,” he whined, “I liked this shirt.” He turned around, giving the other two a good look and making them snicker. He frowned. “I should make that goon pay for my shirt. It probably cost more than he’s worth.”
Adam wanted to say that McGill could afford his own shirt—his family was in no way short on funds. He wanted to say that one of their moms could probably sew it up to be good as new. Hell, even he could’ve done a passable stitching job with his experience patching a couple holes in his own clothes.
But being a boy who could sew was embarrassing, so he kept his mouth shut. He frowned with his friends and nodded along to McGill’s rant as they skated back to their own neighborhood.
4.
Having to switch teams mid-season wasn’t something Adam wanted to do. It was hard enough for him to be with a team where he was nervous that everyone hated him, being with one where he knew everyone already hated him sounded like a personal hell. He was comfortable enough with Coach Reilly and the hawks, and he didn’t feel the need to expand his horizons farther.
Since his brother quit hockey after starting high school, all of their dad’s hockey focus shifted solely onto the younger brother. His main sources of pride were Adam’s hockey skills, and his status as a hawk. Becoming a duck would ruin all of that.
“It’s not the end of the world, Adam,” his brother tried to tell him. “This’ll probably be good for you.”
Adam shrugged. He flopped down onto the couch and stretched out. “A.J., they hate me,” he mumbled.
“They don’t even know you.”
Adam shook his head. They knew him, all right. They knew that he hung out with McGill and Larson and they all terrorized them whenever they felt like it.
A.J. pushed his brother’s legs off the cushions so he could sit down, and Adam sat upright next to him. “Those kids are probably nicer than any of the hawks,” he pointed out. “And that coach is definitely nicer than Coach Reilly.”
The younger boy sighed. He didn’t care how much he liked or disliked Coach Reilly or any of the hawks, he knew them.
“Who knows, maybe you’ll actually like the new guy.”
Adam rolled his eyes and groaned. “You don’t get it,” he grumbled.
They both knew A.J. would never understand his brother’s fears, but he at least tried, which was more than most people did. A.J. always sat and talked with him, listening to Adam explain his anxieties to the best of his ability, and he always tried to talk some reason into him.
“Do you like playing hockey?” he asked.
Adam quickly nodded. Hockey was the only thing he knew he wanted to do in his life.
“Trust me: the longer you stay with Coach Reilly, and with Dad breathing down your neck, the longer it’ll take you to figure out the answer to that question.”
Adam didn’t really understand what he was saying, but he nodded along anyway.
“Once you get on the ice, it doesn’t matter what team you’re on.” A.J. chuckled. “Your brain’ll shut up about everything that isn’t hockey, just like it always does.”
Adam threw his head back and pressed himself into the back of the couch, hoping to disappear into the cushions.
“I’ll walk you in,” his brother offered.
The front door swung open and their father entered the house noisily, the way he always did. “What’re we talking about?” he asked, going to the living room and looking down at his sons.
A.J. glanced at Adam, giving him the chance to speak first, before filling the silence that was always left. “Adam joining the ducks.”
Their dad almost choked on his own breath. He looked between the boys like they were insane. “Adam,” he said, voice deep and slow, “you’re not going to be a duck. You’re supposed to be a hawk, so you’re going to be a hawk.”
A.J. jumped up from the couch. “What if he wants to be a duck?” he shouted. “You never think about what he wants.”
“He never says what he wants,” Philip yelled, exasperated.
“Yes, he does,” A.J. argued, “he’s just scared to tell you things.”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to deal with my own son, Alexander.”
A.J. clenched his jaw. “Well you clearly don’t know how to on your own.”
Philip turned sharply to look at his youngest, who was looking uneasy on the couch, staring back at him. “Adam,” he sighed, “don’t you want to be a hawk? I mean, it’s the best team in the league, and the ducks are the worst. You don’t belong with them.”
Adam looked at A.J., wishing that he could make the words in his head come out of his brother’s mouth. He kept his shut, running upstairs to his bedroom and locking the door behind him.
5.
A.J. was right, as he usually was when it came to his little brother. The ducks weren’t that bad, once Adam got to know them. They were still as scary as most people were, but Adam had dealt with that his whole life, so he knew could manage.
Coach Bombay was a lot nicer than Coach Reilly. He still made him nervous in an authoritative way, but Bombay’s affection didn’t feel conditional. The whole team felt like a family.
“Hey, Charlie,” Fulton smirked, “I’m your best friend, right?”
Before joining the team, Adam had only been on the giant’s bad side. He was still getting used to not flinching whenever he saw him or heard him speak.
Charlie shrugged. “Sure.”
Fulton’s smile widened. “Take that, Guy,” he said, pumping his fist aggressively.
“Wow,” Goldberg frowned dramatically, “I’m crushed. Heartbroken, truly. What do you have to say for yourself, Charlie?”
He shrugged again. “I can have more than one best friend.”
“Uh uh, nope,” Averman jumped in. “‘Best’ means one.”
Goldberg threw his arm around the other boy’s shoulder. “What about you, Averman? Who’s your best friend?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about—”
“I’ll give you a dollar,” Goldberg offered.
Averman’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re my best friend, for sure. Take notes, everybody.”
“Anyone else?” Goldberg asked, looking out at the rest of the team. “Am I anyone else’s best friend? Guy?”
Guy shook his head. “Connie,” he answered.
“That’s not fair,” Jesse argued, “she’s already your girlfriend. She can’t be your best friend, too.”
Guy shook his head. “Too bad. It’s called being a good boyfriend.”
Adam sat a bit farther than everyone else. Nobody brought him into the conversation, and he was glad. He wouldn’t have an answer to give. He wasn’t even sure if he had friends, let alone a best friend. He had teammates and classmates and neighbors, but he didn’t know if any of them could be considered his friends.
The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if he ever had any friends at all. Larson and McGill were his teammates, first and foremost, but were they his friends? Did they like him? Did he like them?
He finally decided that his best friend was his brother, but he thought that was a sad answer to give. He was thankful nobody asked him.
+1.
Adam had been with the ducks for almost two months when Christmastime came around. Like always, his mom baked cookies to give to his coach and the team. This was the first time they wouldn’t be going to Coach Reilly and the hawks.
He’d half-convinced himself that the tradition died when he switched teams. Even when she was in a baking frenzy and asked if any of the ducks had allergies, he thought there might be no cookies at practice anymore.
“Whose mom is that?” Peter asked, staring into the otherwise-empty audience, “And is she single?”
Adam looked up and, sure enough, his mom was smiling back at him, holding the tray that he recognized from every year prior. He rolled his eyes and shoved Peter into the boards on his way to the bench. “Mom,” he grumbled, voice low, “what’re you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, feigning offense. “Christmas is next week. I brought cookies.”
Adam looked over his shoulder at the entire team staring at them, and he knew his face was turning red. “Can you go wait somewhere else? We still have a few minutes left of practice.”
“Hello, Mrs. Banks,” Adam heard over his shoulder. He silently turned to Coach Bombay. “Can I help you?”
“It’s Holly,” she smiled, shaking his hand, “and, I thought Adam might’ve told you, but I’ve always brought cookies to practices before Christmas. It seems that he’s embarrassed about it now.”
Adam went to return to the team, but Bombay stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He looked down at his watch, then back up at Adam’s mom with a grin. “We only have five minutes left. I think we can cut out a little early. It is almost Christmas, you know.”
Mrs. Banks beamed.
Bombay turned toward the ice, seeing the whole team already looking at him. “Go put your stuff away,” he ordered, “we’ll meet you in the locker room.”
Adam pushed ahead, ignoring everyone else as he tore his padding off and put his gear in his bag. He kept his head down when Bombay and his mom came in, both smiling, and the team jumped up and swarmed them.
“We’re civilized people,” Bombay laughed, “make a line.”
There was a chorus of groans, but a line was formed.
“And anyone who doesn’t say ‘thank you’ gets extra laps.”
All at once, everyone cheered and thanked Adam’s mom as they took a cookie from the tray.
“Oh my God!” Goldman screamed. “Is that a Star of David? For me?”
Mrs. Banks smiled. “Yeah, Adam said you celebrate Hanukkah. I didn’t have any Hanukkah cookie cutters, but I tried.”
Goldberg’s head whipped around to where Adam was still sitting on a bench. “You talk about me at home?” he smirked. “I don’t know what’s more surprising: you actually talk at home, or you talk about us at home.”
“He also said that one of you is allergic to nuts,” Holly told them, “so there’s no nuts or cross contamination.”
Charlie, who had been sitting next to Adam, turned his head. He stood up slowly, then pulled Adam up with him and dragged him to his mom.
“Thank you, Mrs. Banks,” Charlie said, grabbing a gingerbread christmas tree. Adam silently grabbed the one beside it.
Bombay cleared his throat. “Where are your manners, Banks? You wanna do extra laps?”
“Thanks mom,” Adam mumbled.
“These are really good, Mrs. Banks,” Jesse commented. “Can I take one home for my brother?”
She chuckled. “There’s plenty left over, you boys can take home whatever you want.”
A dozen eyes lit up.
“Banks,” Karp said, “if you ever wanna trade moms—”
“Pass,” Adam laughed.
Half of the team started offering themselves up for adoption, but Adam shot down all of them with a smirk on his face.
“We gotta start calling you cookie-eater instead of cake-eater,” Jesse remarked.
Adam rolled his eyes. “What does that make all of you right now?” Everyone looked at their own hands, then burst out laughing.
Holly and Bombay watched the team take jabs at each other, smiling and laughing the whole time. Holly had never seen her son be so outgoing with a large group of people.
“I think I’ve heard him talk more today than ever before,” she whispered to Bombay.
The coach smiled. “It took him some time to warm up,” he told her, “but he’s a real good kid.”
“He’s still warming up to me and my husband, and he’s known us his entire life,” Holly said, only slightly joking. “You have a special group of kids here.” Bombay grinned.
“Hey Mom,” Adam came up to them, trying and failing to hold back a sly smile. “You know how you and Dad aren’t getting me and A.J. Mario Kart for Christmas?”
Holly raised an eyebrow. She’d long assumed that her kids had found all of their present hiding spots.
“When we don’t get it,” he continued, “can some of the guys come over to play?”
His mom struggled to hide her surprise, but quickly agreed. She watched her son rush back excitedly to rejoin the group.
“I don’t think he’s ever invited anyone to our house,” Holly mused aloud.
“Special team,” Gordon smiled.