Advent Calendar '07: Day 10
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I’d helped him out of his gear. I’d carried his bag to the car. I’d driven his beat-up old junker Camry with a healthy fear for my life and managed to not scream at him to get his brakes checked more than once a decade. I’d foregone a pleasant quiet meal and my own bed to instead carry his bag up to his apartment and fix him soup and a grilled-cheese sandwich, with the inevitability of staying on his lumpy old couch for lack of having my own car on hand.
He’d been snarky and bitchy and sulky the entire time, and yet I still couldn’t find it in my heart to be irritated with him.
Jared sat on the opposite side of his kitchen table from me, hunched over his bowl of tomato soup, stubbornly trying to use the spoon with his right hand. He’d already wolfed down half of his sandwich-a grilled-cheese sandwich as comfort food, how very American-but was having a little more difficulty with the soup. His hand was ugly red and swollen and pretty darn grotesque looking, even to me, and he had to be at some higher level of pain to be using his fingers like that.
I folded my arms across my chest.
“You, know, if you-”
“I know,” he snapped, doggedly shoveling another spoonful of soup into his mouth. I raised an eyebrow.
“I was just going to say-”
“I’m fine,” he replied shortly.
I wasn’t one to continue the experience of being rudely cut off whenever I spoke, so I quieted and silently let him continue, watching his painful fumbling at trying to eat. But when he put down the spoon to reach for his glass of milk I saw his fingers shaking, and I let out a quiet sigh.
“Jared, use your other hand.”
The glare I got was sharp and severe.
“I’m fine.”
I glanced pointedly at the way his milk was sloshing in his glass as he raised it to his lips.
The scowl around his eyes tightened.
I sighed again.
“Look, kid. I don’t know if you’re trying to prove something to anyone-to the team, to me; maybe to yourself. You’re tough. We all get that. We play in a sport where toughness is valued, and you’ve already proven yourself in it. It’s okay to relax. You don’t have to be tough all of the time.”
The look he gave me was so wary, so suspicious. But when he saw that the words were said in earnest a little hesitation entered his eyes; a little uncertainty flitted across that brusque exterior. I held his gaze and slowly the obstinate overlay fell away, and he ducked his head as he wordlessly switched the spoon to his uninjured hand.
I smiled, a little triumphantly.
And then I reached over to steal the other half of his sandwich.
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I’d helped him out of his gear. I’d carried his bag to the car. I’d driven his beat-up old junker Camry with a healthy fear for my life and managed to not scream at him to get his brakes checked more than once a decade. I’d foregone a pleasant quiet meal and my own bed to instead carry his bag up to his apartment and fix him soup and a grilled-cheese sandwich, with the inevitability of staying on his lumpy old couch for lack of having my own car on hand.
He’d been snarky and bitchy and sulky the entire time, and yet I still couldn’t find it in my heart to be irritated with him.
Jared sat on the opposite side of his kitchen table from me, hunched over his bowl of tomato soup, stubbornly trying to use the spoon with his right hand. He’d already wolfed down half of his sandwich-a grilled-cheese sandwich as comfort food, how very American-but was having a little more difficulty with the soup. His hand was ugly red and swollen and pretty darn grotesque looking, even to me, and he had to be at some higher level of pain to be using his fingers like that.
I folded my arms across my chest.
“You, know, if you-”
“I know,” he snapped, doggedly shoveling another spoonful of soup into his mouth. I raised an eyebrow.
“I was just going to say-”
“I’m fine,” he replied shortly.
I wasn’t one to continue the experience of being rudely cut off whenever I spoke, so I quieted and silently let him continue, watching his painful fumbling at trying to eat. But when he put down the spoon to reach for his glass of milk I saw his fingers shaking, and I let out a quiet sigh.
“Jared, use your other hand.”
The glare I got was sharp and severe.
“I’m fine.”
I glanced pointedly at the way his milk was sloshing in his glass as he raised it to his lips.
The scowl around his eyes tightened.
I sighed again.
“Look, kid. I don’t know if you’re trying to prove something to anyone-to the team, to me; maybe to yourself. You’re tough. We all get that. We play in a sport where toughness is valued, and you’ve already proven yourself in it. It’s okay to relax. You don’t have to be tough all of the time.”
The look he gave me was so wary, so suspicious. But when he saw that the words were said in earnest a little hesitation entered his eyes; a little uncertainty flitted across that brusque exterior. I held his gaze and slowly the obstinate overlay fell away, and he ducked his head as he wordlessly switched the spoon to his uninjured hand.
I smiled, a little triumphantly.
And then I reached over to steal the other half of his sandwich.
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