Page 82 of The Best Parts of Him
Forcing a smile he didn’t feel, he said, “All right, guys, it’s time,” and waved a hand Vanna White-style at the table he’d set up with all of his little trophies.
“Can we do that another time, Ry?” Maymi asked, dragging a hand back through his hair, the scar bisecting his cheek somehow extra pronounced. “I don’t think anyone’s in the mood.”
“Which is precisely why we should do this now.” He picked up the first trophy, a cheap plastic thing no longer than his palm. He’d added a strip of masking tape to the front and, in Sharpie, had written Most Community Events. “The award for most community events attended goes to . . . ” He handed it to Maymi with a flourish.
“Fuck off,” Buman said with a laugh. “Him? I thought for sure I was going to win that one.”
Des slapped Buman on the shoulder. “Maymi’s at all the kids’ events the organization puts on.”
“They’re not afraid of his ugly mug?”
Maymi flipped him off, earning a round of laughs.
Ryland swallowed a smile and handed out the rest of the trophies.
Rookie of the year.
Most improved.
Sportsmanship.
Best at getting everyone motivated.
His totally irrelevant ones made everyone laugh: best smile—Miles got that one—best flow, best ass, cleanest stall, and smelliest socks.
Everyone gave Des shit for winning that one.
“As if everyone else’s socks don’t smell as bad as mine,” Des grumbled good-naturedly.
“That’s it,” Ryland said over the revelry. “Thanks for casting your votes, guys. If you have any feedback about any categories that should be added next year, I’m all ears.”
“Wait,” Des said. “There’s one award left.”
Ryland frowned at his empty table. “No, there isn’t.”
“Sure there is.” Des removed a trophy that had been hidden in his stall. “For working his ass off to bring us all closer together, the award for most team spirit goes to . . . trumpets please.”
The guys all made that trumpet fanfare announcement sound—too-tootoo-tooooooo.
Putting on the voice of a sportscaster announcing the starting lineup, Des yelled, “Ryland Zer-vu-da-chiiiiiiiii.”
Ryland barely heard the cheers or felt the backslaps as Des handed him the trophy—the same kind of cheap trophy Ryland had just handed out, although his had a piece of tape with Most Team Spirit written in chunky black letters. He blinked back tears.
Fuck. This day was going to make him fall to pieces.
He showered and headed home. Some of the guys invited him out, but he wanted his house and he wanted to call Dabbs, and he maybe wanted to have a good cry over the direction the day had gone.
In his driveway, he sat for a minute and breathed. Not making the playoffs sucked, there was no two ways around it. It was like going through an entire grueling season for very little payout.
But that wasn’t strictly true, was it? Every game played was an opportunity to learn something and to improve one’s skills.
Ryland used to think he had to be the best—winning spelling bees and school science fairs and the class presidency, and, later, hockey championships—because being the best, the loudest, the flashiest, was the only way he’d get anyone’s attention.
But the hand-painted sign and the trophy, sitting on the passenger seat next to him, were proof that wasn’t the case.
He just had to do his best, and that was enough.
How was it possible for his body to feel so heavy with defeat yet for his heart to be so light with gratitude?
