Can't Hold the Stick Can Hold Me

Nox's POV

I find Griffin sitting on the ice rink. Well, what's left of it.

The surface is half-melted, covered in water stains and cracks running everywhere like veins. He's got his back to the rusted door I'm pushing through, and his right hand is just lying there on his knee, stiff and useless. Like a broken part someone forgot to fix.

I'm hauling my camera on one shoulder and a convenience store hot dog in my other hand. The door screams on its hinges when I shove it open.

"Hi, Griffin."

His shoulders go tight. He doesn't turn around.

I keep walking. My boots are making these wet crunching sounds on the ice, echoing in the empty space. "I'm Lennox Porter," I call out. "You probably don't remember me."

Finally, he turns his head.

Three months since the accident and he looks like hell. His cheekbones are jutting out sharp, eyes sunken deep, stubble covering his jaw like he hasn't given a shit in weeks. But those gray eyes are still beautiful, even though right now they're completely empty.

"I want to make a documentary about you."

Silence. Then he laughs. It's cold and bitter.

"A documentary about a fucking cripple?" His voice comes out rough, like sandpaper. "You're insane."

I shrug. "Maybe."

I toss him the hot dog. His right hand moves on instinct, trying to catch it. But it can't. The hot dog hits the ice and rolls to a stop by his feet.

Nobody says anything. We're both just staring at that stupid hot dog lying there between us. The air feels thick and wrong. I walk over and pick it up, brushing off the water and ice chips.

"My mom is Dr. Iris Porter," I say. "She thinks she can help you."

He looks up at me, and there's something flickering in his eyes now. Just a tiny spark, but it's there.

"What's the catch?"

"Let me document the recovery. Film the documentary."

He laughs again, and this time it's pure mockery. "You artists. Always looking to mine someone else's pain for your precious art."

"Yeah." I don't even try to deny it. "But you need my mom's skills. So call it a trade."

I crouch down so we're eye to eye. "You got any better options right now?"

Griffin stares at me for a long time. I can see him trying to place me, his forehead creasing.

"You..." He's frowning now. "You're that weird girl from high school. The one always carrying around that shitty camera."

My heart does this stupid jump in my chest. He remembers me. Even if it's just as the weird camera girl.

"That's me." I stand up, brushing the water off my jeans. "Senior year, you scored the winning goal in the championship game. The whole arena was screaming your name. You skated right past me and didn't even glance my way."

I'm smiling, but it's not a nice smile. It's got an edge to it.

"Now I'm here to watch you fall."

Something crosses his face. Anger, maybe. Shame, definitely. And something else I can't quite read.

"I don't need your pity," he says.

"Good thing I'm not offering any." I set the hot dog down on the ice next to him. "I'm here to make a deal. My mom's expertise for your story. Fair trade."

I hoist the camera back onto my shoulder and turn toward the door. "Tomorrow, three p.m. My mom's clinic. Show up or don't. Your call."

When I reach the door, I stop and look back over my shoulder. "Not like you've got anywhere else to be, right?"

Then I'm gone, leaving him sitting there alone on that melting ice.

I can feel his eyes on my back as I walk away, but I don't turn around. In my car, I dump the camera on the passenger seat and grip the steering wheel. My hands are shaking.

Twelve years. It's been twelve years since I've been that close to him, since we've actually talked. In high school, I filmed every single one of his games, always standing at the edge of the crowd where nobody noticed me. He never looked at me. Not once.

Now he's broken and everyone's abandoned him, and here I am, coming back. I really am insane.

The next day I'm at Mom's clinic by two fifty-five. Camera's set up, lights are adjusted, release forms are ready and waiting. I'm expecting him to bail.

Three-oh-two, the door opens.

Griffin walks in wearing a clean black hoodie. He's shaved, washed his hair. He looks slightly more human than yesterday, though his right hand is still hanging there useless at his side.

Mom comes out of her office looking professional and composed. "Griffin Hart." She extends her hand. "I'm Dr. Iris Porter."

He shakes with his left hand. "Thank you for seeing me."

She leads him into the exam room, and I follow with the camera already rolling. The evaluation takes forty minutes, and I capture every second of it. Mom pressing on his right shoulder while he grits his teeth. Her testing the range of motion in his fingers while he can barely bend them thirty degrees. Sweat sliding down his temple from the effort.

"You can recover about seventy percent function in that hand," Mom finally says. "But it's going to take a year of intensive therapy. And it's going to take everything you've got."

"What's it going to cost me?" Griffin asks.

"Let my daughter make her film." Mom glances at me in the corner with my camera. "If you hate the final cut, we won't release it."

Griffin looks at me too. I'm standing there filming, and I stick my tongue out at him like a kid.

He blinks, surprised. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. It's the closest thing to a smile I've seen on his face.

"Fine," he says. "But she stays out of my way."

I lower the camera and walk over with the release form. "Deal. But you've got to sign this."

I've drawn a little smiley face at the bottom of the last page.

He sees it. When he signs his name with his left hand, that corner of his mouth twitches again.

This time I'm sure.

He's smiling.