Between Two Eternities || Travis Hamonic

(7) In Your Wildest Dreams

"Any fool can be happy. It takes a man with real heart to make beauty out of the stuff that makes us weep."

-Clive Barker, Days of Magic, Nights of War

He said he was happy because I came.

I know Matt was happy. But Travis said it to me, when Matt was occupied with his idol, John Tavares. Travis had insisted that John had no problem with meeting him, for which I was grateful. Matt had been pleading to me since the beginning of the game.

As if I had any control over which players he met.

I mean I am happy as well; I actually payed attention to the game this time. Matt explained the basics to me, and I came to the realization that he's a good teacher.

Finding something is half the battle - the better half. The imagining, the expectations, the suspense. And then all dreams are crushed by the end of the journey.

That's where I am today. The end. Or so it feels, with the way everything is being crushed. But I suppose it's not the end. I'm only twenty one after all.

"I'm happy I came too," I say timidly, in response to his sentiment of happiness. I didn't know if I was for sure. He makes me say things with his persona.

The beginning of the end was when I was eighteen, the weeks after my parents left my life. It's not as if I was incredibly close to them - I wasn't. But they are in fact a part of me. And though I never willingly went to them for advice, they were always ready to give it. I had never appreciated that. Until now. Until the only advice I can get now is from a crazy hairdresser that doesn't ever think too much about the future.

And neither do these people think about the future much, or the pressing issues. These hockey fans are focused on one thing. If they stopped staring at a tiny black piece of plastic for just a second, they would see that tomorrow, a hockey game won't matter. An Islanders' win won't make their girlfriend forgive them for cheating. An Islanders' win won't get them accepted into college. An Islanders' win won't make them feel better about themselves. An Islanders' loss won't do those things either.

People scream and yell quite a bit at these games, and the glass in front of us isn't that sturdy. Every time someone is hit, the glass flexes. It makes me jump every single time. Jump like I want to jump all the way out the door and back home. But I know I wouldn't.

Popcorn flies often. Beer spills are not uncommon. And boos. I think boos are heard just as much as cheers. Hockey isn't the same as baseball, that's sure, and neither are its fans. I imagine that these same people go to Mets games in the summer. I imagine that they have some internal sense that they can't stand up and throw out a middle finger at the umpire. Or at another team's player. They just know it. But at the ice rink, anything goes.

I would be lying to you if I said I don't try to pick out which flying figure is Travis. His jersey number is three. Three like the number of people I've lost (mom, dad, and that one boy). Three piece suits. Three blind mice. Three legged races. Three like the number of Oreos required to eat at a time. Three like that age old thing called the Trinity.

I don't know why I am so attracted to him, we barely even know each other. Perhaps it is because he's the first guy that's really paid me any mind since Bobby Hurd.

Every game is the same thing. One time, Travis got in a fight. When we saw him after the game, he had stitches in his cheek. A few times, he scored a goal. After those game he would say cheeky things like that he scored it for me.

Before the game started tonight, he tapped the glass with his stick where me and Matt were sitting. It made me jump in my seat. Even though I saw him coming from across the ice. He winked at me. He must've known I would blush because he chuckled before skating away, before the blush really set in.

Matt didn't notice that whole exchange.

He smiles and I smile back. I smile back. I smile. He makes me smile. What a strange thing to know that the only reason my mouth turns up at the corners is another person. A boy named Travis Hamonic.

"You look good in my jersey," he blurts out, then blushes profusely. "I mean - uhm, the jersey makes you look ... uh you look nice." He readjusts the ball cap on his head, so it covers his eyes more.

Oh God, he is so nervous. It's a little adorable.

I had worn the jersey he gave me the first game. It goes well past my hips and the sleeves out reach my hands, but it's perfectly the right size.

"Thank you," I say and slightly blush. Just him saying I look good, saying he likes the way I look. Beautiful boys should not be allowed to compliment girls like me, girls that rarely do anything special with their hair or put on extra makeup. It only contributes to false perception.

I need air. Thinking about him makes me short of breath. Hell, being within fifteen feet of him makes me short of breath.

John was autographing stuff for Matt, so he would be occupied for a while, I assume. Matt tends to talk a ton. He honestly never shuts up.

The silence between me and Travis is interrupted by me clearing my throat.

"Matt's really thankful for all this. He doesn't have many happy things happen anymore," I say, knowing that Matt can forget to look grateful once he's wrapped up in it all.

"Ah I know how he feels," Travis says. He sits down on the same bench he did the first time. Except this time, I don't wait for him to pat the spot next to him. I sit down immediately.

"My dad died from a heart attack when I was ten," he explains. That shocks me because I didn't know he had experienced death. My first impression had been that the Islanders just put him up to this, to these meetings with parent-less kids. I thought ...

Matt was ten years old as well, when our parents passed.

"I'm sorry," I say, "That must've been awful." I don't want to say too much. I always hate when people try to say too much. He shrugs, "You would know, eh?"

I nod solemnly. "Yeah I suppose so."

Silence again. I fiddle with a loose thread on my jeans.

"Do you mind me asking how?"

It takes me a second to realize he is asking how my parents died. If he even knew both of them had passed. I don't mind him asking. I would've minded if it was someone else, but not him and I guess that's because now I know that he went through it too.

When Jeremy asked how our parents died during our very first therapy session, I lashed out. I accused him of prying, knocked over a chair. I was crazy. And Jeremy just watched. That's what really annoyed me. Couldn't he see I was in obvious distress? Help me! Say something at least!

Nothing.

Travis's innocence turned the crazy off.
And turned me on.

"They were in a car accident with a truck driver. He fell asleep at the wheel ... and they died instantly," I pause so my voice doesn't crack. Travis leans in and our faces become separated only by a few inches. I take it as a hint to speak up a bit more.

"Three years ago, almost four ..."

He had about the same response to me as I had to him. There is no pressure to indulge all my secrets. After all, he'd been through the same.

I used to wish for someone like me. Someone who had been through the same pain.

That person never came.
The support group didn't care about me.
So I stopped wishing for one.
I no longer wasted 11:11 wishes for a friend. I no longer prayed for someone who could understand me.

But now, one has fallen into my lap. A beautiful boy with a missing tooth and scruffy hair could understand me. He could understand so easily, if only... If only.