Bailey was transfixed by the action in the center of the room. Fern was too, although not for the same reasons. For Bailey it was the smell of the mats, the movement, the wrestler who might just make a comeback. For Fern it was the smell of the man, his movements, the wrestler who had finally come back. Bailey had been crashing some of the drill sessions between his dad and Ambrose for the last few weeks, but tonight was a first for Fern. She tried not to chew on her nails, a habit she forbade herself, especially since she'd just painted them that morning, and looked on, hoping it was really okay that she was there.
Ambrose was dripping with sweat. His grey shirt was soaked through on his chest and down his back, and he mopped at his bare head with a hand towel. Mike Sheen challenged him through another series of drills, encouraging, correcting, but when Ambrose flopped on the mat at the end of the workout, the coach's brow was furrowed and he kept biting his lip, chewing over an obvious concern.
“You need a partner. You need some guys to beat up on, to beat up on you . . . drilling shots is one thing. But you gotta do some live wrestling or you aren't going to get back into the kind of shape you need to be in . . . not wrestling shape, anyway.
“Remember how gassed Beans got when he couldn't compete until halfway through the season his junior year? He'd been in the room, practicing with the team, but he hadn't been in a real live match, and he about died those first couple meets after he came back. Heck, Grant pinned him in the Big East tourney, and Grant had never pinned Beans before. Remember how tickled he was?”
Coach Sheen's words rang through the room, the mention of Grant and Beans, the mention of death in any context, creating an odd echo that kept ricocheting off the walls. Ambrose stiffened, Bailey hung his head, and Fern gave in and gnawed her fingernail. Mike Sheen realized what he'd said and ran a hand over his cropped hair. He continued on as if the words hadn't been spoken.
“We'll get some guys in here, Brose. I've got a couple bigger guys on the high school team that you could work over. It'd be good for them and helpful to you.”
“No. Don't do that.” Ambrose shook his head, his voice a low rumble as he stood and started shoving his gear into a gym bag. “I'm not here for that, Coach. I don't want you thinking I am. I missed the room. That's all. I just missed the room. But I'm not wrestling . . . not anymore.”
Mike Sheen's face fell and Bailey sighed beside Fern. Fern just waited, watching Ambrose, noticing the way his hands shook as he untied his wrestling shoes, the way he had turned away from his old coach so he couldn't see Mike Sheen's reaction to his firm refusal.
“All right,” Coach Sheen said gently. “Are we done for today?”
Ambrose nodded, not looking up from his shoes, and Mike Sheen jangled the keys in his pocket. “You going home with Fern, Bailey?” he said to his son, noting the dejection in Bailey's posture.
“We walked and rolled, Dad,” Bailey quipped, trying as he always did to ease an uncomfortable situation with humor. “But I'll come home with you, if you don't mind . . . you got the van, right?”
“I'll take Fern,” Ambrose spoke up keeping his gaze on his laces. He hadn't moved from where he was crouched by his bag, and he didn't look up at the three people who were all focused on him. He seemed tense and eager to be left alone, and Fern wondered why he wanted her to remain behind. But she said nothing, letting her uncle and Bailey leave without her.
“Make sure the lights are off and the doors are all locked,” Coach Sheen said quietly, and held the door open for Bailey to wheel through. Then the heavy door swung shut and Fern and Ambrose were alone.
Ambrose took a long draw from a bottle of water, his throat working as he swallowed greedily. He splashed a little on his face and head and wiped it off with his towel, but still made no move to get up. He pulled his wet shirt over his head, grabbing the back of the neck with one hand and yanking it over his head the way guys always do and girls never do. He didn't pause to let her look at him, though her eyes raced over his skin, trying to soak in every detail. Showing off wasn't his intent, and a clean blue T-shirt replaced his soiled gray one almost instantly. He slipped his running shoes on and laced them up, but still he sat, his arms looped around his knees, his head bent against the glare of the fluorescent lights overhead.
“Will you turn off the light, Fern?” His voice was so soft she wasn't sure she heard him right, but she turned and walked toward the door and the light switches that were lined up to the right of it, expecting him to follow her.
“Are you coming?” she asked, her hand poised on the switch.
“Just . . . turn it off.”
Fern did as he asked, and the wrestling room vanished before her eyes, disappearing in the darkness. Fern paused uncertainly, wondering if he wanted her to leave him there in the dark. But why then had he said he would take her home?
“Do you want me to go? I can walk . . . it's not that far.”
“Stay. Please.”
The door thumped shut and Fern stood next to it, wondering how she was going to find her way back to him. He was acting so strange, so forlorn and aloof. But he wanted her to stay. That was enough for Fern. She walked toward the middle of the room, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.