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chapter two: the depressing details

a/n:

rory vs social cues-- who will win?

tw(s) -- potential second-hand embarrassment, hints at rory's poor childhood, and some mentions of bullying/hazing

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Rory tries not to meet her own gaze in mirrors very often.

It's an odd habit that's carried over from her childhood, this race to brush her teeth and wash her face before she could see the bogeyman a therapist, two therapists ago, insisted she was hiding from. Though his theory was rooted in sure enough soil, he was wrong. And she, as a small girl with an even smaller vocabulary who was terrified her father would always find out what she was saying, just never had it within her to correct him.

If she had been able to tell him, though, she'd have told him that there was no bogeyman. (She never bought into those old wives' tales, anyway. The monsters that haunted her childhood dreams were all very real people.)

There were no dark, mysterious figures lingering in the corner of her eye.

It truly was just the sight of herself that she was avoiding.

The art of self-dissection is one that comes naturally to Rory.

It's as simple as breathing, or sleeping, or ignoring the hunger that was always lingering in her stomach, never fully satiated by her strict diet (nor helped by her tendency to throw up when things get too out of her control.)

They -- a collective term for a series of tutors, etiquette coaches, actual coaches, and her parents -- made sure that it was on the list of her ever-growing set of skills. Slotted between a fluency in French and a capacity to hold her breath for a few minutes underwater, the ability to hate nearly everything about herself exists, a nagging voice in the back of her mind, without anything to keep it in check.

So, when she gets weighed by her doctors she looks anywhere by the scale.

When she gets a test back from a teacher, she just puts it in her bag without even checking the grade.

And, when she sees her mother's face staring back at her in every single mirror she looks into--

(Yeah, time management could go on her resume, too. Cramming a twenty-minute long hygiene routine into ten minutes in the dark is not an easy task.)

Julie doesn't stir as Rory rushes about their hotel room, more tornado than girl, at five in the morning. She snores as the brunette gets ready in the dark, an unmoving lump in the bed across the room as Rory, with a clean face and clean teeth, puts on some sweatpants and grabs a copy of their room key.

She pauses before she leaves, her hand on the doorknob.

They don't have to be up for practice until nine, so she figures that the blonde can sleep in. If she sleeps too much, Rory can always come get her.

But is it rude to leave Julie all on her own? Is it safe?

She realizes, vaguely, that she's only had to share a space with someone she's liked once. The thought, serving as a reminder of an old friend, makes her frown.

Reminding herself that Julie, on the other hand, is one of five children and would be fine (happy, even) with a few hours alone, Rory leaves their room with the intention of hunting down whatever gym the hotel has. Her father would never let them send her to a hotel that didn't have the correct facilities for her to maintain her morning workout regimen, and the idea is that, if she keeps up with her schedule, the next few weeks will go by easily. No matter the outcome of this competition.

Though that idea withers away and, for the second time this morning, she finds herself stopping short as Kenny meets her gaze from across the hall.

"Hey," He whispers as he rubs his eyes, "couldn't sleep?"

Rory points to the side awkwardly, "Oh, no, I was..."

"Me neither." He flashes her a smile that makes her smile, albeit pathetically, back. "Dwayne, Luis, and I were gonna go get breakfast, wanna come?"

"Uh, sure." Her mouth says before her mind can catch up.

She follows him down the hall before she can think about it, her hands in fists at her side, and silently beats herself up for not going to the gym.

The dining area of the hotel is quaint. A few tables with buffet trays and a few more for people to eat at. The whole room reeks of a typical breakfast -- eggs, bacon, and cloying maple syrup -- but there seems to be more food than there are people to eat it. Aside from Dwayne, who animatedly talks as he shovels bacon into his mouth, and Luis, who is barely awake as he pokes at his plate, there are only a few stragglers.

Kenny fills his plate with all sorts of things and tells her about the Olympics. She nods along and takes her much meager pick of toast and eggs.

"I don't even know what he was thinking. Me? Play hockey?" He complains in a quiet voice as they cross the room. "Skating isn't even remotely similar."

"It's not that hard." Rory shrugs. She isn't the greatest player by any means but she wouldn't consider hockey the hardest thing she's ever done.

"Says our lady of nepotism."

Tightness pulls at her features.

He's making a joke, She reminds herself, fingers gripping the edge of her plate so hard that porcelain threatens to crack under her fingers, it's just a joke.

"Mornin'!" Dwayne greets them with the same exuberance he was using with Luis. "Sleep well?"

Kenny mumbles something and Rory hesitates.

He's speaking with food in his mouth.

He's speaking with food in his mouth and she is the only person here even remotely startled by that.

The reminder that she is so far removed from them hits her in the face.

"What?" The former ice skater, noticing her uncertainty, tilts his head up at her. "Do you want me to pull your chair out or something?"

Another joke completely lost on a girl who finds herself, most often, even when she's speaking to kids just like her, not well-liked and unwanted.

"No! That's not-- I don't--"

"Then sit." Kenny gestures to the empty chair next to him with a smile.

To save herself any more embarrassment, she sits.

"I could've pulled your chair out for you if that's what was botherin' you." Dwayne's eyebrows pinch together, slightly, and he frowns as he stares at her from across the table.

"It's alright, Dwayne. Really. Just forget it... please."

The kind cowboy nods slowly. When she manages to smile at him, he returns the gesture.

"Anyway, to answer your question, I didn't." She tears off a bite-sized piece of toast and then, before any of them can make jokes about feather pillows or silk sheets, she continues. "Julie snores."

"So does Dwayne." Luis huffs, face squished against his fist.

An offended noise gets caught in the back of Dwayne's throat. Rory smiles a little more genuinely.

"Dean, too." Kenny offers in an attempt at being helpful.

All he manages to do is bring chaos down upon them, though, because the enforcer who, at only a year older and a foot taller than most of them, terrorized them all yesterday appears out of thin air. He drops unceremoniously into the empty seat on her other side and startles Luis awake with a heavy clap on the shoulder.

"What do I do?"

Rory chews on her bite of toast and stares at him through narrowed eyes as the boys blink at him.

Dean is completely undeterred by the new, awkward silence. He shovels food into his face like a man starved and Rory, who is all too aware of the position she's in right now, struggles with every fiber of her being to not say something and come across as some uppity, classist bitch.

"You snore..."

"Hm?"

She sits up a little straighter as Kenny sinks back into his seat. "We were talking about how we slept last night, and Kenny says you snore."

"Oh. Well, the little man is right." He shrugs and grins. "Funny thing coming from you, though."

The moment in which Rory had remarked to herself that the two of them might be able to get along was a fleeting one.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just mean that, y'know, of course, you'd be critical of someone else."

"Why don't you leave her be, Dean? She didn't do nothin' to you."

Dwayne's defense, while appreciated, goes ignored.

"How rich are you?" Dean pushes, leaning toward her.

Kenny mumbles dude, what the hell under his breath as Rory throws all caution to the wind.

"I don't think you'd be able to understand."

She, quite frankly, doesn't know what to do with him.

Rich businessmen? They're all the same. Socialite housewives? She can play them like a fiddle.

Their minute changes in facial expression, and their body language, and their passive aggression are all easy to read.

But teenage boys?

Correction: teenage boys in the vein of Dean Portman?

She can't figure out whether or not he's joking with her or wants to fight.

Dean smirks. "Try me."

"My house has fifty beds and thirty baths." She says, her mouth moving faster than her brain yet again, with the driest voice and flattest expression she can manage. "My butler chews my food for me like a bird, and I blow my nose with hundred dollar bills, and my carpets are all mink."

Luis snorts as she waits (somewhat) patiently for Dean's response.

Almost immediately, the smile is on his face again. "I like you-- even if you're a priss."

Her eye twitches.

"I can't say the feeling is mutual."

Dean just shrugs and goes back to eating, and the boys eventually start talking again.

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Upon entering the rink, they're handed a stack of clothing. A practice jersey, either red or blue, and then an equally patriotic sweatsuit. Rory stares at all of it with an upturned nose, transfixed by a horror that only a girl who had been baptized in a specially made Givenchy dress could feel, until Julie, in an amused tone, tells her that they've got to get a move on. The two of them enter together but get separated as Connie Moreau grabs the blonde's forearm and Lester Averman waves Rory over to him, a grin on his face as she waves back and approaches him.

"Hey." He says when she's within earshot.

"Hey," She smiles and then glances at the floor, the words rushing out of her before she can stop them, "I did some research last night."

Averman balks, slightly, and lifts a brow, but the smile never leaves his face. "Research?"

"Yeah, the, uh, hotel is right by the library and I couldn't help myself... But I found a few old newspapers and you guys suck."

"Oh."

"You've only won one regional, and you couldn't even qualify last year because your coach was in the AHL."

"I think he's our coach, now, actually." His voice is thick with mirth, even though she knows that she's been digging herself into a deeper hole.

"I'm sorry, it's just that all of you guys make up the majority of the team, and-- I'm really, really nervous right now, just ignore me."

"No, no, it's okay, really." Lester grins again. "It isn't every day that the prettiest person you've ever met insults you, all your friends, and your every accomplishment first thing in the morning."

Rory winces.

"But you're right. I'm not entirely sure how we got here, either."

She wants to tell him that this isn't really her. That, while her mouth is moving, her father's words are coming out. But, she can't. Her voice just keeps getting caught in her throat.

"I'm sorry." Is all she can say. "I'm really sorry."

Before Lester, whose brows have pinched together, can say anything, their coach arrives. Bombay is also dressed in patriotic colors and he carries a loop of rope on his arm.

He blows his whistle "Alright, alright. Settle down, everyone." When their attention is on him, he puts his hands on his hips. "I noticed a lot of animosity yesterday and, if we're going to take home a win for the US, we can't have that. So, I've come up with an exercise that might get you guys into the right headspace."

And, if Don Tibbles hadn't neglected to tell the Myrtles that his pet coach was (to put it kindly) unorthodox, Rory wouldn't have been so shocked when Gordon Bombay revealed that his idea of a bonding exercise was tying his team up.

Stuck between the only other girls on the team, Goldberg and Averman wedged on either side of her, she ponders over her existence as sweat gathers at her brow. She's the granddaughter of the man who helped put the Detroit Red Wings on the map and then retired to start one of the most formidable companies this sport has seen, and her father, his only son, is now the head of said company. Theoretically, Rory is worth a lot of money. She's worth a lot of money, and she could be anywhere in the world right now-- sitting in at a board meeting so her father can pretend he's teaching her, playing chess with her grandfather in their den, or, even, visiting her mother in Dubai or Ibiza or wherever she is right now.

She could be anywhere in the world doing anything else but, instead, she's tied to a bunch of kids she barely even knows.

"This is more crowded than a truckload of goats." Dwayne whines.

(Is this hazing? This feels like hazing, the kind of stuff that the charming boys of Delta Kappa did to her cousin when he went to Yale.)

Wait -- A truckload of goats?

"Somebody better watch their hands." Julie hisses through her teeth, throwing back an elbow as she looks around for her culprit.

(Did her grandfather or father have to do this kind of thing when they were setting records?)

If any one of these kids touches her, she's going to get Tibbles and Bombay and this whole stupid organization tied up in so much litigation--

"Yuck! Somebody licked me!"

"I smell something."

Rory's nose wrinkles as the scent hits her, and she groans as everyone starts to shout at Goldberg.

"It wasn't me!"

"No, it was me!" Dean admits, lifting his arms and laughing triumphantly.

Everyone bursts into an argument and she jabs Goldberg in the side for stepping on her foot. Bombay blows his whistle again.

"I don't know how to make this any clearer." He puts his hands on his hips. "You're a team, and to win this thing, you have to work as one. Now, as one, skate."

Rory just wipes the sweat from her brow. "I think I'm gonna cry."

The people on the edge of the group start to move, but all in different directions, and, before she knows it, she's being dragged to the floor with the rest of them. She falls backward, the blow cushioned slightly by someone else's body, and Averman falls on top of her.

"Everyone goes their own way, everyone falls down. Now get up and try again."

(Who the hell is this man? What hole did he crawl out of? What nightmare book did he learn to be a coach from?)

The boy, his face red as his hair, scrambles to get off her and then smiles down at her. Awkwardly.

"Hi, again... Are you okay?" Rory tilts her head up at him, trying to ignore the way her tailbone aches from the impact.

"I'm peachy, your highness-- just can't believe I fell for you, and your gracious people skills, all over again."

She rolls her eyes, the smallest of smiles pulling at her lips as she takes the hand Averman offers to her.

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"Alright, all of you move to your right. Now."

They're over an hour into this, now, and are not making any ground. Fulton and Dean, still holding onto grudges from yesterday, have turned this into a contest over who's the biggest, scariest enforcer of the bunch. Rory stretches her neck to relieve some of her tension and keep herself from saying something that she doesn't mean.

"Who made you boss? Everyone to the left!"

Who made either one of you the boss? She asks herself, staring up at the harsh lights on the ceiling.

If she closes her eyes hard enough she can pretend she's on a beach or something.

With pre-existing loyalties and fear both clouding their judgment, everyone on either side of Rory moves in opposite directions.

Again.

She makes an off sound as the rope digs into her gut and drags her down with them.

Again.

Adam Banks pulls Rory to her feet and she, with frustration bubbling in her veins like molten hot lava, rounds on the two boys who are still on the floor.

"Neither of you is in charge."

Dean narrows his eyes, "Why? 'Cause you are?"

"Nobody is." She throws her arms up, exasperated, and tries not to think about kicking him in the balls with the toe of her skate. "You're not. I'm not. Hell, I'm not even sure he is."

Bombay blinks at her when she points to him.

(He doesn't know what to do with that.)

"So, just shove your feelings down and get on with it, because I'm so sick of being tied to you people... No offense."

Adam shrugs his shoulders with a smile as if to say she's forgiven.

Dean mutters something more about her being prudish but Fulton, after staring at her oddly for a few quiet moments, shrugs, too, and then starts to push himself off the floor.

"Thank you." She flashes a dazzling smile and curtsies slightly.

When she turns back to everyone else, they are all looking at her.

"Well, let's, uh, try again." She makes a gesture.

Averman stares at her as the rest of them get a move on, smiling, until Connie nudges him.

"Good job, Rory." Bombay clears his throat, his hands still on his hips like he's doing something. "But, refrain from questioning my leadership, would you?"

Rory nods. "Yes, sir."

He holds her gaze a moment too long.

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"Now you're learning! Communication! That's it!"

Rory revels in the feeling of ice moving underneath her skates as they, in one mass, finally start to move.

"Good. Together. Move together. Charge! Alright!"

"Right turn!" Someone says. "Turn right."

The words are echoed through the whole group and, soon enough, everyone's turning.

"Yeah, that's it! That's it! Alright!"

Glee thrums through her at the thought that she might have done something good for the team.

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"You guys are starting to look like hockey players. I'm proud of you, team." Bombay loops the rope around his arm. They all take a knee in front of him, watching as he paces back and forth, this smile on his face. "You worked hard today. But, hockey should also be fun."

That makes Rory pause. Her lips turn down at the edges, her brows furrow, and she stares up at the man like he's speaking a language she doesn't understand.

Fun(!?!?!?)

Hockey isn't fun. Hockey is... business. It's an heirloom that her mother didn't want for her and her father all but shoved down her throat. Strict regimens, and diets, and athletic trainers who make her cry.

Fun shouldn't ever be used in the same sentence as hockey.

"Rancher Dwayne."

"Yes, sir?"

"Round me up some stray cattle there."

Still confused, Rory blinks.

Everyone around her rushes to their feet but she stays there, her knee digging into the ice, just waiting for things to make sense.

Averman grabs her hand and pulls her to her feet. "C'mon!"

"What are we doing?"

"Running from Dwayne!" He says as if it's the most simple thing.

Her face screws up as she watches him skate away. Rory isn't drawn out of her thoughts until the rope is looped around her and Dwayne gives a hearty enough tug that she's dragged a few feet back toward him.

"You didn't even run."

She gives a nervous, tittering laugh. "I don't know what's going on."

"Oh, well, that's alright."

Dwayne skates off, leaving her to stand off to the side and watch the team skate around. They're all smiling, their laughter and jovial shouts echoing throughout the rink.

It's like nothing she's ever seen before.

Averman, the second person to get caught, comes to stand next to her.

"My father would lose his mind if he saw this." Rory murmurs, more to herself than to him, and brushes a stray hair from her face.

"In, like, a good way or a bad way?"

"Hey, look, your boy Conway's the last one left. I would've bet on Luis--"

"Rory, in a good way or a bad way?"

Though she looks him in the eye, she doesn't oblige him with a clear answer.

After their game of tag(?), Dwayne decides that he's going to teach them all a dance.

Tries being the keyword.

With their gear and their skates, line dance footwork isn't exactly simple, so most of them end up doing their own thing. Rory, however, tries her best even if this kind of dancing hasn't ever been her thing -- on the ice or off.

"You've got it, darlin!" Dwayne encourages, his voice light and giggly.

"No, I don't!" She shouts back with a huff.

The two of them are met with scattered laughter but her foot slides slightly from underneath her when she tries to do one of her steps. Adam and Averman grab her by the arms, and they put her back on her feet.

"What? Didn't they teach you to dance at cake eater school?" Jesse teases.

"Uh, they did, actually. Ballroom dance! But, my partner got expelled from the school for, like, peeing in balloons and throwing them at the staff, so my dad made me drop the class."

"You are... a really interesting person, Rory."

Rory cringes in on herself as Adam claps her on the back.

"I'm going to run into traffic."

"No, you're fine!" The blond reassures her. "They like you, I promise. They wouldn't call you a cake eater otherwise."

Her nose wrinkles as she looks at him. "Isn't that mockery, though?"

Adam pauses.

"Yeah, well, it's the good kind. The family kind."

(Rory doesn't tell him that her family's version of mockery is nothing good.)

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After practice, with Adam's home phone number in her pocket and a plan to meet up at Connie's house later for a sleepover, Rory takes it upon herself to explore the Twin Cities a bit. She goes to the library again for another hour or so, busying herself with a book about Minnesota history, before she finds herself in a quaint little dining car. She gets sat in a booth at the back of the car and orders a sandwich, sipping at a glass of cold water as she waits. Her eyes drift up to one of the overhead televisions.

She reads the closed captions as a reporter gives the stage to another, then paparazzi footage of her father and his lawyer flashes across the screen.

It's just about business, a vague mention of her and the competition and how it all ties in, but she chews restlessly on her straw as footage of her gets thrown in, too. She's so consumed by thoughts of her impending doom that she doesn't notice the person who enters the diner, exchanges a joke with the blonde woman working behind the counter, and then makes a beeline straight for her.

Not until he's standing in front of her, at least. "Hey, you're a hard lady to find."

Rory's gaze flickers to Lester Averman. He pushes his glasses up his face and grins.

"Hi. You were searching for me?"

"Mhm. I checked the hotel, but Julie said you weren't there, so then I had to take a bus all the way back..." He waves a hand dismissively and then points to the seat across from her. "Is this seat taken?"

She shakes her head with a small smile. "Oh, no. Go ahead."

He slides in with a little effort (his hip hits the edge of the table and the items on the surface rattle, which makes his face flush bright red as he issues an apology to the disgruntled man sitting next to them at the counter) and drops his bag onto the floor next to hers. After a few seconds of silence, he follows her gaze, which has returned to the television.

"So, that's your dad..."

"Yep." She sighs, drumming her fingertips against the tabletop. "That's him, alright. Oliver Myrtle. Internationally renowned CEO, one-time Stanley Cup winner, and, also, my father, I guess."

Averman chooses to ignore the tone of that comment and tilts his head. "He's older than I thought he'd be."

The corner of her lip tilts up and she breathes a short laugh.

"He, uh, lived a full life before having children."

"So," Averman faces her again, and holds her attention, "what's it like? Being... you... I mean."

Rory averts her gaze to her hands. "It's... Look, I don't want to say something and come across as ungrateful for everything I have--"

"Rory, chill, really. I asked so you can tell."

She heaves a sigh and fidgets in her seat.

"It's cool, I guess? I've seen, like, so much of the world, and I've learned so much, and I have more money at my disposal than I know what to do with."

"I'm sensing a 'but.'"

"But it's lonely," She nods for confirmation, "I am so very lonely."

"Can't you just buy yourself friends?" It's an innocent question.

"That's way harder than you think it is. You said that rich kids are mean? Yeah, well, kids richer than what you think is rich are downright cruel." Rory punctuates her words with a sip of water. "My dad can buy me loads of things-- books, clothes, and even a horse, once-- but he never could convince kids to pretend to like me."

Averman stares at her, listening intently, and rests his chin on his fist. "Is it because you insult them first thing in the morning?"

She ignores that.

"There was this one girl, though. We met at hockey camp and we spent, like, an entire summer just fooling around together, but then her dad saw who my dad was." Rory fiddles with the old, woven bracelet around her wrist pensively. "He used to play for the Oilers and there was existing beef there, I guess, but my dad didn't seem to know who he was... Not that he really pays attention to the general public, anyway."

She takes a deep breath when she's finished. They both wait a beat.

"Sorry. That was... a lot of information. I've been told I talk a lot when I'm nervous."

"That's alright." He shrugs, smiling warmly. "I can take it. I want to take it-- even the nitty gritty, depressing details of your life."

"I don't know, I've already messed up so much today."

"No, hey, I like it when you talk."

"I hope you know that, where I come from, people asking you to talk about yourself freely isn't a good thing. My father has, likely, felt this disturbance in the universe and is calling my hotel room right now."

Lester laughs and sits back in his chair. "Well, you already know I'm a loser."

Rory cringes at the reminder of her former transgression.

"But, uh, my parents are both high school teachers, I have two brothers, and I once got the tip of my tongue stuck to a pole because Jesse dared me to."

She snorts. "Really? Because of a dare?"

"Oh, that's another thing. I'm not very smart."

Rory shakes her head, an action that's more fond than not.

"See. In order for this to work, we have to share information."

"'This'?" She gestures between the two of them. "What's this?"

"It's whatever you want it to be."

He winks and she rolls her eyes. As her food gets to the table, the hostess comes to give him a menu.

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a/n:

the ducks when rory

comments and votes are super appreciated! they let me know that you guys like my writing and I cannot stress how much they motivate me to continue! thank you