Talia hated losing when she was the Jackalopes' starting thaumaturge.
Now that she's basically chained to the benchpen, she hates losing even more.
At least her head isn't pounding like it was even a week ago, though.
Right after the Dulcet game, the other Jackalope jockeys are all busy loading up their tubs into several burgundy eighteen wheelers, which will transport them back to Jupiter. Talia tries to pat her little brother on the back, but he barely seems to notice. He trundles over to Excalibur, shaking his head resignedly.
"I told Coach I'm no jockey." He says.
"You did your best." Talia says.
"My best is never good enough though, is it?" Artie shrugs, rolling off to load himself aboard the accessible ramp on their bus.
Talia doesn't really have a good answer for this.
She knows exactly how he feels.
Talia wanders off around Percival Moon Memorial Court. Slowly, as the night deepens, the Dulcet ground crew shuts off the floodlights, one by one, leaving the now strangely placid pool at the center of it all dark and abandoned.
But Talia isn't really interested in hobbling around in her crutches by the pool. No, she's more interested in exploring the outside structures of the court. She may hate the Dulcet Octopi with the fire of a thousand suns, which is almost a requirement for every Jackalope jockey, but she can't help loving parts of this place, particularly the open air Percival Moon Memorial Museum.
Tourneytub was partly invented here, after all.
Talia reaches the museum, which is essentially made up of a few tall stone blocks. This area has always reminded her a little bit of Stonehenge, but cleaner. More formal. Straighter angles. With the moon bouncing over the stone, filling the whole space with an eerie luminescence; nature's own floodlight. And on the blocks are pictures with little paragraphs beside them, outlining the development of the sport Talia loves so much. The sport that, now she can't play it, leaves what feels like a gigantic spear permanently stuck through her side.
Still, Talia keeps swinging her crutches along the pathway winding through the museum. All she hears is the click click click of her metal supports striking the carefully planned paving stones beneath her feet. Talia passes a block outlining the formation of the American Humor Pacification Brigade Alliance, featuring a faded picture of FDR signing the bill into law as part of the New Deal. She ignores this one, but a smooth block a few hundred paces away catches her eye.
It always manages to catch her eye. It's designed this way.
She hopes it will give her some inspiration. She could really use some right about now.
Talia sits down on the bench facing the block. She rests her crutches beside her and begins to stretch out her legs. She clasps her hands before her, twiddling her thumbs in the soft autumn breeze.
The block rising before her boasts a large picture of the man himself: Percival Moon, founder of the Dulcet Octopi, and Chairman of the Board when they wrote down the first rulebook for what would soon become tourneytub. It was Moon who realized the HPBs needed to be trained so they could better combat the blight of humors worldwide. It was Moon who came up with tourneytub to train them. The sport has come a long way since then, of course, but it still retains much of the roots he first grew into it, more than a hundred years ago.
Talia's mind slips back into the here and now. She tries to find some peace, but the frustrations of watching uselessly from the sidelines tonight as her team lost for the second time in a row is simply too much for her. Instead, she tries to focus on something simpler, like the way the real moon is shining over the portrait of Moon at this very moment. It makes his dark skin, so much like hers, shimmer in the brisk night. His dazzling smile stares down at her, inscrutable.
Of all the times Talia has visited the Percival Moon block here, this is without question the hardest.
Before, Moon's smile was a comfort. Now it's just become a taunt.
Talia suddenly has the brief but very intense urge to throw a rock at his face, but she doesn't want to get in even more trouble with the Atlas High School Tourneytub Association than she already is. The urge quickly passes.
Talia is grateful, but something in her chest still heaves.
She tries to ignore it.
"Hey," a tentative voice breaks through the shadows, "may I join you?"
Talia turns.
A gawky silhouette materializes from the gloom.
Peter hasn't been watching Talia for very long, but he's still able to recognize her own disappointment. It is a twin to his.
The way she slumps her shoulders. The way she keeps sighing. The way her eyes stretch up to gaze into the ageless visage of Percival Moon, as if to beg him for some sort of sign or forgiveness or encouragement or something, anything, to make it all feel better somehow. But nothing is going to make it all feel better. Both Talia and Peter know this. They also both know all either of them is going to get from Percival Moon tonight is that endless static smile.
Peter Donkersmit shivers in the starlight.
"We've got the tubs all loaded up in the trailers and we're ready to roll. The others are waiting for you on the bus." He says.
Talia nods in reply. Still, she doesn't make a move. Not yet. Somehow, Peter understands. He takes a seat on the bench beside her, stuffing his hands inside the comfortable front pocket of his well-loved hoodie. As usual, he almost disappears inside it.
Talia and Peter sit like this, together, in silence, for a few minutes.
Then Peter breaks it.
"I'm sorry." He says, his words barely above a whisper.
Talia's brown eyes finally show concern for someone other than herself. "Sorry for what?"
"f-f-For being me, I guess. For not being a good enough thaumaturge. I'm messing up the season so badly." Peter says.
"This was only the first official game. Hardly the whole season, Pete." Talia says. Though even she knows her words ring hollow.
"Still. This was supposed to be your banner year. You were supposed to lead the Jackalopes and be amazing and-"
"And then I screwed up. You don't have to remind me." Talia hangs her head, running her hands over her cornrows. It's easier than looking him in the eyes. The specter of Percival Moon still smiles down on her. Peter quickly rubs her arm, squeezing her shoulder. He's been friends with Artie for so long, at this point, Talia is basically his big sister too.
"No! That's not what I meant! Not at all! All I meant was, you're so much better at this- At thaumaturgy, than I could ever hope to be. I'm just sorry I'm disappointing everyone. Disappointing you." Peter says.
No sooner have these words escaped his mouth, Talia raises her head, faces him, grabs him fiercely by his own shoulders, and kisses him gently on top of his forehead.
"You have not disappointed me, Pete. At all. I disappointed myself. But that's on me. That's not on you. I'm not better than you. Not anymore. You are the best thaumaturge on this team. Today and tomorrow. So I never want to hear you put yourself down like that again, capiche?" Her eyes blaze, her own brow furrows. It's almost like she's back out on the court.
Peter nods dumbly. "Yes ma'am. Capiche." He doesn't know what else to say. He's still too overwhelmed by her words. They echo around in his head as he helps Talia walk with her crutches back to the Jupiter bus and trailer convoy.
For once, though, it's a good echo.
***
Photo courtesy of Amit Talwar on Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/@amit_8. Edited.