“Speaking of your friends,” my father broke in, “how is that young lady you were seeing?”
“Bella?” I smiled. Because it was easy to smile when thinking of her. “It’s just casual, Dad. But Bella’s great. I see a lot of her.” Because she’s the team manager, and on a personal mission to make me drink less. And good luck with that.
“There’s a girl who knows a lot about hockey,” Dad said.
“Damned straight.” It wasn’t until I picked up my third beer and drained it that I realized which words I’d used to agree with him. Jesus. Paging Dr. Freud.
My mother reached across the table to grab my hand. “Mike, why don’t you invite Johnny Rikker out for dinner with us on Saturday?”
“Naw,” I said. “He’ll be with his own people, probably. That’s nice, though, Mom.”
She frowned at me. “Aren’t the two of you still friends?”
Another carefully choreographed shrug. “He’s in a different house. Does anyone know where the men’s is?” I asked. “Excuse me a minute.”
I needed a time out. So I found the bathroom, where classical guitar music was playing over a sound system. And I took my time. On the return trip, I spotted our waiter at the table. He was executing that upscale restaurant maneuver of pushing in my empty chair and refolding my napkin. I held back an extra second to make sure he was clear of the place before I came back.
When I pulled out my chair, something fluttered to the floor. Reaching down, I closed my fingers around a slip of paper.
Later, when I’d freed myself of my family and retired to my room to drink alone, I inspected it. Alex, he’d printed on it. Followed by a phone number. I crumpled it into a tiny pill-sized thing, and threw it in the trash.
— Rikker
I didn’t go home to my grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving, because I didn’t have a ride up to Vermont. If I were a smarter man, I’d make the effort to figure out who else at Harkness lived near Burlington. There was a bus route, but the bus company somehow turned the four-hour trip into an eight-hour tour of New England’s major highways.
Even though Gran was disappointed, it didn’t make sense to travel for sixteen hours round-trip when I had just two days off.
For Thanksgiving Day, Coach invited everyone who was stuck in town over to his home for supper. I made myself go, even though I wasn’t feeling it. Bella had taken the train to New York to see her parents. Without her as a buffer, dinner at Coach’s house sounded like a long few hours.
But it was fine. This time, the social lubricants were copious platters of food and a smorgasbord of football on the big screen in the den.
Coach’s wife was a smiling woman who seemed to enjoy watching a dozen giant college guys help themselves to seconds and thirds. “That’s what catering is for,” she said when I apologized for our collective appetite.
“You’re a smart lady,” I said, dropping another dollop of garlic mashed potatoes onto my plate.
“I’ve been a coach’s wife for thirty-five years,” she said, sipping her wine. “You learn a thing or two. Did you try the cranberry stuffing? I think it’s excellent.”
Coach’s wife was a solid eight on the Rikker Scale, I decided.
McHerrin Hall was as still as a tomb that weekend. I got a lot of studying done in all that silence. When Saturday night finally rolled around, I was ready to hit the ice. With my duffel over my shoulder, I was just opening the ice level door when I heard a shriek, and the sound of someone calling my name.
“Johnny Rikker! Stop right there, young man.” I turned around to see Graham’s mother trotting down the ramp to catch me.
“Hey, Mrs. G! It’s good to see you.” I let the rink door fall closed again, and she tackled me in a hug.
“You are enormous! Look at you!” She actually reached up to ruffle my hair. “You sat at my kitchen table eating Oreos maybe fifty pounds ago!”
“Are you telling me I’ve gotten fat?” I teased.
I glanced at Graham, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. This little reunion was making him deeply uncomfortable. So I moved away from the door, and he ghosted behind me, slipping into the rink without comment.
“Are you coming to Michigan for Christmas?” Mrs. G. asked.
“Probably not. My Grandmother’s getting older, and I like to spend time with her when I can.” That was all true. Although, it was also true that unless I started showing an interest in women, my parents were happy to keep up the pretense that I was just too busy on the East Coast to come home.
“She’s lucky to have you,” Graham’s mom said. “Very lucky.” There was a firmness to the statement that left me wondering how much of my story was common knowledge back in Michigan. One bonus of my exile was that I never had to listen to the gossip about myself.
Mrs. G. was still beaming at me, and it was easy to smile back. I’d always loved Graham’s mom. In fact, I was pretty sure that if it had been Graham instead of me who accidentally ended up coming out of the closet, that she would have taken it all in stride.
But I guess we’d never know.
“I’d better get in there,” I told her.
“Play safe,” she said, grabbing me for a hug. “And don’t be a stranger.”
Aw. She used to say exactly the same thing before our ninth grade games. Over her shoulder, I saw Bella coming down the ramp. And her keen eyes were taking in the scene of Graham’s mother hugging me. Uh oh. I stepped back and put my hand on the door. “Sure is good seeing you.” Then I opened it and slipped inside.
Before the door closed, I heard Bella say, “Hi, Mrs. Graham.”
“Bella, Sweetie!” was the last thing I heard before the door fell closed.
As I tossed my duffel onto the bench, I did a double-take. The whiteboard over my locker area had been changed. Instead of Rikker, it now read FAGGOT.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Leaving it there, I tossed my jacket onto the hook. Jerking the zipper to my duffel open, I had to remind myself to breath. In. Out. In. Out. It was just a slur from some coward. It was middle school stuff, really.
“Hey, Rikker!” Bella’s voice advanced on me from behind. “I didn’t know you knew…” Abruptly she broke off. “What the fuck?”
At her outburst, I felt Hartley’s attention swing in our direction. Which probably meant that everyone in the room would be staring in about two point five seconds.
Fanfuckingtastic.
“Oh, hell no,” Hartley said. He stepped right onto my end of our bench, his pads in my face. With his fingers, he scrubbed away the lettering. “What asshole wants to tell me this was his idea of a joke?” Hartley turned, looking around the room.
Nobody spoke up. Shocker.
“Just leave it alone,” I muttered, pulling my chest padding over my head.
“No,” Hartley argued, hopping down, red-faced. “We’re not saying that shit in here. This room is a jackass free zone.”
The thing was, nobody had actually said it out loud. That would take actual courage. And I’d learned a long time ago that you had to choose your goddamn battles. “It’s just a word,” I grunted. “The only time I really don’t want to hear it is from a bunch of guys chasing me with baseball bats.”
There came a loud crash from the corner. When I turned to look, Graham was busy gathering up the armful of gear that he’d dropped. And then he seemed to abandon it all and turn away, speed-walking through the doorway leading toward the toilets.
Breathe, I coached myself. In. Out. In. Out. There was still a lot of gearing up to be done. So I got busy with the pads and the socks. When I’d almost finished, Bella reappeared in front of me. “Coach wants to see you,” she said softly.
“Oh fuck no,” I groaned, wanting to kill her for making a federal case about this. I stepped around her and headed for the hallway.
Coach was sitting on the end of his own desk when I walked in. “Sit down a second,” he said.
I dropped my ass in a chair and wa
ited.
“Sorry about that bullshit in the locker room,” he said.
I put up two hands. “Let’s not blow it out of proportion.”
He shrugged. “Chickenshit move, right? I only told Bella to let me know if it happened again.”
“Works for me.” I felt my shoulders relax.
“Unfortunately, there’s something else we need to talk about. There’s a reporter at the Connecticut Standard who’s sniffing around. She’s figured out that it’s pretty unusual to see a transfer approved to another Division One school. She wants the story.”
“Oh, Holy…” I stopped myself from cursing in front of Coach. But I would rather find “faggot” written on my forehead than talk to a reporter. “What happens if I just say no?”
Coach chewed on his lip before answering. “If you turn down the interview, let’s call it a twenty-five percent chance that the story just goes away. But if she’s any damned good, she’ll call Saint B's and ask them what happened. She might find someone who feels like weaving the tale. And then you’re letting the other side tell it.”
I let that sink in. Rock? Let me introduce you to Hard Place.
“…And if we keep winning, and I think we will, ESPN will be asking the same questions pretty soon. It’s unfortunate, son. But the media lives for this shit.”
“So what are you telling me to do? I’ll do whatever you say.” And I would, too. “I mean, you didn’t sign up for any of this shit.”
He grinned. “Actually, I think I did. It’s the price of doing business with you, kid. You keep feeding Hartley those lamp-lighters, and they can cover you on Good Morning America if they want.”
I groaned. “No they can’t. I don’t want to be that guy. I just want to play hockey.”
“I know that,” he chuckled. “Not everybody wants to be an activist. But you don’t have to come off that way. You can just meet the nice lady and tell her the boring version. You lost your place on the team because a coach broke the new regulation. A couple of lawyers argued about it, and the ACAA agreed with your petition. End of story.”
The way he put it was nice and casual. Coming from Coach’s mouth, it didn’t sound like daytime television. Still… I’d rather not talk to any reporters. Ever.
“Think about it,” Coach said, standing up. “We can stall a couple of days, because it’s a holiday weekend, you know? Now I need you out there skating.”
“Will do.”
I went back to the locker room and hurried to suit up. Coach gathered everyone else to talk strategy. Alone in the locker room, I took another look at my whiteboard, which was now blank, except for smudges. I took a second to wipe it down. And then, with Hartley’s marker, I wrote “YOUR AD HERE” in the space.
There is nothing like a hockey game to clear your mind. You can’t skate that hard while stewing over your life. It just isn’t possible. When I’m on the ice, every particle of my consciousness is taken up by the essential activities of breathing, pushing hard and watching that little black rubber disc.
One thing did not escape my notice, though. Graham played a hard-ass defensive game. He was everywhere tonight, slamming the enemy into the boards when they had the puck, and tripping them when they tried to get away. Since coming to Harkness, I’d been surprised by just how aggressive he was during games. Tonight you could argue that he was a little too aggressive. By the end of the second quarter, he’d already drawn penalties for both hooking and slashing.
He skated angry. He skated as if he had something to prove.
Don’t we all.
— Graham
We tied the game. Believe it or not, that was progress. Last year we’d lost to that team twice.
In the locker room, I sat down on the bench and peeled off my sweaty pads. My contribution was dubious tonight, because I couldn’t stay out of the sin bin. When the other team turned up the heat, I got a little crazy. I dug deep and I hit hard, and I wasn’t subtle about it. I drew three two-minute penalties, which was two more than Coach had liked.
“A bulldozer uses more finesse,” Coach barked at me the second time I forced the team to fend off a power play.
“I’m trying,” I said. But it wasn’t really accurate. The two days with my parents — and all their well-intentioned questions — had made me crazy. I’d spent the past forty-eight hours feeling raw and transparent. So I was already a little nuts before that slur on Rikker’s whiteboard freaked me out. And just when I thought I couldn’t take any more drama, he had to go and make that crack about guys with baseball bats.
I’m not proud of what happened next.
The room had just become too claustrophobic for me to take. I’d tried to zone out a little, to relax. But it was no good. That awful day was five years ago. More, actually. But whenever something jogged me back to that ugly moment, I could always feel the pounding feet and the shouting, right down to my guts. And there was no fighting it. So I’d walked into a bathroom stall and puked, covering the sound with a flush of the toilet.
Pussy of the Year, right here, people. Just engrave my name on the fricking trophy.
By the time we got out on the ice, I was angry enough at myself that it helped me get my mojo back. Tonight, a couple of guys on the opposing team would be icing their ribs, thanks to me. But this was hockey, not intramural Frisbee. They basically had it coming just for showing up.
Of course, now I felt pretty busted up, too.
I stowed my helmet and gloves. It was time to shower, but I was feeling too wrecked to do anything about it. I skated hard during the overtime period, but we couldn’t sink one. So our win song wasn’t blasting tonight. It was quiet enough to hear all the conversations going on around me.
“Whatcha up to tonight?” Bella asked Rikker and Hartley.
“Eh,” Rikker said. “I was trying to decide whether or not to dress up for the Drag Ball.”
There was an awkward silence, while everyone tried to decide if he was serious.
Only Bella laughed. “Very funny.”
“Right?” Rikker grinned. “My night is going to be a bag of Doritos and catching up on Sports Center. And I should probably order a set of wiper blades for my grandmother’s truck. She always buys the wrong size.”
Hartley slapped him on the shoulder. “Capri’s first?”
“I can probably fit it in.”
“Don’t spend too much primping, boys,” Bella prodded. “I’m starving. Graham, you coming to Capri’s?”
“Maybe,” I said, my voice hoarse from growling at the competition all night. I wasn’t feeling social, and was therefore on the fence about Capri’s. But at least it would give me an excuse to say goodbye to my parents. They were on a morning flight out tomorrow.
And I was starved, too. Because when you freak out and then puke up your dinner, that happens.
The ambiance of Capri’s was reassuring to my jangled nerves. There was something about the same old sticky floor and the familiar thirty-minute wait for a pie that soothed a guy. The beer flowed, and the music was loud enough so that nobody really noticed that I said barely a word to anyone.
A few slices of pizza evened me out enough that I could focus on getting my buzz on. Bella kept refilling my beer glass, because she was under the mistaken impression that I wouldn’t be able to get the job done on Capri’s piss-water. But whenever she got up to refill a pitcher or stroke one of my teammates’ asses, I took a nip from the flask in my pocket.
Since most of the student body was still away for Thanksgiving, the team had Capri’s to ourselves. That meant that I didn’t even have to decide whether or not I should try to hook up. The pickings were so slim that nobody would wonder why I didn’t bother. Just sitting there like a lump in that booth, breathing in my teammates’ chatter, was as close to peaceful as my life ever got these days.
Fast forward three hours or so, and I’d drunk the last of the Johnnie Walker in my pocket. Across the room, Bella was busy putting the moves on Frenchie, and so she wasn’t going to no
tice my stagger.
That was my cue to go home.
With a half a wave to Hartley, I angled my tired body out the back door. I stopped to pee on the nearest secret society, as usual. The cold air was just what I needed. But even so, my drunk-guy homing device was flickering a bit. Instead of heading home, I just stood there awhile, holding up the granite wall with my shoulders. The whiskey was hitting me hard, and I needed some time to collect myself.
Across the street, I saw Rikker emerge from Capri’s. He walked quickly up the sidewalk in front of me, as if in a terrible hurry. A second later, I saw why. A girl came flying out too, tapping quickly in her heels to catch up. She hauled herself toward him, calling out to him. I was too far away (or too drunk) to make out what they were saying. But I didn’t need to hear the conversation to understand. She was performing a pantomime entitled: Take Me Home Tonight. And Rikker was doing his best “no thank you.”
Pure comedy.
They drifted closer to me, Rikker removing her hands from his ass as politely as possible. I laughed aloud then. And Rikker turned toward the sound, startled. “You’re not his type,” I slurred. “Never will be.”
The girl’s eyes popped wide. She was drunk, too. But nowhere near as drunk as I was. And now she was offended, too.
Whoops.
“I mean, girls aren’t his type,” I clarified.
She looked at Rikker, and then back at me. And then at Rikker again. “So you weren’t kidding about that.”
Rikker just sighed, looking irritated at both of us.
“He can pass for straight, can’t he?” I laughed. “Some guys hide it well.” Like me, for example. Not that it was easy. Lately I spent all my waking hours just trying to keep the cracks in my deflector shields from splitting apart.
“I’m outie,” the girl said. She’d had enough of Rikker’s rejection, and enough of my drunk philosophizing. Crossing her arms, she spun on her heel and walked away.
“Go home, Graham,” Rikker said. He looked ready to do the same.
“You first.” All the laughing I’d done had made me dizzy. I needed another little rest before I could make it to Beaumont.