The Understatement of the Year (12 page)

Because my parents were going to
recognize
Rikker. And there was nothing to be done about it.

I took a deep breath. “Hey, you know what’s funny?” I asked, trying for casual. I’d gone back and forth all morning, trying to decide whether to say something today, or just let them notice him at the game. But I was afraid there would be some kind of loud Mom reaction — an ear splitting scream of surprise when she saw him. I was afraid to hear to hear her squealing, for all the world to hear, “Mike, why didn’t you
tell me
that Rikker was
on your team
?”

Anything but that.

“What’s funny?” my mom prompted me.

“You’ll never guess who turned up on the team this year. Remember Johnny Rikker?”

First, her eyes went wide. Then her mouth dropped open. And, unless I was mistaken, her eyes got wet. “Jesus, really?”

Okay. That was a more dramatic reaction than I’d hoped for. “Yeah.” I chased the last bit of pureed sweet potato around on my plate. But when I tried to eat it, my mouth was suddenly as dry as the Sahara.

“Wow, honey. I’d always wondered what happened to him. He just…vanished to his grandmother’s. I worried about him.”

My sister piped up. “You mean, because he got beat up and then kicked out for being gay?”

“Now that was just a rumor,” my mother admonished her.

But now I was quietly freaking out. Because I didn’t know my mother had ever heard a rumor like that.

“His family all but FedExed him to the Grandmother,” my father said, folding and refolding his napkin.

“So he’s okay?” my mother asked. “He’s doing well?”

I gave the world’s most casual shrug. “He’s a second line winger. Seems okay to me.”

“Well that’s…” my mother swallowed hard. “That’s just amazing. I always liked that boy. Such a sweetie, even though his mother was such a witch. And now you have your friend back.”

I didn’t have a response that would pass Mom’s finely-honed Bullshit Radar, so I said nothing at all.

“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 waited.

“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.