The Understatement of the Year (18 page)

“So you’re saying I should pray for some NFL player to get arrested for something.”

Coach laughed. “Yeah, but until one does, you need to call the Harkness press office and have a chat with them. They’re expecting you.”

“What for?”

“They’re going to work on answering some questions from the press. It’s either that or you’re doing a press conference.”

“…Or I’m changing my name and moving to Fiji.”

“Shitty hockey teams in Fiji, kid. Now write down this phone number.”

When I called the press office, I didn’t get the same young woman who had sat through the interview with me. It seemed I’d moved up the ranks to the head of the press office. “Call me Bob,” the guy said. “My question for you is this — would you rather sit down with ESPN or
Sports Illustrated
?”

“None of the above?”

Bob chuckled. “Now, that’s no fun. You have a chance to make a difference, Mr. Rikker. What if there’s another athlete somewhere, too afraid to tell his teammates the truth? What do you say to that guy?”

I’d say he’s not crazy. Because this was no fun.

“I don’t have anything new to add,” I pointed out. “I’m not going to talk about my personal life to a reporter. And the first reporter already printed everything I told her.”

“That’s not how it works,” Bob argued. “She didn’t print your conversation verbatim. So even if you say exactly the same things, the next reporter puts his own spin on it.”

But I didn’t want to be spun. “Sir, here’s the problem. Since I gave that interview, all my teammates were called ‘faggots’ to their faces by the Saint B’s team. And then I was ejected from a home game for punching one of my ex-teammates. How do think the press will spin that?”

There was a silence on the line. “Who saw this happen?”

“Like, a few hundred spectators.”

He actually cursed under his breath. “All right. Maybe we should wait on the interviews. We can do a personal statement instead. We’ve got to give them something, though. The beast is hungry, and it wants you.”

How encouraging
. “What’s a personal statement?”

“A letter, basically. ‘Dear journalists, I am humbled and overwhelmed by your interest in the story of my transfer. While I need to keep my focus on my game and my schoolwork at this time, I’d like to thank Coach James for his faith in me, and my teammates for their patience with their new teammate.’”

I stifled a snort.

“…Then you just recount what you told the
Connecticut Standard
. Just the facts. ‘The coach let me go. My uncle pointed out that it was against ACAA regulations. Coach James offered me a spot. The end.’”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“Great. Put some words on a page, and send me what you’ve got in an hour. We’ll help you work the kinks out of it, and then we’ll get this puppy out to all your new fans.”

I wrote down his email address and got the hell off that call. It was only after we hung up that I realized I’d let Bob from the press office assign me homework. Over Christmas break.

Shoot me.

By mid afternoon, it was all done. My new BFF Bob had edited my original two-pager to make it sound like it had been written by a happy-go-lucky boy scout. It had an “aw, shucks” quality to it that didn’t sound like me. But I wanted to be done with it, so I’d approved all but the stupidest of his changes and shut down my computer.

Downstairs, I found Gran rolling out Christmas cookies at the kitchen table. “When you’re famous, you’ll still remember the little people, won’t you John?” She peered over her glasses at me.

“If there are cookies, I think I can fit you into my busy schedule.” I helped myself to another cup of coffee. “You know, a cookie would go really well with this.”

“Check that batch in the oven, would you? I always burn at least one batch. If the phone keeps ringing, it could get ugly.”

“I’m sorry about this,” I said quickly. “I have a feeling that it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Maybe we should just let every call go to the machine. I just can’t answer the phone today.”

She waved a floury hand, dismissing the idea. “It’s mostly my friends who call on this line. It’s very exciting, really. Gertie saw it on Facebook already.”

“Gertie is on Facebook?” I opened the oven door. With Gran’s oven mitt, I slid the tray of cookies out of the oven and set them on the cooling rack. They looked done to me. So I scraped one off the sheet with the spatula, and then flipped the blazing hot thing into my mouth.

That was a mistake.

“Owrrh,” I yelped as my tongue got singed.

Gran watched this foolishness with one eyebrow cocked. “Should I be worried how you’re doing at that school for geniuses?”

And that made me laugh, which made me choke a little bit. I had to set down my coffee mug to get a grip on myself.

“It’s a good thing you’re handsome,” Gran said, turning back to her rolling pin. “At least you have that going for you.”

The phone rang again. Gran adjusted her glasses and peered at the caller ID. With a little sigh, she picked it up. “Good afternoon, Rebekkah.”

Uh oh
. My mother. I’d seen her name on my cell phone earlier, too. But I didn’t check to see if she’d left a voicemail. I couldn’t handle her today.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Gran said to her. “Why? Because I can hear in your voice that you’re not in the proper frame of mind to speak to him right now. It would be best if you could calm down first.” As I watched, Gran winced. “Why would you assume that the press coverage was his idea in the first place?” she asked. “You do not sound entirely sensible right now, my dear. I’m going to hang up now, and perhaps we can talk later, when you’re feeling more relaxed.” At that, Gran set the phone back into its cradle.

Her tone had been remarkably composed while she spoke to my mother. But now she was glaring at the phone as if hoping that lasers might shoot from her eyes and incinerate it.

“Gran?” I said lightly. “If there’s a chance that my parents won’t send me my Hallmark card this Christmas, I’ll carry on somehow.”

Her shoulders slumped. “That’s not funny, John.”

“It isn’t?” I was pretty sure it was. Because my parents had already done their worst to me. Now they were freaking out because I’d made the news, and their church friends would see it.

Whatever. Not my problem.

“It’s
sad
is what it is,” Gran said, turning around. “Because some day your mother is going to be an old woman. And old age has a way of stripping away the distractions, and making you see the big picture of your life. So she’ll be sitting alone in some nursing home asking herself ‘what have I done?’ And it will be too late for her to fix it.”

That did sound depressing. Except that Gran probably overestimated my mother. As an old lady, she would probably pat herself on the back for doing everything the Bible told her to. And she’d probably be feeling pretty smug about it.

Again, not my problem. As long as my parents still paid the portion of my school fees that financial aid did not cover, then I could live with their rejection. “Let’s just eat more cookies,” I suggested.

“Let’s,” Gran agreed.

Breakaway
: taking possession of the puck when there are no defenders other than the goalie in the way of the net.

—
Graham

As the plane taxied up to the airport, I took off my seatbelt.

I’m sure that Rikker would have bet any amount of money against me actually getting on a plane to Burlington. He’d probably been stunned when I’d texted him my flight information last week. Even now, he was probably in that airport wondering if I’d really show.

We may have known each other for a long time, but Rikker doesn’t really know how my fucked-up little brain works. I’m always looking for the loophole — for any way that I can get past all the rules I’d made for myself. And Vermont is the perfect loophole. Except for Rikker, I didn’t know a soul there. I bought my ticket with my personal credit card, and had my dad drop me off at the airport’s curb, so he’d never see my boarding passes.

The man hates to pay for parking. You can take that to the bank.

So here I was, shuffling down the narrow aisle to visit a state I’d never seen, and nobody but Rikker had a clue.

When I deplaned, I noticed that the Burlington airport was, if possible, even smaller than the one I’d left that morning in Grand Rapids. After passing two or three gates, I left the secure area toward baggage claim. I spotted him right away. He was wearing a flannel shirt over faded jeans, and leaning casually against a poster for rental cars. Damn, my heart skipped a beat just seeing his face.

Engage deflector shields
.

Before I reached Rikker, a big black dude stopped to talk to him. They shook hands as I approached. Rikker spotted me anyway, beckoning me over. “Hey! You made it.” I got the same handshake as the other guy. “This is Ross,” he said, indicating the bruiser standing beside him. The guy wore a “UVM Weightlifting” T-shirt and a duffel over one shoulder. He’d been on my connecting flight from Chicago, I think. “Ross,” Rikker continued, “this is my teammate, Mike.”

Mike
. I hadn’t heard Rikker call me that in years. Maybe never.

“Nice to meet you,” the big dude said. He had a goofy smile for such a mountain of a man. “You haven’t seen Skippy?” he asked, looking around.

Rikker shook his head. “But he’s never on time, right? The apology texts won’t even start rolling in for another ten minutes.”

Ross laughed. “Good point.”

“Got another bag?” Rikker nodded toward the luggage carousel.

“Nope. I’m good to go,” I said.

Rikker eyed the door. “Can we drop you somewhere, Ross?” There was something a little stiff about the way he said it, as if Rikker hoped he’d turn down the offer.

“Naw, I’m sure he’ll…” The guy didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Because a skinny, dark-haired streak ran up, leaping into Ross’s arms. The big man swayed for a second as his mouth was taken in a hard kiss, and his face grabbed in two long, skinny hands.

It took a great deal of effort not stare at the unlikely sight of two guys making out in the Burlington airport arrivals terminal.

“Jesus, get a room,” Rikker grumbled.

With an exaggerated groan of affection, the newcomer released Ross’s face. “Sorry, it’s been a long ten days.” The skinny guy turned with a smile and then tackled Rikker in a hug. “Damn!
You’re
looking good. Even better than in your press photography.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

The newcomer giggled. “We have you up on our refrigerator. The
Free Press
version.”

“
The Free Press
, too? Fuck. Is it cocktail hour yet?”

“Oh, Rikky. It’s
always
cocktail hour! In fact, tonight is guerrilla night at
Slate
. Are you coming?” He glanced at me, too. “And who’s your pretty friend?”

“This is my
teammate
, Mike. Mike, meet Skippy.”

I shook hands with Skippy, while Rikker chewed on his lip. “You know,” he said, “I’m not sure that guerrilla night is Mike’s scene. But we’ll make some plans and get back to you.”

“You should totally come! I’d talk you into it, but we have to scoot. I’m double parked.” Skinny Skippy grabbed the big guy’s hand and dragged him toward the door.

“Of course you are,” Rikker muttered.

“Text me!” Skippy called over his shoulder as they trotted off.

“He’s… colorful,” I said, following Rikker toward the exit.

“That he is,” Rikker said. “I’m parked just over there.” He pointed at an old red pickup truck just inside the garage.

I tossed my duffel onto the floor of the truck and climbed in. The engine started with a growl. “Nice ride,” I said.

“I love this old thing. My grandmother refuses to give it up, which is cool. Though I just hope she doesn’t fall out of it or anything.”

As he drove out of the airport, there was a silence between us, the kind that comes from having no clue how we were supposed to behave together. But five years of distance and a shit-ton of baggage will do that to a friendship.

A black Mini Cooper passed us, honking as it went. Rikker smiled and shook his head as they passed by.

“Who were those guys, anyway?” I asked.

“You just met my ex,” Rikker said.

Holy shit.
I revisited the airport in my mind, trying to place Rikker with one of those guys. “The big dude?”

He gave me half a grin. “Try door number two.”

“Seriously?” That wasn’t an easy image to reconcile. Skippy was everything Rikker was not — a scrawny, effeminate twink, basically.

Rikker chuckled. “You should see your face.”

“He just didn’t strike me as your type.”

“Because he’s such a flamer, right? It’s okay, you can say it. He wouldn’t even be offended. You have to get up pretty early in the morning to offend Skippy. That’s part of his charm. He doesn’t give a fuck what other people think.” He drove in silence for a minute. “The first time I met him, I thought, ‘who is this nut bar?’ But he grew on me.”