The Understatement of the Year (6 page)

We cheered, of course. We always did. On other nights like this one, I’d breathed in every word Coach said. The last two seasons, I’d stood here taking in his wisdom as gospel. But tonight I felt as though I stood on the edges of my life, looking in.

That’s what a weeklong anxiety attack will do to a person.

“Listen up!” Coach squinted at his notes. “‘It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.’” Coach smiled at us. “‘The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming. And who, if he fails, at least fails while
daring
greatly
, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat!’”

There was more cheering then. And Hartley put two fingers up to his lips and whistled.

“Now, boys,” Coach continued. “I don’t love failure. I fucking hate it. But what Teddy meant was that you have to embrace the fact that failure exists, or you will never find greatness. The man wrote a long fucking sentence which really means — go big, or go home!” At that, he raised his glass again, and we all drank whatever we had.

My stomach rolled with discomfort. Again. Because I wasn’t feeling the love. Every shitty thing I’d ever done in my life had just caught up to me.

Check, please
. It was time for me to sneak out.

First, I headed toward the bathroom to take a leak before walking home. As I wove through the house, I got a little distracted by an oblique glimpse of Bella in the study. She was standing in front of Frenchie, her hands on his chest. She was rubbing him gently, and talking a mile a minute. And he was gaping at her like she was a vision from heaven. Good God, she was working him over. The kid wouldn’t know what hit him.

Lost in half a smirk, I didn’t look where I was going. Which is the only way I could have ended up shoulder-checking Johnny Rikker as he came out of the bathroom.

“Jesus,” he swore, grabbing the doorframe to keep his balance.

The word “sorry” got trapped in my throat as I realized who it was. And I leapt back, away from his body. But not before the shock of getting so close to him sunk in. The face I’d been ducking all week frowned up at me. I was taller than he was, I realized. When we were fifteen, we’d been the same height.

It had made kissing him really easy.

No doubt the look on my face now was one of total horror, since that had been my default expression since the moment he’d walked into the locker room a week ago.

He studied me for a second, his expression darkening. A hand rose to rub his pectoral where I’d slammed into him the moment before. Then he seemed to pull himself together, lifting an eyebrow tauntingly. “Was that good for you?”

I only stood there, mute, and choking on my own stupidity.

A second later he dropped his gaze and passed me, heading for the front of the house. I watched him go. Because I could not look away.

—
October
—

Shadow
: Covering an opponent closely, limiting his effectiveness.

—
Rikker

I walked to the hockey weight room through a fine autumn afternoon, admiring the decorative old architecture. After four weeks, I’d learned the campus pretty well, and figured out a lot of that new guy stuff that you have to learn. The dining halls had Pepsi products. The graduate school libraries were open later than the undergrad ones. You didn’t need quarters for the laundry, because they took credit cards.

Also, I tried not to get depressed about always being the new guy.

People passed me in twos and threes, chatting together. The transfer student is an awkward thing to be. Friendships have already formed. Allegiances made. I was going to be separate for a while. An outsider.

I was already used to it.

At the gym, I got busy sharing a squat rack with Trevi. He was another forward with curly dark hair and a nice smile. (Though he was obviously as straight as a ruler.)

I put Trevi at a solid six on the Rikker scale. That was my private rating for how tolerant my teammates were of me. Trevi had earned his six by always looking me in the eye, and acting friendly enough when we found ourselves standing next to one another at Capri’s or using the same piece of weight room equipment.

But he’d never started a conversation with me. Not once. It was as if volunteering anything about himself would be taking it too far — as if the other dudes might start to wonder, you know?

That was life in the locker room.

“You’re up,” Trevi said, stepping aside to stretch.

I maneuvered myself beneath the barbell and hoisted it onto my shoulders. Then I took a good step backward, stuck out my ass and squatted. The first three reps were okay, but numbers four and five nearly killed me.

When I’d finally parked the barbell back onto its holders and turned around, Trevi was massaging his own shoulder with one hand. He’d done that a lot this afternoon. “That bothering you?” I asked him.

“It’s just a big knot,” he shrugged. “But it’s going on two days now. Stubborn bitch.”

“Huh,” I looked around the weight room. “Do you know if they have any tennis balls around here? I know a trick.”

“Yeah? Hang on. It’s gettin’ to the point where I’ll try anything.”

I stretched my quads until he came back with a hard rubber ball. “Will this work?”

“Sure.” I took it from him. “Now sit down on that bench.” That’s when I saw the slightest hesitation. Maybe Trevi didn’t realize that I’d actually have to
touch
his shoulder. And now he wondered whether it was worth it. “It won’t make you queer,” I joked.

His expression turned sheepish, and he sat down on the bench. The best thing to do would be to probe his shoulder with my fingers, looking for the knot. But I knew he’d be happier if I kept my hands off him. “Point to the spot,” I said. He reached two fingers back, digging them into the muscle. “Okay,” I said, putting the tennis ball there. When he took his hand away, I began to press. “Right there?” I asked, putting some weight behind the ball.

“Yeah. A little higher?”

I adjusted the ball a fraction of a centimeter, and put even more weight behind it.

“Christ,” he grunted.

“I know. But it works. In fact, it will still work even if you cry like a little girl right now.”

He chuffed out a laugh.

“Drop your head, and just try to relax. It takes a couple of minutes for your muscle to stop fighting back.”

“‘Kay,” he said.

Pressing the ball into his muscle, I glanced around the busy room. Hartley and Orson were doing split squats against the windows. Those were the two players who rated highest on the Rikker scale. Orson was a solid eight. I always found him easy to talk to. And Hartley was a nine. That dude
worked
to include me, and never even seemed to notice he was doing it. In fact, he could earn himself a ten. But I was saving room on the Rikker scale. Maybe I’m a tough grader, but I hoped that the unlikely day would come when somebody actually told me that they were glad I showed up to play hockey here.

After those two, there were a couple of sevens, and a handful of sixes, like Trevi.

Graham was in the opposite corner, his big legs visible on either side of a press bench. He was a zero on the Rikker scale. I’d been at Harkness a month, and he still hadn’t looked me in the eye, except by accident.

His avoidance both weirded me out and made me angry. Unfortunately, I hadn’t handled it well. Instead of ignoring him, I’d begun trying to provoke him, just to try to get a reaction. Any reaction.

It started the day he’d crashed into me at Coach’s house. I don’t even know why I’d thrown down that ridiculous comment.
Was that good for you?
Cheesy, much? But even though I’d said something patently ridiculous, he reacted as if I’d threatened his life. He went pale and shrunk back.

I wasn’t proud of it, but I’d tortured him a few other times, too. He just made it so damn easy. Last week, we’d come face to face in the hallway here at the rink. There was nobody else around. I didn’t say anything, I only blew him a kiss. And I got the same horrified expression all over again. Lately he’d been circling the perimeter of the dressing room just to avoid me.

But I was always aware of him. When he walked into a room, I felt him, like a change in the air pressure. Just an oblique glimpse of him was all it took to put me on high alert. I didn’t want to be so sensitive to him. It’s just that I didn’t know how to stop. We’d been so close all those years ago. My subconscious just couldn’t get over the idea that we weren’t anymore.

His laugh was the hardest thing to bear. If he were across the room talking to Bella or a couple of buddies, sometimes I would hear him laugh. And the low sound of his quiet chuckle always crushed me.

I
used to love to make him laugh. And I didn’t know how to quit listening for it.

“Wow,” Trevi said, turning his head. “That’s trippy.”

“What?” I asked, shaking off my reverie. “Did you feel it release?” I eased up on the tennis ball that I’d forgotten I was holding. I chanced putting my fist against his body instead, probing for a knot. But I didn’t find one.

“Yeah. Damn.” He rolled his shoulder a couple of times. “It’s so much better. Awesome.” He stood up and turned around. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.” I handed him the ball. “If the knot comes back, you can try it by yourself, trapping the ball between you and the wall. But it’s hard to get the angle just right.”

He held up his hand for a high five, and I met it. “Thanks, man. Seriously. I’m going to hit the treadmills. You coming?’”

“Sure.” Maybe Trevi would graduate from a six to a seven on the Rikker scale. As they said of football, mine was a war that would be won by inches.

I followed him into the cardio room, where I wouldn’t have to look at Graham.

—
Graham

“Yo, Graham. Aren’t you going to spot me?”

“Sure. Of course.” I hopped over to stand behind Smitty’s head, bracing my hands underneath the barbell. God, I’d been zoning out.
Again
.

“So what do you think of our defensive lineup?” Smitty asked just before hefting the bar off the rack. He was a sophomore blueliner. A defenseman, like me.

What did I think? I only wished I
could
think. My head was a frickin’ mess. I hadn’t slept a full night since Rikker had sauntered into the locker room. Bella had begun showing up in my room first thing in the morning, rolling me out of bed and looking for empty bottles.

It didn’t stop me from drinking. But it did make me better at hiding the evidence.

“Um,” I said to Smitty. Because lately nothing came out of my mouth right on the first try. “I think we’re pretty solid. The French kids work well together. I’ll bet Coach puts them on the same line.”

Beneath me, Smitty grunted in agreement. For the next ninety seconds, I focused all my attention on the barbell in my hands, and on my teammate’s straining face below me. I could at least do that, right? I could pay attention long enough to avoid
killing
Smitty with my negligence.

After six reps, Smitty’s shaking arms set the bar back onto the rack, and it was my turn again. I sat back down on the bench. As I lay back, I caught a glimpse of Rikker joking with Trevi. He never smiled like that when he looked at me. And why would he?

Rikker’s anger at me was a physical, tangible thing. Every time he leveled me with a glance, my brain short-circuited. And the more often I saw him, the stupider I acted. Obviously, talking to him was the only possible solution. And it’s not like I never considered the idea. I gave it lots of consideration every night from about midnight until 2 a.m. But how do you start that conversation?
I’m sorry you took a beating for me. And I’m sorry I was too afraid to ever speak to you again
.

It would be impossible to explain it, because no plausible explanation existed. Fear wasn’t a good enough reason to do what I’d done.

The only thing that seemed to help me sleep, even a little, was Scotch whiskey. And thank God for that. When I was barely sixteen, and going through hell after our incident in the alleyway, I didn’t even have alcohol to soften the blow.

After Rikker disappeared from my high school and my life, it took me a long time to process what had happened. Before that awful day, naiveté had made me far too content. I’d never realized just how dangerous it was to be with Rikker. I knew we could never tell anyone. That went without saying. But I’d never been forced to witness what would happen if people knew. I hadn’t understood the sheer
repulsion
that I’d somehow earned by loving another boy.

It was the look of disgust on our attackers’ faces that did me in. “Sick fags,” they’d said.