The Understatement of the Year, Page 2

  It’s not that I expected a warm welcome from him. Five years ago, he’d made it very clear that we were no longer friends. Or anything else. And it didn’t take a genius to see that Graham had decided that he was a straight guy now. Or at least deep in the closet.

  So he was probably shitting bricks right now, wondering if I’d start any conversations with, “Guess what Graham tried out in high school?” But I would never do that. Last year at Saint B's, I’d been outed against my will, and it had been awful. Nobody deserved that. I’d never tell tales on Graham, because if I did, I’d just be sinking to their level.

  He wouldn’t know that, though. And seeing me was probably a huge shock. I just hoped that Graham could pull himself together enough to at least shake my hand. Or it was going to be a really long year.

  Someone had added a note to my white board. “Capri’s Pizza, 7 PM,” it read. It was signed, “H.”

  Huh. That could be read either as an invitation or an order.

  Stick with your captain, Coach had said.

  Okay, then. I would.

  Changing on the fly: the substitution of players between the ice and the bench while the clock is running.

  — Graham

  We were sitting at Capri’s with the first pitchers of the season in front of us. Most of the team was crammed into four or five of the little old booths. And the first pizza order of the year had gone in about half an hour ago.

  This was my favorite spot in the world, and with all my favorite people. I should have been relaxed.

  I wasn’t. Not even a little.

  My first glass of beer lasted about twenty seconds. Bella noticed, and promptly refilled it.

  “You know, you’re a natural at this manager thing,” I said, looping my arm over her shoulders. “I can see that now.”

  “Of course I am,” she said, lifting her own glass. “What do you have going on for the weekend?”

  It was still that glorious early part of the semester, when nobody had any studying to do yet. “The usual. Tonight I really need to get wasted. And laid.”

  “For you, it should really just be all one word. Because that’s how you roll.” She tipped her head toward mine, her eyes smiling. “You’re going to get… laisted. Because that sounds better than waid.”

  “If you say so.” I pulled her closer to me, and tried to relax. But I felt as if a concrete block had been parked on my chest.

  More beer to the rescue. I tipped my glass back and drank deep.

  “We need a new win song for this year,” Hartley was saying. “What do you got?”

  “‘After Midnight,’” I said quickly, just to get a rise out of Bella.

  “No fucking way,” she said immediately. “Clapton may be a living legend, but the man did not write win songs. I think we should use ‘What the Hell.’” Bella wiggled her hips to try to get a little more room on the bench. The booth was a tight fit. But that was okay. Because we were tight, Bella and I. It was fair to say that she was my best friend.

  “That’s a good song,” Hartley said, because he was like that — always so fucking diplomatic. “But I’m thinking the win song should probably be by an artist who has a dick.”

  Bella snorted. “You know how much I enjoy dicks, Captain. But ‘What the Hell’ is a great song. Even if it is by a girl.”

  “‘Can’t Hold Us,’” somebody threw in.

  “We’ve worn out Macklemore,” Bella argued. “But I’ll take it under advisement.”

  “What, like you’re picking?” Hartley asked, refilling her beer.

  “I have keys to the AV system in the locker room. I’m really just pretending to consider your suggestions here.”

  Like I said before, the power was going to her head.

  “How about ‘“Timber?’” Hartley nudged Bella. “Pitbull and Kesha. Something for everyone.”

  “Not bad, Captain. Not bad.”

  The loudspeaker cracked. “Forty-two! Forty-two, your pies are ready.”

  “That’s us!” Bella cheered. She grabbed the ticket off the table and wiggled away from me. I gave her ass a pinch as she went. “Don’t just fondle me, chump,” she said, standing beside the table with a hand on her hip. “Do I look like I could carry two pies by myself?”

  “You do, actually,” I said, sliding out to follow her. “But I’ll help. Save our seats,” I called over my shoulder. We wove through the crowd toward the ratty old counter in back. The Capri brothers, in their trademark sweat-stained white T-shirts, were slamming pizza trays down and collecting tickets.

  Bella flashed her killer smile, and one of them found our order right away. “Ooh!” she said, grabbing one of the pies, her chin lifting toward the door. “Here comes the tasty new guy. Rikker.”

  My stomach dropped right into my shoes. Because I thought I’d have at least tonight to get used to the idea that the worst moments of my life had come back to haunt me. But I wasn’t even going to get that. He was striding toward us, wearing a faded Vermont sweatshirt and shorts that showed off his muscular…

  Mayday. Eject!

  “You get the plates,” I told Bella, grabbing the pizza out of her hands. Because looking my problems in the eye was not the way I rolled.

  What a fucking disaster. By which I meant me.

  — Rikker

  Capri’s Pizza was a hole in the wall. But it was the good kind — with oak paneling everywhere, and old wooden tables that had been varnished a few thousand times. There were names carved into every visible surface, and the smell of slightly stale beer hung in the air.

  Harkness College — even the dodgier parts — gave off the aura of having been around for centuries. Because it had. I loved that about the place. I’d only been here for a week, but I already appreciated its fortitude. I liked knowing that I was just one tiny cog in the wheels of its long history. It made all my troubles feel smaller.

  Passing through the front room, I didn’t see any hockey players. As I made it toward the back, I realized that Capri’s was kind of a rabbit warren. There were two other rooms veering away from the service counter. But I could call off the search. Because Graham and the curly-haired manager chick had just lifted a couple of pizzas from the counter. Even though his face was in profile, I’d know it anywhere.

  Once upon a time, I’d touched every inch of that face.

  The girl raised her free hand in a wave, saying something over her shoulder to Graham. And I swear to God, his body locked up when he heard her. His eyes flicked in my direction for a split second. And then his back was to me. He relieved Bella of her pizza and made a beeline into another of the cave-like rooms.

  My first thought was, Fuck, I shouldn’t have come.

  But screw that. Because if I shouldn’t have come to Capri’s, then I shouldn’t have come to Harkness. I could just spend my life hiding under the bed. Lord knows there were people in the world that wished I would. I didn’t come here to stake a claim, or to make a point. I came here to play hockey and to live my goddamn life. So that’s what I should do. And Michael Graham could just fuck off if he didn’t like it.

  As I finished this thought, Bella came closer, a big grin on her face. “You came! We’re in there…” she nodded toward the left. Then she grabbed some paper plates and napkins off a table. Leaning over the service counter, she called out. “Hey, Tony! A glass for my new friend please.” She reached up and patted my chest possessively.

  Tony flipped us a plastic glass, which I caught it before it slid off the counter. “Have a good night,” he said. And then he actually winked at me as I turned to follow her.

  Bella grabbed the front pocket of my Vermont sweatshirt and actually pulled me through the din of the most crowded room, toward a table where Graham sat in a booth, across from Hartley.

  Ugh. I had no idea this would be so cozy. In fact, there was nowhere for me to sit. For a second there I felt like it was seventh grade all over again, and I didn’t know where to sit in class.

  That’s how I met Graham
— seventh grade Spanish. We were the two runts in the back row with terrible gringo accents and no friends. The teacher always made the class pair up to practice dialogue. Graham and I were partners.

  Hola, Miguel.

  Hola, Juan.

  Te gusta jugar el futbol?

  Sí, me gusta jugar el futbol.

  The early days of middle school had been awkward. But this? So much worse.

  “I’ll sit on Graham’s lap,” Bella suggested, grabbing a slice of pizza off the tray.

  “Naw, let me find a chair,” I said, turning quickly into the crowd. And lo, by the grace of God, I found one in front of an ancient pay phone. Setting the chair at the end of their booth gave me some much-needed distance. Bella sat on the end, boxing Graham into the corner. Bella’s hand found its way onto my knee about two seconds after I sat down.

  Someone filled my glass. “Have a slice?” Hartley offered.

  “Thanks, I already ate,” I said quickly. But I sucked back some of the beer. It was pretty wimpy stuff, but I’ll bet the price was right.

  “Tell us about your transfer,” Bella prompted while the others dug in. “You said you’d tell it over beers.”

  Right. Too soon. “Well,” I hedged. The thing was, I’d told people I was gay many, many times. I was actually pretty good at it. But you don’t say it when you’re all trapped at a table. You have to drop the bomb when your victims are free to walk away from you. Because even the people who are going to turn right back around and be there for you often need a minute to digest the idea.

  And the fact that Graham was sitting three feet away, staring at his slice of pizza as if it might reveal the secrets of the universe, made this a particularly bad time. I didn’t want to look vulnerable in front of him. I’d tried that before in my life, and it ended badly. Very badly.

  “Thing is, I haven’t had enough beer yet to tell it.”

  “There you go with the buildup again,” Bella said, nibbling on a slice.

  “Yeah? Well my stories don’t usually disappoint.” That was a bit of pointless bravado. But it was probably true.

  I happened to glance toward Graham then. And even in the low light of the pizza place, I saw him freeze. And I realized just how far a little smack talk about stories I might tell would freak him out. I hadn’t meant it like that. But the effect on him was instant and powerful. His jaw went hard and his fist clenched on the table.

  Easy, boy. “Tell me about the practice schedule,” I said to change the topic.

  Hartley obliged, explaining the afternoon routine, including weight room, dry land training and ice time.

  In the corner, Graham drained his glass and then emptied the pitcher into it.

  I pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of my back pocket and put it on the table. “I’ll buy the next round.”

  “I’ll go get it,” Bella said, sliding out of the booth.

  “No,” Graham said quickly. “I will.” It was the first time I’d heard his voice in five years. Without a glance at either one of us, he slid that muscular body out of the booth, stepped around Bella and my chair, and headed for the counter.

  He left my twenty on the table.

  “So you’re a sophomore,” Bella said, her fingers sliding into my hair.

  This was three beers later. I’d been occupying myself at a different table for a while, chatting with the goalies. But Bella had found me, and she was stepping up her game. I needed a strategy for discouraging her. And fast.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, shifting in my chair to buy myself a little more space. But that didn’t stop her. Because she just leaned in closer. “I should be a junior. But I took a post-grad year to play on the US development team.”

  “Sweet,” one of the goalies said.

  “Sweet,” Bella whispered, her fingers wandering down my ribcage.

  It’s not like she was the first girl to ever hit on me. But I had to tread carefully, because I was going to see a lot of Bella this season. And she was a great girl. Smart, fun, and obviously a huge hockey fan. She had all the right stuff. She just didn’t have all the right stuff for me.

  I took Bella’s hand and stood up. “Can you come with me for a minute? I could use your help with something.”

  One of the goalies gave an amused snort as I led her away, toward the dark little alcove where the old pay phone was. She came with me, chin up, a happy look on her face. I got the feeling that Bella never did anything for the benefit of the way it looked to others. She gave off a vibe of being 100 percent genuine, all the time. I could think of a few people who could stand to take lessons from her. Like maybe Graham.

  The second we stepped into the relative privacy of the little space, she put her hands on my waist. “What did you need?” she asked, a grin playing at her lips.

  I caught her prowling fingers in mine. One at a time, I kissed her hands, which made her beam. “Listen, Bella. There’s something I need to tell you, and probably the team, too. Somehow. Because it’s going to get out.” Her face took on a more serious expression, but she didn’t look away. The calm look in her blue eyes gave me the courage to keep talking. “The truth is that I like dick just as much as you do. Maybe even more.”

  Now, I’d had a certain amount of practice at delivering this news to people. It never got easy. Yet by this point, I’d seen every possible reaction to it. Bella looked momentarily confused, as people often do. But then I could almost see the synapses firing behind her eyes. Then her lips twitched. And finally, she tipped her head back and laughed. “Oh my God. You’re serious aren’t you?”

  I was still holding her hands, and I gave them both a squeeze. “Would I lie about a thing like that?”

  Bella took her hands back, but only to reach up to cup my face. “You are adorable. And honestly, I don’t know why this hasn’t happened sooner.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Rikker, hockey players are hot. The hottest. And it’s weird that other hockey players never noticed that before. Now I have to worry that you’re going to cut in on my action.”

  I let out a bark of surprised laughter. “Somehow I think you’ll be okay.”

  “Also, this is going to mess up a near perfect streak for me.”

  “Whenever you streak, I’m sure it’s perfect,” I quipped.

  She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to throw me compliments. I’m a big girl.” She stood back, folding her arms. “Does this have anything to do with leaving Saint B's?”

  “Hell yes. When word about me got, um, out, Coach lost his shit and threw me off the team.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Why? That’s against the ACAA rules.”

  “Ding, ding! That’s how I got here. My uncle is a lawyer. He wanted to sue Saint B's, but I asked him to tackle the transfer rules instead.”

  She blinked up at me. “You’d rather play more hockey than stand in a courtroom.”

  “Exactly.”

  Bella gave my arm a little punch. “I knew I liked you. And Coach James knows this story?”

  “Of course. When my uncle started calling other teams for me, he told them right off why I’d been kicked off Saint B's. And today I dropped this little bomb on Hartley, too.”

  “Okay, let me think…” she looked up at the ceiling. “Coach isn’t a judgmental guy. He likes to win, and he likes single malt scotch. In that order. So I can see him taking you on. And Hartley likes everybody, so that’s easy. How can I help?”

  See? I knew this girl was awesome. “All I need is advice. I used to think that I could keep my private life private. But that blew up in my face last year. There’s probably somebody on the Harkness team that’s pals with someone at Saint B's, right?”

  Bella nodded. “So this will get out.”

  “So to speak.”

  “Right. And maybe you’d rather that the team heard it from you, and not the rumor mill.”

  “It’s a good idea in principal. But I don’t have a strategy.”

  She made another thoughtful face. “If you made
a big announcement, that would imply that this is a big deal. And you don’t want it to be a big deal.”

  I wasn’t sure I had a choice in the matter. But even after a few beers, Bella was proving herself to be very perceptive. “That’s exactly right.”

  “Telling people one at a time would be more casual.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “Except these aren’t people I’ve ever met.” Except for one. And he already knows.

  She chewed her lip. “Yeah, in the movies, the athlete wins the big game, right? And then he cries at the press conference and reveals to the world that he’s gay.” She put a hand over her heart. “And the team is, like, ‘we love you just the way you are!’”

  “I’m pretty sure that movie hasn’t been made yet.”

  She crossed her arms. “I’m just pointing out that being the new guy makes this harder.”

  “You think?”

  She gave me another playful punch. But then her face became serious. “Maybe it’s something that ought to come from their manager.”

  That was a generous offer, with one major flaw. When you’re the queer guy in the locker room, it’s a bad idea to ever show fear. “I can’t make it to look like I was too afraid to tell them myself.”

  “It wouldn’t. Because the message they need to hear isn’t that Rikker likes dudes. The message they need to hear is that, by the way, Rikker was forced to leave the Saint B's team because he is gay. But at Harkness, that’s no concern of ours.”

  Well, damn. That did sound smart.

  “…And, if anybody has a problem with that, feel free to talk to Coach. Or play a different sport.”

  I put my hands on her shoulders. “Manager, you are a genius. And a total babe.”

  “New Guy, I know that already,” she said. “Both things.” And then she moved closer to me, stood up on her tiptoes, and kissed me. And it wasn’t just a peck. She took her time, molding her lips to mine, drawing it out. She nibbled my bottom lip. And I kissed her back, at least up to a point. Because just standing there like a statue seemed like an asshole thing to do.

  Finally, she stood back. “That,” she said, “was because I have a reputation to uphold.”