The Understatement of the Year

  Shit. “I’m pretty sure that was intentional,” I said, my voice low.

  “Wow.” There was a silence while Hartley did the math about why that might be. Graham would probably shoot me if he heard this conversation. But what was I supposed to say?

  When Hartley spoke again, what he said took me by surprise. “You want to grab a slice somewhere? I’m starved.”

  The invitation made my throat feel thick. Because I did, in fact, want to grab a slice with Hartley. But if we did that, he might ask me more questions. And I’d be tempted to answer them. And that was simply not allowed.

  I was feeling so raw, and totally friendless. “I didn’t really sleep last night,” I ground out. “I think I’ll have to take a rain check. Thanks, though.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Hartley held the gate open. When I walked through, he touched my shoulder. “See you at practice Monday.”

  “See you,” I grunted.

  I’d made it only a few paces when Hartley called after me. “Hey Rikker?”

  When I turned to look at him over my shoulder, he was smiling at me. “Awesome play last night. You know. Before…”

  The game, and our crazy combo goal, felt like a hundred years ago. But it had, indeed, been awesome. “It was, wasn’t it?”

  “The best.” He gave me a wave, and I crossed the street alone. Because that’s how I did everything.

  I let myself into McHerrin and trudged up the stairs. When I opened my room door and looked inside, what I saw was an empty little shithole with bare walls. And I was never going take down Skippy’s snowboarding picture to replace it with a shot of me and Graham on a beach somewhere. Even your classic bro shot — two guys holding cans of beer, with baseball caps on backwards — that would never be okay with Graham. Because one of the two visitors I had to my room in seven months might guess.

  Dropping my bag on the floor, I flopped down on the bed, alone with my bitter thoughts. Sleep would help, so I tried to make myself comfortable. It was nice for Graham that his mom had come running into town to take care of him. But I’d bet cash money that I was a better napping partner than she was.

  As I tried to fall asleep, another dark thought bothered me. It could have been me who sustained the concussion. And when I tried to flip the picture around in my mind, I didn’t like what I saw. Would my mom fly out to take care of me? Not hardly. And would Graham be willing to sit on the edge of my bed, asking me if I needed anything? Sure. Unless Hartley or Coach showed up to check on me. And then what would he do?

  I had a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer.

  In a few short weeks, the hockey postseason would be finished. I’d have my weekends free again. My teammates would use that time to go to parties with their girlfriends, or hang out with their buddies in the student center. And where would I be? Killing time until it was late enough to sneak into Graham’s room for a few hours, before I snuck out again before dawn.

  Graham was never going to budge from his closet. So my choice was to either leave him, or just get used to dining on the scraps he gave me.

  So pathetic.

  I rolled over, feeling sorry for both of us.

  The next two days sucked in much the same way.

  For almost forty-eight hours I’d heard nothing from Graham. My texts went unanswered. Just when I was really getting worried, he finally called me Monday afternoon as I was walking out of Spanish class.

  “Hey,” he said. “I only have a minute. My mom’s in the bathroom, but I just wanted to say hi.”

  “Hi,” I said, maybe a little testily. “How’s your big old melon?”

  “Hurts,” he said. “We just got back from the doctor, and there’s a whole lot of shit that I’m not supposed to do for a while. Like read.”

  “All right…” I tried to imagine getting through a week at Harkness without reading. “How’s that supposed to work?”

  “Exactly. This week Mom is coming to class with me to take notes.”

  “No shit?” I stopped walking just outside of the Harkness Commons dining hall to finish our conversation.

  “No shit. And I have no idea how long this will last. Shoot me.”

  “God, I’m sorry, G.” And I really was. The sound of his voice did something to me, too. It made me realize how badly I missed him. There was a reason I put up with the whole stealthy-like-a-ninja act. He was important to me, whether it was convenient or not. “Can I come over tonight?”

  He cleared his throat. “There’s a whole lot of things I’m not supposed to do.”

  “Okay. Is talking to me one of them?”

  “No,” he laughed.

  “I’ll text you before I come, just to make sure the coast is clear. But that means you’ll actually have to text me back.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “But it hurts when I look at the screen.”

  And now I felt like an ass. “Shit. Should I call instead?”

  “I’ll ring you when it’s all clear.”

  All clear. As if I was a criminal. Christ. “Be well, G. I miss you.”

  He cleared his throat. “Later.”

  Sigh.

  That afternoon I went to practice.

  I hadn’t seen any of my teammates since the weirdness at the hospital. For some reason I felt more awkward about walking into the locker room than I ever had before. I’d always wished that Graham could be with me in a way that wasn’t like a state secret. But I’d always understood his struggle, too. He didn’t want eyes on him. I got that.

  But now all those eyes were on me as I walked into the locker room. Or at least it felt like they were. I was pretty sure that a couple of conversations stopped as I entered the room.

  I didn’t even know what to think about that, other than I knew that Graham wouldn’t like it.

  Hartley greeted me with a familiar nod, and I began stripping out of my jacket and jeans, and pulling on my pads.

  “How is he?” Hartley asked in a voice too low to be overheard.

  “He feels better, but the news is still shitty,” I said. “There’s nothing he can do, and his mom is, like, his permanent nursemaid.”

  “Fuck,” Hartley said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. Although I would have chosen a different expression. Because fucking was off the table, apparently.

  The locker room door opened and Coach’s voice rang out. “Afternoon, hooligans! Listen up, I have news.” The chatter and smack talk died down. “Now, I’m sorry to tell you that Mike Graham’s concussion is going to keep him off the ice, probably for the rest of the season. I am sad as hell to lose him. Furthermore, Davis’s tendinitis is going to keep him out for another two games. But fear not! I have I brought you some back-up. For a limited engagement only, please welcome Bridger McCaulley back to the room.”

  “No shit!” somebody yelled. And then cheers and applause practically thundered off the walls as a red-haired guy appeared in the doorway, pulling a hockey bag behind him. He smiled a little sheepishly, this guy that I’d replaced in the fall.

  “Suit up fast, Bridger. Ice in ten minutes!” Coach yelled. “We’ll sort out who’s switching to defense this afternoon. Everybody skate hard, and it will all work out.”

  Hartley waved Bridger over, holding up a hand for a high-five. “Glad to see you here, man,” he said.

  “Yeah? We’ll see if you’re still glad ninety minutes from now,” Bridger said. He turned to me and stuck out a hand. “I’m Bridger. Nice to meet you.”

  “Rikker,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “I know,” he drawled. “Didn’t know I was going to be replaced by a celebrity.”

  “Yeah, well. It was my lifelong dream to be famous for getting kicked off a hockey team. But if you need an autograph or anything, I can probably fit you in.”

  Bridger grinned. Then he glanced around the locker room. “Hartley, where do you want to put me?”

  Right. I was in his spot. Whoops.

  “Over here, Bridge,” Bella called, waving the guy into the co
rner, where she was stuffing Bridger’s gear into a bag. “Sorry, we weren’t quite ready for you.”

  “No biggie.” He leaned down to unzip his bag, and I turned my back to shrug my chest pads over my head.

  “Hey!” Big-D crossed the room to slap Bridger on the back. “Please tell me you’re back permanently. Things just aren’t the same this year.”

  My blood pressure spiked. Only Big-D would find a compliment for Bridger which also managed to put me down.

  “You’re right,” Bridger said, shaking out his hockey shorts. “What’s different is that you win all the fucking time. But I promise not to wreck it too bad. You only get me for the post-season, anyway. Even playing a handful of games with you is more than I can afford. I’m going to owe my girlfriend for covering for me at home. Big time.”

  Big-D snorted. “There is no way that Bridger McCaulley just used the word ‘girlfriend’ in a sentence. We have to meet this girl. I need proof.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that a lot,” Bridger said.

  On his way back across the room, Big-D pointed at Trevi’s feet. “Dude, those socks are so gay.”

  Everybody looked at Trevi’s socks, even me. They were striped: blue and violet. “My sister knitted them for Christmas,” Trevi said, unconcerned.

  “Next time, tell her to…” Big-D cut himself off, putting one hand across his own mouth in an exaggerated gesture. “Oops,” he said, turning back to Bridger. “Forgot to warn you, man. We can’t make gay jokes anymore. Because some people might get offended.” This little performance was put on entirely to embarrass me. On a good day, Big-D didn’t go five minutes without using “gay” to describe anything that displeased him.

  “Naw,” I piped up. “You go ahead, Big-D. I don’t give a flying fuck if you say a pair of socks is gay. Or Smitty’s watch, or what-the-fuck-ever. There’s pretty much nothing you can say that will offend me. It only makes me wonder if you know what the word means.”

  There was silence in the locker room then.

  I should have just shut up, of course. But I was just too strung out to rein myself in. “…Because it would be pretty fuckin’ hard for a pair of socks or a watch to act gay. Those would have to be some really talented socks.” I made quotation marks with my fingers. “Gay does not mean bright colors. Gay means my mouth on another guy’s dick…”

  A loud groan of distress rose up in the locker room.

  “Check, please!” Trevi hollered. “No thank you for that visual.”

  Hartley gave me a nudge. “Cool it, will you? It’s time to skate.”

  Bending over, I yanked on my laces. Usually, I didn’t bait Big-D. And Graham would probably have a coronary if he’d heard what I’d said. But today I just felt so raw. The universe was fucking with me, and I felt like fighting back.

  Because that always works.

  I almost had my skates tied by the time Bella rolled the hockey bag full of Graham’s gear away from the lockers. Making eye contact with me, she pointed at it, asking if I’d take it to him. With a frown, I gave her a single shake of my head. God forbid I help out Graham by bringing him his gear. He’d have a second coronary, and while they were giving him the defibrillator, he’d ask me if there were any witnesses.

  “Let’s go, guys!” Bella called. “Ninety-six hours until the semifinals!”

  She was right. We had more games to win. And it was a bad idea to sit around feeling confused about Graham.

  Chippy: irritated with the other team, potentially on the brink of fighting.

  — Graham

  Note to self: do not ever get another fricking concussion.

  They told me that most of the pain would probably go away after a week. After that, I’d experience intermittent pain whenever I overdid it. And by “it” they meant everything you use either your brain or your eyes to do.

  But the pain wasn’t even the worst part. My clouded thinking was just freaky. Honestly, it felt like being drunk all the time. My reaction time was sluggish, and I couldn’t always process what people said to me. It frustrated the crap out of me.

  And while I’m on a roll here, I’d add that the doctor warned me that I’d feel emotional. Sure, dude, I thought. Whatever. But an hour later, when I couldn’t find the words to explain the Roman History syllabus to my mother, I honestly wanted to smash something. And after I got done feeling enraged, I felt really guilty about getting mad. So guilty that I felt like crying. And I haven’t cried for half a decade.

  Good times.

  My mother had been endlessly patient with me all day. Spending an hour at the doctor’s office meant that I’d missed my two morning classes. But after lunch, I made it to the history class. Actually, we made it to history class. Mom was going to have to help me with everything for a while, including note taking.

  After that, I napped like a toddler while my mother watched. Then Mom read me a couple of chapters of my psychology textbook. When I’d paged through the book to find where I’d left off, the words had seemed to swim on the page.

  I could tell you that it didn’t freak me out, but I’d be lying.

  For dinner, Mom and I went out for sushi. By the time eight o’clock came around, I was headachy and exhausted. My mother went back to her hotel, and I told her I was going to go to bed early.

  Instead, I left a message for Rikker. Then I put on a Clapton playlist and lay down on my bed to wait for him. But even the desk lamp seemed too bright. So I got up to turn it off. When I lay back down in the dark, I listened to every footstep on the stair, hoping it would be him.

  “Hey, G,” a voice whispered in the dark. A pair of slightly roughened hands skimmed my face. Then there were kisses dropped on my forehead. Two strong arms pulled me close. I wanted to hug him back, but I was too sleepy. The best I could do was to lean in close and breathe him in.

  Rikker.

  “I missed you today,” he purred. “And yesterday, too.” He stopped speaking for a moment, then. I think he was listening for a reaction from me. But a head-injured, half-asleep man is no good at returning affection.

  “Actually,” he continued as if we were having a real conversation, “you’re all I can think about.”

  Those words ought to have been comforting, but there was an edge in his voice that made me nervous.

  “See, I know that you and I don’t talk to each other at practice,” he said. “And sometimes that whole setup gets to me. Okay, a lot of the time. But it was weird for me today. You weren’t there at all, and I didn’t like it. I kept thinking of things I wanted to remember to tell you.”

  Rikker shifted further onto the bed, fitting me against him.

  “So, let’s see,” he said. “Bridger McCaulley came back, but only for the post-season. He’s a little rusty, but I think it’s going to be okay. He has pretty good footspeed. Actually, I think his feet are faster than his hands. If you were awake you could tell me if you think I’m right.”

  I pressed my achy head a little closer to his chest, to tell him I agreed. But I don’t think he caught my meaning.

  “Big-D was an ass. But I guess I don’t need to tell you that. And apparently Pepé broke up with his Canadian girlfriend again, so Bella was all over that. Also, she packed all your gear into a hockey bag. I think it ended up in Coach’s office…”

  Rikker trailed off. Maybe he was finishing the conversation inside his own head. But his hand made slow circles on my back, and it felt great.

  “This concussion thing sucks,” he said finally. “And I’ve been all depressed about it. I don’t like it that you’re hurting, and I don’t like it that I’m not allowed to help you.”

  You’re helping me right now, I wanted to say.

  “I’ve been thinking things through,” he said. “See, just like I know you can’t help being gay, I also know that you can’t help being twisted up over it. I never blamed you for that, G. I get it.”

  That was nice of him to say. But his sad tone made my heart stutter with fear.

  “I just
don’t know what to do with it, though,” he whispered. “I keep spinning my wheels, trying to come up with a solution.”

  My eyes, which were still slammed shut, began to burn. I tried to concentrate on the warmth of his body in all the places it touched me — under my cheek, against my shoulder. I knew there would come a day when I didn’t have him anymore. Pretty soon he’d get sick of my bullshit and leave me.

  Not yet, I begged him silently. My throat began to burn, too. I don’t want to be lonely again.

  The silence beat loudly in my ears, echoing with all the words I could not make myself say.

  “Maybe we’ll be okay, you know?” he whispered eventually. “Maybe things will get a little easier for us. You should visit me this summer in Vermont. If you made it a long visit, we could work for this apple orchard near Gran’s house. They do blueberries and peaches before the apples are ripe. The pay isn’t bad, and you get to be outside all day. We could go to guerrilla night again, or maybe clubbing in Montreal.”

  The sudden change in topic was a little confusing to me, but I liked the sound of this.

  “…But if you can only get away for a weekend, or something, I think we should go camping instead. That could be awesome. How does sex beside a campfire sound? Wait… the mosquitoes could be a problem. Maybe sex in a tent, then.” Rikker chuckled to himself.

  “Anyway, that’s going to be my happy thought, until you’re better. If your mom is around all the time, I’m not going to get to see you. I know she wouldn’t mind me coming by, but I’d mind. I don’t think I can be in this room with you and have to watch what I say all the time. I don’t mind tricking a bunch of homophobic athletes, but I don’t want to lie to your mom, G. She’s always been good to me.”

  The silence stretched for a moment, and I could almost hear him struggling with his thoughts.

  “Ugh. Okay,” he continued. “Happy thoughts. Vermont. Drive-in movies. Dancing to bad music with you. As Gran would say, this too shall pass. Although I find myself saying that a lot lately.” He hugged me even tighter. “I’m going to go now, G. So sleep tight. Call me if you can tomorrow. Wait. I can’t believe I just reminded a sleeping person to call me. How ‘bout I call you? Yeah? It’s a plan.”