The Understatement of the Year (Ivy Years #3)

CELLY: SHORT FOR “CELEBRATION.” Exuberance performed after scoring a goal.

Rikker

Walking into practice was an uncomfortable experience. There was a TV van parked at the curb, for one thing. Also, my new BFF Bob from the press office was standing around in the locker room when I arrived, looking wildly out of place. “How are you holding up, Mr. Rikker?” he asked after introducing himself, while the whole team listened in.

“Um, fine, sir.”

“Excellent! Now, I’ve allowed some journalists to photograph your practice today. The rule is that they cannot ask questions or interfere, okay? So if anyone steps out of line, you give me a jingle.”

A jingle. I managed to refrain from rolling my eyes. “Okay,” I said. Because what was my choice?

He left, thank God. And I stood there, facing my locker, gearing up and trying to be invisible.

At first, everyone just ignored me. Even Hartley, who was arguing with Bella about some NHL game they’d both watched last night. Last night, when I was dancing with Graham.

That seemed like a hundred years ago already. Graham was standing about fifteen feet away from me right now, tying up his skates, silent as a stone. Pretending he’d never seen me before in his life.

Just when I thought I’d be given the silent treatment by everyone, Smitty and Big-D began reading snippets of the news stories about me out loud, and laughing.

“Hey, Rikker! Did you know there’s a story on ESPN’s website?”

“I heard,” I said. (I’d read it, obviously.)

“There’s two, actually,” Smitty said. “I like this one. ‘Will John Rikker Become the First Out Gay Man in the NHL?’”

Well, shit. That was a new one. My blood pressure kicked up a notch. Would this never end?

“…With gaudy stats during high school, and a spot on the U.S. Development Team,” Smitty continued, a smirk in his voice, “‘Rikker was destined for Division One hockey.’ Destined. How sweet.”

I pulled on my chest pads and said nothing. But I was boiling inside.

“‘…Fast feet and even faster hands…’” he read. “Hey, Rikker! ESPN thinks you’re ‘responsible defensively.’ I guess they didn’t watch the Saint B’s game.”

“Guess not,” I muttered.

“But they’re still not sure about your recruiting prospects. They’re calling you ‘fast, but undersized,’” Smitty read.

There was a guffaw in the room over that.

“Undersized?” I said over my shoulder. “Great. Now I’ll never get a date.”

That brought out a few laughs, but an even louder chorus of groans. And one “gross,” from somewhere across the room.

Whatever. I jammed my feet into my skates, and prayed that the cameramen in the stands would not be too obvious.

My life? A giant suckfest.

Two lonely days later, we had a game. This time, it was a road trip to — wait for it — The University of Vermont.

I tried to give myself a pep talk about it. There was just no way the UVM team could possibly hate me as much as Saint B’s. In the first place, I knew some of them. And more importantly, they weren’t on the wrong end of the press coverage of my transfer.

But when I climbed the three steps onto the team bus, I was nervous anyway. No one greeted me when I boarded. So I took the seat nobody wants — the one just behind the bus driver. Then I proceeded to bury myself in schoolwork for the entire trip up there. The new semester hadn’t even started yet, which made me the biggest dork on the bus. But it was so much easier to think about calculus than about the upcoming game.

I was deep inside my head when we pulled up beside the Vermont rink. So it took me a little while to pack my books away, and follow my teammates off the bus. The rink’s beat-up metal door was familiar to me. I’d played a couple of games here in high school. We’d always loved those, because the rink was so much nicer than the high school’s.

As I approached the door in my distracted trance, I was startled to hear my name. “Rikker!”

I did a big double take. Daphne, Rachel, Skippy and Ross were standing there. And each of them had my jersey number painted on their faces.

“Hey!” I said, truly stunned. “You guys look ridiculous.”

Daphne punched me in the arm. “We know that. But you don’t have to point it out.”

I laughed. “It’s good to see you,” I said, more touched by the gesture than I cared to admit. But… Damn. If I was targeted by assholes again tonight, I was going to have to commit ritual suicide after the game. My stomach gave a nervous twist.

Chill, I coached myself. This was Vermont, after all. If I couldn’t have a good game here, then I might as well hang up my skates. Some of the guys on the Vermont team were friends of mine.

At least, they were when I was in the closet in high school.

Shit.

Daphne waved to someone behind me, but then her face fell. “Your friend didn’t stop,” she said.

I looked up just in time to see Graham disappear through the doorway.

“Let me guess,” Skippy said. “He’s never seen any of us before in his life. Especially you, Rik.”

“Oh…” Daphne said, frowning. “That’s not cool.”

“It is what it is,” I said.

“Coward,” Skippy hissed.

I held in my groan. Because even though Skippy was probably right, I really didn’t want to hear it from him.

“Coming, Rikker?” Bella called. She was holding the door for me, and everyone else had gone in.

“Come here a second, Bells,” I replied.

“Oh, it’s her!” Skippy jumped up and down. “Ross, unzip Bella.”

Ross was holding a duffel bag on his shoulder. And when he unzipped the end of it, I noticed that it wasn’t an ordinary bag. It was a mesh-walled dog carrier. From inside, he extracted a wiggling poodle.

When Bella joined me, I said, “Bella, this is…”

“Ooooooh!” she crooned, reaching for the dog. “Hello my lovely! Hello! Who’s a good girl?” Bella (the dog) began to vigorously lick Bella (the girl) on the face. Laughing, she passed the dog back to Ross. And then she introduced herself, before announcing that we had to go inside. “Coach is going to wonder what happened to us.”

“Just a sec,” I said. Then I gathered my friends into a semi-awkward group hug. “Nice of you to show up for the game. Seriously.”

“We wouldn’t miss it,” Skippy said, kissing my cheek. “Break a leg.”

“That is not what you say to a hockey player,” I laughed, wiping a little orange face paint off my cheek.

“I know that, I used to date one,” Skippy winked. “I was just being ironical.”

I gave them a wave and followed Bella inside, praying to myself. Please don’t let this be the most embarrassing night of my life.

“Your ex is pretty cute, for a skinny guy,” Bella said, swatting me on the butt. “So that’s your type, huh?”

I couldn’t help it. My eyes flicked over to Graham, who I caught watching us. He looked away. Busted. “My type? Eh. It’s not that simple. I like ‘em tall and complicated.”

Bella laughed. “So do I!”

The locker assignments were sorted out. And then the usual checklist of locker room antics was followed. Hockey sticks were taped and retaped. Sore muscles were taped and retaped. Coach paced the room, reminding us not to go postal at the first sign of trouble, like a pack of cranky toddlers. Bella did nervous little circles around me, wearing a groove into the blade-proof rubber padding underfoot. “It’s going to be fine this time,” she kept saying.

The lady doth protest too much.

“Hey, Johnny Rikker!” came a shout through the partially-opened locker room door. “Getcha ass out here!”

The sound of my name pushed past the clouds out of my brain. Petey Pulaski’s rough voice brought me the first untroubled smile I’d had all day. I went through that door in a hurry, and was immediately tackled into that sort of half hug, half beating that guys began perfecting during their teenage years.

“Jesus, Petey,” I laughed as I fought off the headlock with my knuckles in his ribs.

“HEY! Knock it off!”

Coach’s ear-busting shout startled the both of us. Petey eased up quickly, and I took my hands off my friend. “We’re just kiddin’ around here, Coach,” I said quickly.

The old man’s face did not immediately relax. He stared at us for a beat before turning back into the locker room.

“Jesus, Rikker. Do you have a rep for brawling?” Petey asked. He couldn’t resist one more playful punch to my hip.

“Ow! He’s just, um, wound a little tight.”

“Dude. Shouldn’t you be wearing, like, one of those rainbow jerseys?”

“Nice, Petey. I haven’t seen you for two years or whatever, and you open with gay jokes?”

His face fell. “You know that’s only gallows humor, right? Shit. I saw those articles, and I thought you must be climbing under a rock right about now. You didn’t even like talking to the high school newspaper about our games. Always made me do it.”

That shut me up for a second, because I’d never taken Petey for the perceptive type. But he was right about that. I had always let him speak for the team. “It hasn’t been a fun month.” To put it mildly.

Petey chuckled. “The Saint B’s coach sounds like a real dick. The guys on my team are all glad they don’t skate for him.”

“Yeah. Wish I hadn’t made that mistake.”

“We could have used you here, you know. Still wish you’d committed to Vermont.”

Me too, buddy. Our conversation lagged then, as I sunk under the weight of my own shitty decision-making.

“You know…” Petey paused. “You never told me. I mean… I noticed that Skippy became a hockey fan. And I knew you two were tight. But you didn’t say anything.” His blue eyes were troubled. “I wouldn’t have… I dunno… been a jerk about it.”

Heaving a sigh, I apologized. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. But I also never told you why I moved to Vermont for sophomore year. And that’s because my parents basically kicked me out of their house.” Petey winced. “…And it was high school, dude. Nobody wants to fly the freak flag, you know. But I loved playing on that team with you. The rink was a bullshit free zone.”

“Hope it was,” he said. “I kind of wish I could rewind all the things I said for three years. I’m pretty sure there were fag jokes.”

I shrugged. “Skippy makes fag jokes. His are more accurate, though.”

Petey laughed, and then I felt a little better. Then, two more of my high school teammates came out of the Vermont locker room. “Dude!” they yelled by way of a greeting.

At the sound, the visitors’ locker room door opened, and Coach peered out, taking measure of the newcomers. After a long stare, he closed the door again.

“What’s with him?” Petey asked.

“No idea,” I lied.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” McGarry said with a playful punch to my chest. He was a year behind Petey and me. Behind him was a guy we called J.J.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

McGarry raised his thick eyebrows. “The banners?”

“What banners?”

All three of them laughed. “You’ll see. I think the stands are going to be packed tonight. Even though the semester hasn’t started yet.”

“Really?” That seemed unlikely.

“Too bad they’re all going to see your team get smeared,” J.J. grinned.

“Smack talk much?” I asked.

“The Harkness nerds have had a good run,” McGarry said. “But it’s over.”

“Nice,” I said. “After all the queer jokes I’m getting, you have to bring out the nerd jokes too?”

“If the skate fits…” Petey gave me one more punch to the bicep. “See you out there. But you aint’ gonna win.”

“We’ll see,” I smirked. Then I went back inside, feeling just a shred less anxious than I had before.

Graham

After the way I left things following our weird little visit in Vermont, Rikker and I weren’t really speaking. (Again. I was going to be eligible for Jackass of the Year for a second year running.) So he didn’t have a clue how tense I felt about this game. That was probably for the best. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to know that my teammates were worried that he’d become a permanent liability.

I finished applying some more orange tape to my stick (not that it helped the last time) just before Coach made his final speech.

“Time for a comeback, kids! Vermont has a strong team, so you’re going to have to work for this. But you can do it. You have the chops! And you’re coming off a rough couple of games, so you want this. Go take it! Grab it with both hands, and bite its head off. Let’s go!”

Bella hauled open the ice door, and we ran down the chute in our skates, jumping the lip and hitting the ice. The visiting team was allowed exactly ninety seconds of warm up, which we were all smart enough to use to the fullest. That’s why it took me more than a few strokes down the rink before I noticed that there was something odd about the crowd.

In the first place, they let out a whoop of excitement when we skated onto the ice. If this were a home game, that would be perfectly normal. But how many fans could we have this far from home? And the cheers and hollers did not let up. The clapping and stomping actually escalated as we skated, as if The Rolling Stones were due to follow us out for a command performance.

Raising my head, I tried to make sense of it. The first thing I saw was a sea of color. Some of it was on the people. Quite a few of the fans were wearing… were those rainbow hockey jerseys? What the fuck? I whizzed past the student section, which was full of Vermont’s green and gold. No surprises there. But elsewhere, especially behind the visitors’ net, spectators were holding giant rainbow banners. “EVERYONE CAN PLAY,” read one banner. “BIGOTRY IS FOR SISSY MEN,” read another one. And “WELCOME BACK TO VERMONT.”

Distracted, I stumbled and almost fell.

Coach’s whistle blew, and we skated toward our bench, still craning my neck to read the signs. I passed a little kid wearing a sweatshirt reading, “RIKKER IS MY HERO.”

“What the fuck?” someone said, which was pretty much the same as my reaction.

“Rikker, would you be my hero, too?” another guy asked.

“Take a number,” Rikker muttered. He looked dazed, his eyes darting around the arena.

“This is nuts!” Bella said in a breathless voice. She pressed herself against the boards, taking pictures with her phone.

“Change of lineup!” Coach bellowed. We all turned to listen. “Rikker’s skating first line with Hartley, and Trevi. Davies, you’re on second. We have to give these fans what they came here to see.”

Nobody argued. Not out loud, anyway. Rikker’s expression was serious behind his facemask. I couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Maybe his prayers were the same as mine: let this not be another disaster.

After Vermont’s team got its own standing ovation, our first line was back on the ice, skating to a stop at our net. The announcer began introducing players, giving the name, class, hometown and position of the Vermont first line. Each player skated to Vermont’s blue line when his name was called, receiving applause.

Then it was our turn. “From Etna, Connecticut, Harkness senior and team captain Adam Hartley.” There was applause even for the competitor. This crowd was fired up tonight.

“From Kent, Michigan, junior defenseman Michael Graham.” I’d never admit it, but I liked hearing the announcer call my name. I skated to the blue line to polite applause.

“And… from Burlington Vermont! Sophomore forward John Rikker!” The stands absolutely erupted then, with screams and the stomping of feet. I turned my head to see Rikker skate to the blue line, eyes wide, an embarrassed smirk on his face.

Across the ice, on the opposing line, I saw his high school friend roll his eyes and smile.

The announcer had to pause before reading the last Harkness player’s name because the crowd was screaming too loud for him to go on. “What planet are we on?” Trevi asked when he finally arrived beside me.

“No clue,” I said, distracted by the relief coursing through me. The ice lights dimmed, and the announcer asked the crowd to stand for the national anthem. A spotlight went up on some dude who played it on the electric guitar, and the sound of it gave me chills. I didn’t even have a name for the way I felt right now. All I knew was that this game would be different from the one against Saint B’s.

Even if it was crazy, and embarrassing to Rikker, the whole thing was awe-inspiring. There had to be a thousand newly-converted hockey fans in this place tonight. (Tomorrow we would read on the news sites that a few drove from as far away as Toronto and Maryland to attend this game, just to show support for the first out gay Division One player.) The place was crammed full of people who’d come to see a guy they didn’t know play in a sport they might not understand. But they were all watching.

As usual, I tried not to let my true feelings show on my face. But the whole thing was really freaking cool.

Unfortunately, Coach had been right about one thing. Vermont wasn’t going to give the game up easily.

The first period was a big donut for both teams. Then, in the second, Hartley got lucky with an ugly goal right in front of the net. But the pressure from Vermont redoubled, and it was a sweaty third period. Vermont scored, unfortunately, and with five minutes left on the clock, the tension on the bench was ridiculous.

With just three minutes left, Rikker took a shot that looked awesome as it flew toward the net. The crowd flipped out. But Vermont’s goalie scrambled, deflecting it with the very tip of his glove.

That might have been the end of it. But while the crowd was still yelling over Rikker’s near miss, Big-D slapped that baby back into play, and Hartley tipped it behind the goalie and into the basket. From where I sat on the bench at that point, I couldn’t even see it happen. I only knew from the screaming.

From there, we ran down the clock and won it, 2-1.

Ladies and gentlemen, we were back.