Dating girls? It was as easy as shooting fish in a barrel, as my dad liked to say.
But I still missed Rikker like crazy. Which was stupid. Because even after I blew my chance to visit him in the hospital he was always just a phone call away. It’s just that I couldn’taffordthat phone call. The price was too high. Not only was I afraid to face him after I’d been such a coward in that alley, I was afraid to tell him how I really felt. That it was too fucking dangerous to be friends anymore. Because he made me want things that weresick.
Five years is a long time. Eventually, hockey stopped reminding me of Rikker. I kept at it, even as the game changed. Varsity hockey — and then college hockey — was a bigger, more physical game than we’d played together in the bantam league. Hockey was the place I went to get out all the anger. Slamming my opponents into the boards? Nobody ever called that “sick.” When I did it right, the crowd stood up and cheered.
The world is cracked. It really is.
And now I was cracking, too. Because Rikker had walked back into my life, and he did it by telling the whole frickin’ team that he wasgay. It was the single ballsiest thing I’d ever seen a guy do. Rikker’s appearance at Harkness was like my own personal horror film come to life. I was afraid of what he’d reveal about me. I was afraid of what he might say to my face. I was pants-shitting scared, all the time.
I was afraidforRikker, too. He didn’t seem to understand the risks. I’d stared hatred in the face, and I was never going to forget the look of its snarl.
Over the last five years, I built and polished a set of personal deflector shields that I engaged every time I spoke to a really attractive man. I was careful not to stare, and I knew how to affect the kind of body language that conveyed only polite interest.
But Rikker was hell on my deflector shields. When he was around, nothing worked right. My eyes went where they weren’t supposed to go, and I felt the thrum of expectation just from breathing the same air that he did. Even now, I tried not to keep tabs on him as he crossed the room with Trevi.
It turns out that trying to ignore somebody is about the most distracting, exhausting thing in the world. Whenever Rikker walked into a room, I felt like I’d been stripped of all my skin.
“Are you up for one more set of bench press?” Smitty asked me.
“Sure,” I said automatically. Hell, I was up for ten more sets. Maybe I could finally get tired enough to sleep all the way through the night.
Yeah. Not likely.
—November—
Pinching: when a defenseman leaves his typical rearward position to push forward into the offensive zone.
—Rikker
We were on a bus heading to Boston when I got a text from Skippy, my ex-boyfriend. For a couple of minutes, I ignored it. There were rules I’d made for myself with regard to him. The first rule was: Never text Skippy first. Because that was just pathetic. The second rule was: Always wait a half hour before responding.
But I was on a bus, just staring out at the highway. So of course I peeked. He’d sent me a photograph, one that made me say, “aw!” and immediately compose a reply.
“Who are you texting?” Bella asked from the seat beside me.
“My ex,” I said, hitting the send button.
“Ooh!” she said. “Can I see a picture?”
“Of my ex? No. I deleted them all. Off my phone, anyway.”As any self-respecting human being would. “But you can see a picture of his new dog.” I handed her the phone.
“Aw,” she echoed. I tried to take the phone back, but she moved it out of my reach, still staring at the poodle in the photo. “Why is the dog wearing glasses?”
“I dunno. In fact, I just asked that question a second ago. Not that I expect a reasonable answer.” Skippy was kind of a nut.
“You know Rikker…” she trailed off, still squinting at the photo. “I’d kill any guy who ever said this to me. But this dog and I kind of look alike.”
“What?” I grabbed the phone back and looked again at the picture. And then I let out the sort of laugh that hurts a little, because you tried and failed to hold it in. “God, Bella! You’re right.” The dog had curly hair, in a color much like hers. And a goofy smile. “Okay, let’s take your picture and send it to my ex.”
“Wait!” she held up a hand, and I thought she’d shoot the idea down. But she turned around in her seat instead. “Hey, Trevi! Can I borrow your reading glasses? Just for a minute.”
Again I snorted. Bella was just about the best sport in the entire world. And I told her so when she came back wearing glasses that were startlingly similar to the ones the poodle wore in the photo.
My phone buzzed with a text, answering the question of why the dog wore glasses:Rikky, not everyone has perfect vision. Don’t make her feel self-conscious. We don’t have a name yet. Ross wants to call her Kujo, but I refuse. Ideas?
“What a goof,” Bella said, reading over my shoulder.
“Yep.”
