Hartley chuffed out a laugh. “Okay. But with a buildup like that, it better be good.”
“Trust me,” Rikker muttered.
I couldn’t sit there any longer after that. Feeling like I might pop out of my skin, I stood up fast and went for the rink door. Yanking it open, I felt the cold slap of rink air on my face. I sucked down a deep, icy breath, and hurried down the chute, the rubber floor pads springing back against my steel blades. Without slowing down, I stepped over the lip, pushing off across the slick surface.
My heart was still banging around in my chest. So I bent my legs and powered forward, flying down the rink. The boards passing beside me began to blur. Skating hard would help steady me.
It would have to.
—Rikker
In hockey, unlike other sports, there aren’t many time-outs. And that’s too bad. Because after walking into that locker room and getting a quick glimpse at Michael Graham’s face, I really could have used one.
I knew he’d be in there. I’d read the team roster before I transferred. And I thought I was prepared for it. After all, I’d had five years to get over being angry. The scars on my face had long since healed, and the broken ribs were a distant memory. I’d moved on in so many ways.
Crossing that crowded room, I’d only gotten a glimpse of him. But a glance was enough to make me understand just how hard this was going to be. Because you never really get over your first love, right?
That’s what the lyrics of pop songs tell me, anyway.
He didn’t even look the same. All this time I’d been picturing that skinny, scared teenager who’d left me bleeding on the asphalt. But version 2.0 of Graham suiting up in the corner was a big bruiser of a defenseman. I didn’t need X-ray vision to see that there was a hell of a lot of muscle underneath those pads.Dayum. But looking down from atop the new rocking bod were the same icy blue eyes, framed by the thickest blond eyelashes I ever saw on a guy.
And I’ve looked at plenty.
The sight of him was enough to give my heart a big old kick. Unfortunately, the look on his face told me that there were tough times ahead. Because the dude didnotlook happy to see me.
Of course he didn’t. No surprise there. If he’d wanted to remember that I existed, he might have called some time in the last five years. Or emailed. Or texted. I already knew he was as done with me as a person could be.
But damn if his scowl didn’t hurt.
There weren’t any time-outs, though. Not in life, and not in hockey. So I was just going to have to deal with that shit later. Right now it was time to skate. And to say that I’d have something to prove to this team was the understatement of the year. The new guy always does, right? Now, take that typical burden, and multiply by a hundred. That’s what it was going to take once they heard my story.
So I strapped on my pads as fast as possible. Everyone else cleared out of the locker room except for the captain. That guy — the one they called Hartley — seemed to be waiting for me. “You don’t have to be late on my account,” I said, tugging on my skate laces.
“No big thing.” He stood twirling the blade of his stick on the floor. “I’ve heard the opening day speeches before. Coach likes to quote dead presidents.”
“Yeah?” I glanced around. The locker room looked brand new. “Nice place you got here.”
“Right?” Hartley agreed with me. “It was pretty skanky before the renovation. Now there’s a new weight room. New showers. New everything.”
I stood up and crossed the room in my skates, peering around the corner at the tiled facilities in the adjacent shower room. “Maybe that’s why Coach took me on. You’ve got shower stalls with doors on ‘em.”
“How’s that?” Hartley didn’t catch my tactless joke. So that meant Coach had not given him a heads up about me.
I probably should have just shut up then. But the past year had wrung me out. So if Hartley was going to freak out on me, I’d rather just get it over with.
Looking him in the eye, I said, “My transfer came through because the ACAA took a stand on Saint B's chucking me off the team.” I picked up my stick, and so Hartley turned toward the ice door, holding it open for me.
“That’s cool. But I’m still not following you,” he said, leading the way down the chute.
“The coach at Saint B's is a hardcore Catholic. And a bigot, I guess.” Hartley didn’t turn around, so I just plunged ahead. “I’m gay, dude.”
Hartley’s back was to me as we walked toward the ice. I felt the seconds ticking by as he covered the last ten feet or so to the plexi door. Putting his glove on the handle, he finally turned to face me. His expression was a hell of a lot more thoughtful than I expected from the average jock. “Coach doesn’t bring in just anybody,” he said. “He must believe you’ll be a good fit for the team.”
“I’m sure I can be,” I said, hoping like hell that it was true.
Hartley shoved a glove under his arm and snapped his helmet shut. “The athletic department is pretty clear where it stands on this issue.”
For a second, I bristled at the idea that I was anissue. But what Hartley said was both accurate and informed. One of the reasons I’d transferred to Harkness was that they put the “liberal” in liberal arts. They had even done a campaign around inclusiveness in sports last year. It was calledIf You Can Play, You Should Play. On the college website, I’d watched a three-minute film of student athletes repeating that phrase, and a narrator assuring the listener that all students were welcome on sporting teams, regardless of sexual orientation.
