“Yeah, it’s going to be a party.”
He chuckled, and the sound of it was so familiar that it made me sad. “Later.”
“Adios, Miguel.”
But he didn’t answer me in Spanish. Instead, he just disconnected.
After I hung up with Graham, shit got serious.
My phone started ringing again, and it never stopped. By the next morning, I didn’t even recognize the bulk of the incoming numbers. One of them said ESPN on it. What athlete doesn’t want to take a call from ESPN, right?
This guy.
I kept my cell phone powered down most of the time. I logged into the Harkness College directory and unlisted my telephone number and email address. Everybody who mattered in my life (all four of them, or whatever) knew how to reach me on Gran’s house phone, anyway.
Hunkering down on my bed with an old Kurt Vonnegut novel, I tried to shut out the world.
“John?” my grandmother called up the stairs to me around noon.
“Yeah?”
“Your coach is on the land line.”
“Thanks, Gran! I got it!” I picked up the house phone. “Hi, Coach.”
“Rikker! Quite a stir you’re causing on the interwebs. Is your phone ringing?”
“Yeah, but I don’t answer.”
He chuckled. “The press office wanted me to wake you up at dawn with instructions. But I told them there was no way you’d speak to another reporter if you could help it.”
“This is true.”
“Look, kid, the timing of this is good for you. Outside the rink right now there’s three news vans.”
“What? Why?” I felt nauseous all of a sudden. Hopefully, my teammates were all too busy leaving town to notice.
“First Division One hockey player to come out, yada yada. That, and it’s a slow news day in sports.”
“So you’re saying I should pray for some NFL player to get arrested for something.”
Coach laughed. “Yeah, but until one does, you need to call the Harkness press office and have a chat with them. They’re expecting you.”
“What for?”
“They’re going to work on answering some questions from the press. It’s either that or you’re doing a press conference.”
“…Or I’m changing my name and moving to Fiji.”
“Shitty hockey teams in Fiji, kid. Now write down this phone number.”
When I called the press office, I didn’t get the same young woman who had sat through the interview with me. It seemed I’d moved up the ranks to the head of the press office. “Call me Bob,” the guy said. “My question for you is this — would you rather sit down with ESPN orSports Illustrated?”
“None of the above?”
Bob chuckled. “Now, that’s no fun. You have a chance to make a difference, Mr. Rikker. What if there’s another athlete somewhere, too afraid to tell his teammates the truth? What do you say to that guy?”
I’d say he’s not crazy. Because this was no fun.
