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’stwo, 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 nowaythe 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 Iwastargeted 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.
