“Over here, Bridge,” Bella called, waving the guy into the corner, where she was stuffing Bridger’s gear into a bag. “Sorry, we weren’t quite ready for you.”
“No biggie.” He leaned down to unzip his bag, and I turned my back to shrug my chest pads over my head.
“Hey!” Big-D crossed the room to slap Bridger on the back. “Please tell me you’re back permanently. Things just aren’t the same this year.”
My blood pressure spiked. Only Big-D would find a compliment for Bridger which also managed to put me down.
“You’re right,” Bridger said, shaking out his hockey shorts. “What’s different is that you win all the fucking time. But I promise not to wreck it too bad. You only get me for the post-season, anyway. Even playing a handful of games with you is more than I can afford. I’m going to owe my girlfriend for covering for me at home. Big time.”
Big-D snorted. “There is no way that Bridger McCaulley just used the word ‘girlfriend’ in a sentence. We have to meet this girl. I need proof.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that a lot,” Bridger said.
On his way back across the room, Big-D pointed at Trevi’s feet. “Dude, those socks are so gay.”
Everybody looked at Trevi’s socks, even me. They were striped: blue and violet. “My sister knitted them for Christmas,” Trevi said, unconcerned.
“Next time, tell her to…” Big-D cut himself off, putting one hand across his own mouth in an exaggerated gesture. “Oops,” he said, turning back to Bridger. “Forgot to warn you, man. We can’t make gay jokes anymore. Because some people might get offended.” This little performance was put on entirely to embarrass me. On a good day, Big-D didn’t go five minutes without using “gay” to describe anything that displeased him.
“Naw,” I piped up. “You go ahead, Big-D. I don’t give a flying fuck if you say a pair of socks is gay. Or Smitty’s watch, or what-the-fuck-ever. There’s pretty much nothing you can say that will offend me. It only makes me wonder if you know what the word means.”
There was silence in the locker room then.
I should have just shut up, of course. But I was just too strung out to rein myself in. “…Because it would be pretty fuckin’ hard for a pair of socks or a watch to act gay. Those would have to be some really talented socks.” I made quotation marks with my fingers. “Gaydoes not mean bright colors. Gaymeans my mouth on another guy’s dick…”
A loud groan of distress rose up in the locker room.
“Check, please!” Trevi hollered. “No thank you for that visual.”
Hartley gave me a nudge. “Cool it, will you? It’s time to skate.”
Bending over, I yanked on my laces. Usually, I didn’t bait Big-D. And Graham would probably have a coronary if he’d heard what I’d said. But today I just felt so raw. The universe was fucking with me, and I felt like fighting back.
Because that always works.
I almost had my skates tied by the time Bella rolled the hockey bag full of Graham’s gear away from the lockers. Making eye contact with me, she pointed at it, asking if I’d take it to him. With a frown, I gave her a single shake of my head. God forbid I help out Graham by bringing him his gear. He’d have a second coronary, and while they were giving him the defibrillator, he’d ask me if there were any witnesses.
“Let’s go, guys!” Bella called. “Ninety-six hours until the semifinals!”
She was right. We had more games to win. And it was a bad idea to sit around feeling confused about Graham.
Chippy: irritated with the other team, potentially on the brink of fighting.
—Graham
Note to self: do noteverget another fricking concussion.
They told me that most of the pain wouldprobablygo away after a week. After that, I’d experience intermittent pain whenever I overdid it. And by “it” they meant everything you use either your brain or your eyes to do.
But the pain wasn’t even the worst part. My clouded thinking was just freaky. Honestly, it felt like beingdrunkall the time. My reaction time was sluggish, and I couldn’t always process what people said to me. It frustrated the crap out of me.
And while I’m on a roll here, I’d add that the doctor warned me that I’d feel emotional.Sure, dude, I thought.Whatever. But an hour later, when I couldn’t find the words to explain the Roman History syllabus to my mother, I honestly wanted to smash something. And after I got done feeling enraged, I felt really guilty about getting mad. So guilty that I felt like crying. And I haven’t cried for half a decade.
Good times.
My mother had been endlessly patient with me all day. Spending an hour at the doctor’s office meant that I’d missed my two morning classes. But after lunch, I made it to the history class. Actually,wemade it to history class. Mom was going to have to help me with everything for a while, including note taking.
After that, I napped like a toddler while my mother watched. Then Mom read me a couple of chapters of my psychology textbook. When I’d paged through the book to find where I’d left off, the words had seemed to swim on the page.
