Chapter 2
CHANGING ON THE FLY
Changing on the fly: the substitution of players between the ice and the bench while the clock is running.
Graham
We were sitting at Capri’s with the first pitchers of the season in front of us. Most of the team was crammed into four or five of the little old booths. And the first pizza order of the year had gone in about half an hour ago.
This was my favorite spot in the world, and with all my favorite people. I should have been relaxed.
I wasn’t. Not even a little.
My first glass of beer lasted about twenty seconds. Bella noticed, and promptly refilled it.
“You know, you’re a natural at this manager thing,” I said, looping my arm over her shoulders. “I can see that now.”
“Of course I am,” she said, lifting her own glass. “What do you have going on for the weekend?”
It was still that glorious early part of the semester, when nobody had any studying to do yet. “The usual. Tonight I really need to get wasted. And laid.”
“For you, it should really just be all one word. Because that’s how you roll.” She tipped her head toward mine, her eyes smiling. “You’re going to get… laisted. Because that sounds better than waid.”
“If you say so.” I pulled her closer to me, and tried to relax. But I felt as if a concrete block had been parked on my chest.
More beer to the rescue. I tipped my glass back and drank deep.
“We need a new win song for this year,” Hartley was saying. “What do you got?”
“‘After Midnight,’” I said quickly, just to get a rise out of Bella.
“No fucking way,” she said immediately. “Clapton may be a living legend, but the man did not write win songs. I think we should use ‘What the Hell.’” Bella wiggled her hips to try to get a little more room on the bench.
The booth was a tight fit. But that was okay.
Because we were tight, Bella and I. It was fair to say that she was my best friend.
“That’s a good song,” Hartley said, because he was like that — always so fucking diplomatic. “But I’m thinking the win song should probably be by an artist who has a dick.”
Bella snorted. “You know how much I enjoy dicks, Captain. But ‘What the Hell’ is a great song. Even if it is by a girl.”
“‘Can’t Hold Us,’” somebody threw in.
“We’ve worn out Macklemore,” Bella argued. “But I’ll take it under advisement.”
“What, like you’re picking?” Hartley asked, refilling her beer.
“I have keys to the AV system in the locker room. I’m really just pretending to consider your suggestions here.”
Like I said before, the power was going to her head.
“How about ‘“Timber?’” Hartley nudged Bella. “Pitbull and Kesha. Something for everyone.”
“Not bad, Captain. Not bad.”
The loudspeaker cracked. “Forty-two! Forty-two, your pies are ready.”
“That’s us!” Bella cheered. She grabbed the ticket off the table and wiggled away from me. I gave her ass a pinch as she went. “Don’t just fondle me, chump,” she said, standing beside the table with a hand on her hip. “Do I look like I could carry two pies by myself?”
“You do, actually,” I said, sliding out to follow her.
“But I’ll help. Save our seats,” I called over my shoulder.
We wove through the crowd toward the ratty old counter in back.
The Capri brothers, in their trademark sweat-stained white T-shirts, were slamming pizza trays down and collecting tickets.
Bella flashed her killer smile, and one of them found our order right away. “Ooh!” she said, grabbing one of the pies, her chin lifting toward the door. “Here comes the tasty new guy. Rikker.”
My stomach dropped right into my shoes. Because I thought I’d have at least tonight to get used to the idea that the worst moments of my life had come back to haunt me.
But I wasn’t even going to get that. He was striding toward us, wearing a faded Vermont sweatshirt and shorts that showed off his muscular…
Mayday. Eject!
“You get the plates,” I told Bella, grabbing the pizza out of her hands. Because looking my problems in the eye was not the way I rolled.
What a fucking disaster. By which I meant me.
Rikker
Capri’s Pizza was a hole in the wall. But it was the good kind — with oak paneling everywhere, and old wooden tables that had been varnished a few thousand times. There were names carved into every visible surface, and the smell of slightly stale beer hung in the air.
Harkness College — even the dodgier parts — gave off the aura of having been around for centuries.
Because it had. I loved that about the place.
I’d only been here for a week, but I already appreciated its fortitude.
I liked knowing that I was just one tiny cog in the wheels of its long history. It made all my troubles feel smaller.
Passing through the front room, I didn’t see any hockey players.
As I made it toward the back, I realized that Capri’s was kind of a rabbit warren.
There were two other rooms veering away from the service counter.
But I could call off the search. Because Graham and the curly-haired manager chick had just lifted a couple of pizzas from the counter.
Even though his face was in profile, I’d know it anywhere.
Once upon a time, I’d touched every inch of that face.
The girl raised her free hand in a wave, saying something over her shoulder to Graham.
And I swear to God, his body locked up when he heard her.
His eyes flicked in my direction for a split second.
And then his back was to me. He relieved Bella of her pizza and made a beeline into another of the cave-like rooms.
My first thought was, Fuck, I shouldn’t have come.
But screw that. Because if I shouldn’t have come to Capri’s, then I shouldn’t have come to Harkness.
I could just spend my life hiding under the bed.
Lord knows there were people in the world that wished I would.
I didn’t come here to stake a claim, or to make a point.
I came here to play hockey and to live my goddamn life.
So that’s what I should do. And Michael Graham could just fuck off if he didn’t like it.
As I finished this thought, Bella came closer, a big grin on her face.
“You came! We’re in there…” she nodded toward the left.
Then she grabbed some paper plates and napkins off a table.
Leaning over the service counter, she called out.
“Hey, Tony! A glass for my new friend please.” She reached up and patted my chest possessively.
Tony flipped us a plastic glass, which I caught before it slid off the counter. “Have a good night,” he said. And then he actually winked at me as I turned to follow her.
Bella grabbed the front pocket of my Vermont sweatshirt and actually pulled me through the din of the most crowded room, toward a table where Graham sat in a booth, across from Hartley.
Ugh. I had no idea this would be so cozy. In fact, there was nowhere for me to sit. For a second there I felt like it was seventh grade all over again, and I didn’t know where to sit in class.
That’s how I met Graham — seventh grade Spanish. We were the two runts in the back row with terrible gringo accents and no friends. The teacher always made the class pair up to practice dialogue. Graham and I were partners.
Hola, Miguel.
Hola, Juan.
Te gusta jugar el futbol?
Sí, me gusta jugar el futbol.
The early days of middle school had been awkward. But this? So much worse.
“I’ll sit on Graham’s lap,” Bella suggested, grabbing a slice of pizza off the tray.
“Naw, let me find a chair,” I said, turning quickly into the crowd.
And lo, by the grace of God, I found one in front of an ancient pay phone.
Setting the chair at the end of their booth gave me some much-needed distance.
Bella sat on the end, boxing Graham into the corner.
Bella’s hand found its way onto my knee about two seconds after I sat down.
Someone filled my glass. “Have a slice?” Hartley offered.
“Thanks, I already ate,” I said quickly. But I sucked back some of the beer. It was pretty wimpy stuff, but I’ll bet the price was right.
“Tell us about your transfer,” Bella prompted while the others dug in. “You said you’d tell it over beers.”
Right. Too soon. “Well,” I hedged. The thing was, I’d told people I was gay many, many times.
I was actually pretty good at it. But you don’t say it when you’re all trapped at a table.
You have to drop the bomb when your victims are free to walk away from you.
Because even the people who are going to turn right back around and be there for you often need a minute to digest the idea.
And the fact that Graham was sitting three feet away, staring at his slice of pizza as if it might reveal the secrets of the universe, made this a particularly bad time. I didn’t want to look vulnerable in front of him. I’d tried that before in my life, and it ended badly. Very badly.
“Thing is, I haven’t had enough beer yet to tell it.”
“There you go with the buildup again,” Bella said, nibbling on a slice.
“Yeah? Well my stories don’t usually disappoint.” That was a bit of pointless bravado. But it was probably true.
I happened to glance toward Graham then.
And even in the low light of the pizza place, I saw him freeze.
And I realized just how far a little smack talk about stories I might tell would freak him out.
I hadn’t meant it like that. But the effect on him was instant and powerful.
His jaw went hard and his fist clenched on the table.
Easy, boy. “Tell me about the practice schedule,” I said to change the topic.
Hartley obliged, explaining the afternoon routine, including weight room, dry land training and ice time.
In the corner, Graham drained his glass and then emptied the pitcher into it.
I pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of my back pocket and put it on the table. “I’ll buy the next round.”
“I’ll go get it,” Bella said, sliding out of the booth.