Chapter 5
PINCHING
November
Pinching: when a defenseman leaves his typical rearward position to push forward into the offensive zone.
Rikker
We were on a bus heading to Boston when I got a text from Skippy, my ex-boyfriend.
For a couple of minutes, I ignored it. There were rules I’d made for myself with regard to him.
The first rule was: Never text Skippy first. Because that was just pathetic.
The second rule was: Always wait a half hour before responding.
But I was on a bus, just staring out at the highway. So of course I peeked. He’d sent me a photograph, one that made me say, “aw!” and immediately compose a reply.
“Who are you texting?” Bella asked from the seat beside me.
“My ex,” I said, hitting the send button.
“Ooh!” she said. “Can I see a picture?”
“Of my ex? No. I deleted them all. Off my phone, anyway.” As any self-respecting human being would. “But you can see a picture of his new dog.” I handed her the phone.
“Aw,” she echoed. I tried to take the phone back, but she moved it out of my reach, still staring at the poodle in the photo. “Why is the dog wearing glasses?”
“I dunno. In fact, I just asked that question a second ago. Not that I expect a reasonable answer.” Skippy was kind of a nut.
“You know Rikker…” she trailed off, still squinting at the photo. “I’d kill any guy who ever said this to me. But this dog and I kind of look alike.”
“What?” I grabbed the phone back and looked again at the picture.
And then I let out the sort of laugh that hurts a little, because you tried and failed to hold it in.
“God, Bella! You’re right.” The dog had curly hair, in a color much like hers.
And a goofy smile. “Okay, let’s take your picture and send it to my ex. ”
“Wait!” she held up a hand, and I thought she’d shoot the idea down. But she turned around in her seat instead. “Hey, Trevi! Can I borrow your reading glasses? Just for a minute.”
Again I snorted. Bella was just about the best sport in the entire world. And I told her so when she came back wearing glasses that were startlingly similar to the ones the poodle wore in the photo.
My phone buzzed with a text, answering the question of why the dog wore glasses: Rikky, not everyone has perfect vision. Don’t make her feel self-conscious. We don’t have a name yet. Ross wants to call her Kujo, but I refuse. Ideas?
“What a goof,” Bella said, reading over my shoulder.
“Yep.”
“Who’s Ross?”
“My replacement.”
She made a face. “Sorry. Let me see the poodle one more time, so we can get this just right.” I showed Bella the photo again, and she adjusted the barrette in her hair to make it poof up like the dog’s. “Let ‘er rip,” Bella said, smiling.
I switched my phone to the camera setting and framed the shot. “Hang on.” I reached up to gently tilt her chin to the side, like the poodle’s. “Okay. Can you make your smile a little… doggier?” But that made Bella laugh, which made me laugh, so we had to take a minute to calm down.
“What eez so amusing?” asked Frenchie from across the aisle.
“Nothing,” Bella giggled, and I lost it again.
Several people were turning to stare, now.
We were like the loud, raucous table at a restaurant — annoying, unless it’s you.
“Okay,” I took a deep breath. “We can do this. Let’s see your pose again.
” She made her doggiest smile yet, and I clicked the shutter button.
For a caption, I wrote: Dear Skippy, your new dog and my new friend…separated at birth?
“Hit send!” Bella giggled.
I did, and it only took about sixty seconds to get the first response. OH MY GOD. Of course, that made us howl. Then he wrote: I can’t even… What is her name?
Bella, I replied, and my phone rang almost immediately. “Hello?” I chuckled into the receiver.
“Rikky! Let me talk to Bella.”
Figures.
I passed her the phone. She took it with laughing eyes. “This is Bella. Nice to meet you, Skippy.” There was a pause. “I’d be honored if you named her Bella. Seriously. You’re welcome.” She handed the phone back. “He wants to talk to you.”
“What’s up, Skipster?” I asked, dropping my voice.
“I’m glad you made a friend, Rikky.”
Just what I needed — a little patronizing from the ex. The ex who seemed to be doing so much better than I was. “Um, thanks?”
“Can’t be easy being the new guy for three years in a row.”
I sighed, because it was true. “I’ll live. Always do.”
“Of course you will. Where are you, anyway?”
“On a bus to Boston for a tournament.”
“That doesn’t sound bad. A bus full of big, muscular athletes.”
“It has its moments.”
“Glad to hear it. Take care, Rikky. Ross sends his love.”
Seriously? “Uh, thanks. Bye, Skip.”
I hung up with him, to catch Bella watching me. “He seems fun. Do you miss him?”
“Sometimes.” That was the truth. And Skippy was fun. Yet I’d somehow decided about a year ago that he and I had outgrown each other. I even told him so, which he did not appreciate. Then, when he made it official by dumping me, I was less sure.
Ugh. Next topic, please.
I stashed my phone and took out the book that I was supposed to be reading for English class.
After Bella returned Trevi’s glasses to him, she pulled a folder out of her backpack.
“Now that you’ve been with us for two months,” she said, setting her backpack at her feet, “you’ve had time to decide who’s the most attractive man on the team. ”
“Nice try, babe,” I said, looking out at highway 95, which was currently flying by the window of our bus.
“Seriously, Rikker. How can you be my gay BFF if we can’t dish about guys?” She clicked a ball-point pen and began to write numbers down the left side of a legal pad. From one to twelve.
“No can do. I’m not getting my ass kicked just to fulfill your Hollywood fantasies.” In my duffel I’d hidden a big bar of dark chocolate with bits of salted caramel in it. Bella could joke as often as she wanted. But my true role as gay BFF was to keep her supplied with fine chocolate.
It worked for both of us.
“I’m only half kidding,” she whispered. “For the past two years I’ve made a close study of who has the nicest ass on the bus. It’s difficult for a girl to keep that kind of thing to herself.”
“You don’t keep it to yourself,” I pointed out. “Not a day goes by when you don’t tell each ass’s owner just what you think of it.”
“Not true,” she countered. “I’m very liberal with my praise. A good manager knows to motivate the troops.”
I snorted. Bella’s School of Management was a peculiar institution. But it was our peculiar institution.
“The best ass is on Hartley,” she said in the barest whisper. “And that’s why it’s such a buzz kill that he’s my biggest failure.”
Now she had my attention. “Never tapped that one?” As much as I wanted to avoid the subject of Hartley’s (very fine) ass, the lure of hearing just a little more about the inner workings of Bella’s mind was just too great. “Why not?”
“Timing. Last year when he dumped his old girlfriend, he got together with Corey the next morning.” She shook her head, looking at once disbelieving and brokenhearted. “And I love Corey to death, so I can’t even wish for them to break up.”
“That’s big of you.” I’d met Corey too, and she was the bomb.
Bella grinned. “It is big of me. I’d never sleep with anyone who was attached. Pepé, for instance, has a girl back in Montreal. There are like fifty pictures of her in his room.”
I wondered how she knew that, but I thought I’d just let that question slide.
“So, any given season a lot of the team is out of rotation for me. That’s why Graham and I hooked up so often last year. He’s always single.”
I kept the flinch off my face, but it wasn’t easy.
The glimpses I’d gotten of his antics with women always gave me a surprise stab of…
I don’t even know what. At Capri’s, girls hung on Graham with as much frequency as they did the other players.
A couple of times I’d seen him make hasty, drunken exits in the company of whichever puck bunny had followed us to Capri’s from the rink.
And I already knew that he and Bella were close. They were awfully touchy feely with one another. Then again, Bella touched everyone until they asked her to stop. So I hadn’t made any mental pictures of Bella and Graham naked together. For some reason, I didn’t like imagining it.
If I were a better person, I’d be happy for him, I guess. But apparently, I was the sort to hold a grudge.
Not your business, I reminded myself.
It was time to think about something else.
Like the saucer shot I’d sunk into the corner of the net last week, scoring Harkness’s first goal of the year in our preseason scrimmage against Brown.
That would have to be my happy thought. It’s not like I would be getting naked with anyone anytime soon.
Hockey took up half my time, and that was only going to get worse. School took up the other half.
Besides myself, I couldn’t even name a gay man at Harkness.
I had no real social life. When the team went to Capri’s for pizza and beer, I usually made an appearance.
I’d have a slice or two and a pint, and talk hockey with the guys who made me feel welcome.
I usually left early, quitting while I was ahead.
It wasn’t exactly healthy, the way I still felt like I was apologizing for myself half the time.
But there was no road map for being me. I was operating under the vague assumption that if I played really great hockey this season, things would just get easier.
My teammates might accept me as a true friend, rather than That Gay Guy who can make tape-to-tape passes.
Because everybody loves a winner, right?
Beside me, Bella made more notes on her legal pad. From the folder in her lap, she extracted a glossy hockey program. “Have you seen this yet?” she asked. “They just came back from the printer.”
“Nice,” I said, because I knew she’d worked hard on it.