Page 60 of The Understatement of the Year

“We’ll be on time,” he said, changing lanes. “Bella is a little hung up on you. You got that, right?”

“Not true,” I said immediately. “She plays the field. Can’t imagine her getting hung up on anybody.”

He gave a fake cough into his hand. “If you say so.”

Bella was, however,worriedabout me, because I’d been such a wreck all year. Rikker wouldn’t see that. And I wasn’t going to explain how his reappearance in my life had turned me inside out. I was pretty much done with that topic.

Traffic began to pick up as we headed toward the Connecticut border. We passed the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield. And the two of us made the mutual decision that even if timeandmoney were in infinite supply, we still had precisely zero interest in visiting it.

We drove through Hartford, its high-rise buildings whipping by. And then reality began to set in, at least on my side of the car. My twenty-four hour trip into Rikker’s life was coming to a close. The exits began to tick downward in number and I wondered how this ride would end. “So, where’s the rental car place in Harkness?” I asked.

“At the train station.”

That made plenty of sense. I pictured the two of us getting out of the car there, while half the hockey team wandered by on their way back to campus.

“Quit squirming,” Rikker said darkly. “I’ll drop you off somewhere else.”

At the sound of those words, the tight feeling I was so used to feeling inside my chest returned. “Thanks,” I made myself say.

I amsuchan asshole.

He didn’t say anything else for the last few miles. But he did pull up at a gas station just on the edge of town. Fishing a credit card out of his wallet, he looked over at me. “You can walk from here, or I’ll drop you wherever you want.”

“Here’s good,” I muttered. “Let me give you some money for gas.”

He waved me off. “You bought the drinks last night.”

Last night. Already that seemed like a hundred years ago. From the back seat, I grabbed my duffel.

Rikker leaned against the car, waiting for the tank to fill. He gave me a salute.

I forced myself to pause there for a moment, even though my eyes wanted to flick into every passing car, looking for people who might be watching us. “I had a great time,” I said, meeting his gaze.

Those brown eyes turned away. “I know you did.”

The tightness in my chest squeezed like a fist. “I’ll see you at practice.”But we won’t speak.

“See you,” he said as the gas nozzle clicked off. He gave it his full attention.

There was nothing left to say. So I just turned and walked away, zipping my jacket against the cold.

It wasn’t until later that I realized I’d left behind the food Grandma Rikker had sent back. She’d packed a plastic tub of her cooking for each of us, but I’d left mine on the back seat. It had smelled great, too. And now I wouldn’t get a chance to enjoy it.

Like so many other things I craved.

Celly: Short for “celebration.” Exuberance performed after scoring a goal.

—Rikker

Walking into practice was an uncomfortable experience. There was a TV van parked at the curb, for one thing. Also, my new BFF Bob from the press office was standing around in the locker room when I arrived, looking wildly out of place. “How are you holding up, Mr. Rikker?” he asked after introducing himself, while the whole team listened in.

“Um, fine, sir.”

“Excellent! Now, I’ve allowed some journalists to photograph your practice today. The rule is that they cannot ask questions or interfere, okay? So if anyone steps out of line, you give me a jingle.”

A jingle. I managed to refrain from rolling my eyes. “Okay,” I said. Because what was my choice?

He left, thank God. And I stood there, facing my locker, gearing up and trying to be invisible.