Page 89 of The Understatement of the Year

“God, I’m sorry, G.” And I really was. The sound of his voice did something to me, too. It made me realize how badly I missed him. There was a reason I put up with the whole stealthy-like-a-ninja act. He was important to me, whether it was convenient or not. “Can I come over tonight?”

He cleared his throat. “There’s a whole lot of things I’m not supposed to do.”

“Okay. Is talking to me one of them?”

“No,” he laughed.

“I’ll text you before I come, just to make sure the coast is clear. But that means you’ll actually have to text me back.”

“Sorry about that,” he said. “But it hurts when I look at the screen.”

And now I felt like an ass. “Shit. Should I call instead?”

“I’ll ring you when it’s all clear.”

All clear. As if I was a criminal.Christ. “Be well, G. I miss you.”

He cleared his throat. “Later.”

Sigh.

That afternoon I went to practice.

I hadn’t seen any of my teammates since the weirdness at the hospital. For some reason I felt more awkward about walking into the locker room than I ever had before. I’d always wished that Graham could be with me in a way that wasn’t like a state secret. But I’d always understood his struggle, too. He didn’t want eyes on him. I got that.

But now all those eyes were on me as I walked into the locker room. Or at least it felt like they were. I was pretty sure that a couple of conversations stopped as I entered the room.

I didn’t even know what to think about that, other than I knew that Graham wouldn’t like it.

Hartley greeted me with a familiar nod, and I began stripping out of my jacket and jeans, and pulling on my pads.

“How is he?” Hartley asked in a voice too low to be overheard.

“He feels better, but the news is still shitty,” I said. “There’s nothing he can do, and his mom is, like, his permanent nursemaid.”

“Fuck,” Hartley said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. Although I would have chosen a different expression. Because fucking was off the table, apparently.

The locker room door opened and Coach’s voice rang out. “Afternoon, hooligans! Listen up, I have news.” The chatter and smack talk died down. “Now, I’m sorry to tell you that Mike Graham’s concussion is going to keep him off the ice, probably for the rest of the season. I am sad as hell to lose him. Furthermore, Davis’s tendinitis is going to keep him out for another two games. But fear not! I have I brought you some back-up. For a limited engagement only, please welcome Bridger McCaulley back to the room.”

“No shit!” somebody yelled. And then cheers and applause practically thundered off the walls as a red-haired guy appeared in the doorway, pulling a hockey bag behind him. He smiled a little sheepishly, this guy that I’d replaced in the fall.

“Suit up fast, Bridger. Ice in ten minutes!” Coach yelled. “We’ll sort out who’s switching to defense this afternoon. Everybody skate hard, and it will all work out.”

Hartley waved Bridger over, holding up a hand for a high-five. “Glad to see you here, man,” he said.

“Yeah? We’ll see if you’re still glad ninety minutes from now,” Bridger said. He turned to me and stuck out a hand. “I’m Bridger. Nice to meet you.”

“Rikker,” I said, shaking his hand.

“I know,” he drawled. “Didn’t know I was going to be replaced by a celebrity.”

“Yeah, well. It was my lifelong dream to be famous for getting kicked off a hockey team. But if you need an autograph or anything, I can probably fit you in.”

Bridger grinned. Then he glanced around the locker room. “Hartley, where do you want to put me?”

Right. I was in his spot.Whoops.