Page 93 of The Understatement of the Year

“Not bad,” I said. “What are you doing right now?”

“Voy a la clase de Español.”

“Okay. What about after that?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Well, Mom went to the city to hang out with Lori,” I said, feeling excited for something for the first time in a week. “Come over. I’ll get us some lunch.”

“That’s cool. I could pick something up,” Rikker offered.

“No, I got it. What else am I going to do with the next hour? It’s really boring to be me.” I still couldn’t read, and if I looked at a screen for more than a couple of minutes, I got a headache. I wasn’t even supposed to exercise much. Having a concussion made me into a waste of space.

“Okay. I’ll be there. I don’t have practice today, either.”

“Really?”

“Really. Coach gave us the day off. He says he wants us rested for tomorrow night.”

“I can help with that. All I do is rest.”

“You’re hired. See you in an hour.”

I bought meatball subs for lunch, because I remembered that Rikker had always loved those back in Michigan. (In Connecticut, though, subs are called “grinders” for some reason.)

Rikker came through the door whistling at a quarter past twelve. We clobbered our lunch while Rikker caught me up on the hockey gossip. Coach had Trevi playing defense. And Pepé the French kid? We all knew that his surname name was Gerault, because it said so on his jersey. “The revelation this week? Hisrealfirst name is actually Pepé.”

“No shit!” I laughed. “I thought it was just a joke.”

“I know, right?” Rikker wadded up his sandwich wrapper and tossed it into my trash bin.

“Two points,” I said automatically. Then I yawned.

“Do you need to sleep?” Rikker asked.

“Not necessarily,” I said, because I didn’t want him to go. Though I’d already complained to him how weird it was that I couldn’t make it through the afternoon without a nap.

“You look beat,” he said. “Lie down, G. I could use a nap too.”

I didn’t know if that was true. But if I didn’t close my eyes for a little while, I’d only get a headache. So I set the alarm on my phone for three o’clock, just in case. The train ride back from New York took an hour and forty-five minutes. My mom couldn’t possibly walk through the door before three or three-thirty.

Then I lay down on my bed, and Rikker kicked off his shoes. We’d never napped together. In fact, he’d never been to my room like this, in the middle of the day. This was all brand new territory.

Rikker stretched out beside me, and then opened his arms. I went willingly, resting my head on his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist. He kissed the top of my head. And then, as if one just wasn’t enough, he did it again. And that made me irrationally happy. I’d had one of the shittiest weeks of my life. But with Rikker pressed warm and solid against me, none of it mattered.

And here was another first — I’d never lain beside Rikker before without turning into an instant horn dog. But today I fell right to sleep.

Two hours later, I awoke in a panic to the sound of my room door opening. Startled, I sat up fast, spasming into damage-control mode. Even asleep, I was worried about being busted napping with Rikker.

But it was Rikker himself who came through the door. “Easy, tiger,” he said. “It’s just me.” He carried two paper coffee cups, one stacked on top of the other, balanced with his chin.

Taking a slow breath, I willed by heart rate back into the normal range. “Did you sleep?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

“Sure did. Just not as long as you. I brought you a double cappuccino. Hope you like it.”

“Thanks.” I took the cup from him, cracked the little sipping window and tasted it. “Wow.” It was milky and fantastic. So I removed the lid entirely and took a big gulp. “I guess the Italians know a thing or two about coffee.”

Rikker eyed me over the top of his own cup. “You never order these?”