Free The Understatement of the Year by Sarina Bowen Page B

the thump of the music and the slamming of locker doors. “Why are you drinking so much, Graham?” she asked. “What’s the matter?”
    I just shrugged. Because that’s all I had to say on the subject.
    “Fine,” she said, her face hardening. “Be a jackass to me, if you must.” She pushed a hotel key envelope into my hand. “But don’t be a jackass to him.”
    God, how I hated hearing her say that. It killed me every time I saw Bella and Rikker talking together. Not only did I fear for my own privacy, I hated the feeling that I was losing my best friend. To him .
    “My flask,” I said, hating the sound of my own voice.
    “You can have it back tomorrow, after the game.” She marched off then.
    Hell .
    There was nothing to do then except to go off to find some dinner. And — if there really was a God in heaven, like they taught us at my homophobic hellhole of a high school — more alcohol.
     
    — Rikker
    I ate a late dinner of crab cakes and lobster roll at some fish place that Coach herded us to. And then everyone walked back toward the hotel in plenty of time for our ten o’clock curfew. But I dawdled, walking down the side streets, buying myself an ice cream cone in a drowsy little cafe. I liked cities. I liked their busy sidewalks and their anonymity.
    Where I grew up in western Michigan, there was only a taste of the city life. Most everyone favored the dull suburbs. When I moved to Vermont for tenth grade, I thought I’d hate the rural atmosphere. But it actually grew on me, because it was more honest than the aggressively tended lawns of my youth. There were ragged meadows, with cows munching them. There were miles of pine forest, and the outline of the Green Mountains everywhere you looked.
    Still, I preferred the city. Especially a good, old one. My ex-boyfriend and I used to drive ninety minutes from Burlington into Montreal, where the drinking age (and therefore the clubbing age) was only eighteen. We had a blast finding all the gay bars and trying them out.
    A group of college kids passed me on the sidewalk, laughing together. There was no denying that I was lonely, and letting it get to me tonight.
    At ten o’clock on the dot, I walked into the hotel carrying my duffel bag and a heavy helping of dread. When Bella had given me my key card, she’d done it with a frown. “If you see anybody drinking before the game tomorrow, will you tell me?”
    “Um, sure?” You’d have to be a pretty big idiot to want to drink before getting onto the ice with a bunch of guys who were trying to squish you like a bug.
    She didn’t say anything about my rooming situation, so I was pretty sure who I’d find. Unless he’d fled, somehow.
    Upstairs, the door to room 312 opened with a mechanical click, and I pushed inside. It was so dark in there that I assumed I was alone. In fact, when my eyes adjusted to the dimness it startled the crap out of me to see Graham sitting at the little table near the window, his chin parked on his folded hands.
    I dropped my bag on the floor and fumbled for one of the bedside lamps. Even when I clicked it on, making a circle of yellow light on the rug, he didn’t move.
    “ Hola, Miguel ,” I said, my voice low.
    There was no response.
    Seriously? Even if I could understand his reluctance to speak to me in a room full of people, ignoring me right now was asinine. He made me feel like I was starring in that movie where Bruce Willis is dead, but doesn’t know it.
    I should have just headed into the bathroom to brush my teeth and pretend like it didn’t matter. But it did matter. And during the next ten seconds, my anger swelled. I was suddenly livid , with the sound of blood pounding in my ears. Because no matter how much you might want to pretend a person doesn’t exist, you can’t do that. Especially if that person is your teammate.
    Especially if that person used to be your best friend.
    Crossing the room, I stood over him. He didn’t move. Not a muscle. So I raised a