Sarina Bowen

"Just smile and wave," Eriksson suggests.

"Give 'em the Queen Elizabeth wave," Luko says helpfully. He then proceeds to do the slow, stilted hand flutter that every member of British royalty has perfected, and everyone bursts out laughing.

"Did you just call me a queen?" I quip.

Luko's smile slides off his face. "N-no! I..."

"No, man. I'm teasing, Swear to God." Shit. I never got a chance to figure out what I wanted to say to these guys. "I don't get offended too easily. And—just for the record—none of you uglies is my type. Except for maybe Eriksson. But I don't want to be his rebound lay."

"It was the shirt, huh?"

I blink in confusion, and he gestures to the green button-down I have on.

"I knew it. Made you gay," he says gleefully.

"Matt," one of our teammates chudes, but it's too late, other guys are already snickering, and hell, so am I.

When I walk into the dressing room, all conversation comes to a halt.

Whatever. I don't give a fuck. I toss my gym bag onto the bench and remove my coat. You could hear a pin drop. I hang up my coat and then kick off my boots.

"Wesley, you asshole," Eriksson says. "Aren't you going to tell us?"

"Tell you what?" I growl. My sex life is none of their goddamn business.

"How is he? Jesus Christ. The TV news makes it sound like your boyfriend might be getting last rites."

My fingers falter on the buttons of my bright green checked shirt. "W-what?"

Our backup goalie Tomilson speaks up wryly. "I think what Mr. Sensitive is trying to ask is, is your partner okay?"

"Says here that we're dialing... Ryan Wesley? That's odd." Bill laughs. "Same name as that killer rookie forward. Call this number—4-1-6..."

I doze.

"You're not gonna believe this." Danton's voice grates on my consciousness. "The number hits the Toronto clubhouse switchboard. Am I really asking them to find Ryan Wesley?"

"That's what it says on the paper, kid. Must be true."

My last half-conscious thought is: I'm sorry, Wes.

"Last one—do you go for the blond-haired, blue-eyed girl next door? Or do you like em dark and mysterious?"

"Uh, blond hair and brown eyes," I say quickly, happy to be rid of her.

She nods slowly, as if I've just said something fascinating. "Interesting choice. There can't be many women with that coloring."

"Well, Becky, maybe that's why I'm a bachelor."

She giggles, and the interview is finally over.

But when she turns away, I see Blake watching me, one eyebrow raised. So I do the closeted man's instant replay- running through everything I just said, searching for any incriminating nuggets. And I kick myself for telling the world that I like blondes with brown eyes.

Eh. There's no way Blake made that connection. He's probably over there wondering whether he'd be more likely to encounter a seventeen-foot velociraptor on a beach or in the mountains.

"It comes from sheep. I hate sheep."

A bark of laughter escapes me. "Who hates sheep? They're, like, woolly and harmless."

"Sheep are not harmless, bro. The sheep down the road from my grandparents' farm?" He shakes his giant head as if recalling a crack den in his neighborhood. "Those fuckers were mean. And loud. When I was a kid, my parents were like, 'Oh, Blakey, look at the little lambs!' And those fuckers would come over to the fence and bleat in my face."

Dear Alison,

Hi. I just wanted to tell you that what happened between us wasn't all your fault.

It cost me something to write that. Because my inner cave man wanted to protest. But I soldiered on.

It always bothered me when you pushed me away. But instead of trying to figure out what was wrong, I just brooded about it. I made up a dozen reasons in my mind, and all of them were wrong. If I'd been able to speak up earlier, we might have avoided all the drama on our birthday. And so for that, I am sorry.

See you at Urban Studies on Tuesday,

-Rafe

Beta Rho: 100 Years of Misogyny

First frat to incorporate at Harkness College.
1974: First frat to protest the admission of women to the college
1981: Site of the first sexual assault of a female student
Reprimands and/or probation 7 times in the last 16 years

Side Effects of Drinking at Beta Rho Include

Your photo on the Brodacious website
Winning Skank of the Week
Getting roofied
If a brother hands you "tonight's special" DO NOT drink it
If you suspect a friend has been drugged, call 911

Rafe stood in front of me, looking ten different kinds of hot. He had a sort of maddening alpha-male scowl on his face. I wanted to launch myself at him. I could kiss that frown off his face. I could scale him like a tree until I had him muttering Spanish curses in my ear. I could strip him down, and finish what we'd started the other day. And when we were done, I could lay my head upon his chest - my boyfriend's chest - and go to sleep.

The urge was strong. But I didn't give in to it.

"It hasn't been the best day. I sort of threw myself at Rafe, and he turned me down."

Her famously expressive eyes widened. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. I'm not a subtle girl. No eyelashes were batted. I stuck my tongue down his throat. He definitely noticed."

It was pretty impressive that Graham often went out drinking with the hockey team. For months he and Rikker had kept their relationship a secret, and coming out of the closet had been really hard on him. He'd quit the team after his concussion, but he hadn't quit his circle of friends. There were some curious stares last spring as everyone figured out how things were between Graham and their star right wing. But Graham pushed through all that, and kept most of his friendships on the team.

He was obviously a whole lot braver than I was.

I glanced around the busy room. Hartley and Orson were doing split squats against the windows. Those were the two players who rated highest on the Rikker scale. Orson was a solid eight. I always found him easy to talk to. And Hartley was a nine. That dude worked to include me, and never even seemed to notice he was doing it. In fact, he could earn himself a ten. But I was saving room on the Rikker scale. Maybe I'm a tough grader, but I hoped that the unlikely day would come when somebody actually told me that they were glad I showed up to play hockey here.

(...)

"I'm just glad you showed up to be on it [the team]."

Holy hell! It had finally happened.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the various food items on our laps, I pulled him by the back of the neck just far enough over to kiss me. "You're it," I whispered. "A perfect ten on the Rikker scale."

"The what?"

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?

"Dear Lord, thank you for these blessings we are about to receive, and for the safe delivery of our guest, who is kind enough to visit an old friend and an old lady. And please bless clueless Edna, whose granddaughter landed in jail again last night, the poor misguided girl."

I raised my eyes to catch Rikker's, and he bit back a smile.

"...And God bless our family and our dear friends. Especially Gertie, and may you help her to learn before she dies that cheating at poker is wrong. Amen."

Hi all. I feel like a heel doing this over Facebook, but I can't reach everyone by tomorrow. You're all going to discuss me on Sunday, anyway. And in case you think my account was hacked, it wasn't. As proof I'll confess that I'm the one who broke Mom's Christmas tree angel when I was seven. It was death by baseball, but I swear she didn't suffer.

Anyway, I have to catch you up on a few developments. I've taken the coaching job in Toronto, and I've declined my spot in Detroit. This feels like the right career move, but there's something else. I'm living with my boyfriend (that was not a typo.) His name is Wes, and we met at Lake Placid about nine years ago.

In case you were lacking something to talk about over dinner, I've fixed that problem. Love you all.

Jamie

Dear Coach Canning,

I can't believe that I didn't get to finish the session with you. I'm still not speaking to my father, either. Working with you has been the best summer of my life, and I'm pissed that it ended on a bitter note.

My team for this year is the Storm Sharks U18. Here's the link, just in case you were ever curious about my stats. I think they're about to improve, and it's all because of you.

Sincerely,

John Killfeather, Jr.

[...]

Killfeather-you are an amazing goalie and it was my pleasure to work with you this summer. Of course I'll check out your stats as the winter progresses. You're going to rock this season.

Sincerely, Jamie Canning

"You really do love me, huh ?"

"Always have." I swallow hard. "Always will."

"I don't know what you think happened this summer," he continues, fitting his hands into his trouser pockets. If this coaching thing doesn't work out, he should try becoming the CEO of a company somewhere. Because he really rocks the look. "In fact, I'm sure you've invented a lot of bullshit in that stubborn head of yours. You think you've corrupted me, or manipulated me, or some shit."

My face is hot now. Because I do think that.

"You think that I was just playing around. Taking a walk on the wild side. You think I'm just going to "He brushes his hands together as if dusting them off."-go back to girls. Chalk this up as an experiment."

Yeah, I think that, too.

"That's not what happened, Ryan. Not for me. What happened is that I got my best friend back for a little while, and I also fell for him." His voice thickens. "I'm not just saying that. I fucking love you, and I know that's inconvenient. But I didn't get a chance to tell you in Lake Placid, so I'm telling you right now. Just in case we can ever get more than a summer. I love you, and I wish things were different."

Wes-I need fifteen minutes of your time. I'm going to take this coaching job, and there's something I want to say. We're going to share a city. It's a big one, but still. Tell me where we can meet. I don't care where-Starbucks or whatever the Canadian equivalent is.

Do me this favor.

J.

Even after he's out of view, I need a minute of calm breathing to compose myself. I can't believe I just did that. It's not what I want. My thoughts zip around like a pinball while I search my brain for a solution to the problem.

But there isn't one. I've just spent a decade of my life trying to get this job in Toronto. I have a college degree in communications, like every other fucking jock on the planet. And a father who will have me tarred and feathered if I fuck up in Toronto.

Jamie Canning was my first crush and my first love, But he was never mine to have.

There's one silver lining here. Just one. I know Jamie's pissed right now because he's feeling rejected. That's never fun. But I know in my gut he'll move on. The Hollys of the world are waiting to take him back. Some cute girl will catch his eye before the week is through, and a few months from now, today's disaster will be just a bad memory.

As will I.

I swallow that thought down, then look on the closet floor for my suitcase.