Ivy Years, tome 3 : L'homme de l'année

- Même Skippy fait des blagues sur les pédés. Les siennes sont plus authentiques, cela dit.

"Getting along together was never the problem with you and me," he said. "We're both easy. It's just the rest of the world that's hard."

"What a good friend he is to you," she said, pulling out a white cardboard container.

That was the moment when I was supposed to say, "yeah," and then change the subject, like I always did. But just then, my head gave a lurch of pain. Because it just felt so wrong. Every time I ducked the truth, it was like betraying Rikker all over again. Not to be dramatic, but I kept thinking about Peter's denial of Jesus. Except I was worse than Peter. Instead of denying Rikker three times, I denied him every fricking day.

I put my hands to my temples.

"Michael?" my mother asked. "What's wrong?"

I was too caught up in my own misery to answer her.

Worried, Mom abandoned the take-out order to come over to me. She sat beside me on the bed and cupped two hands under my chin. "What is it?"

I'd finally reached the point where I didn't want to lie anymore. But I wasn't capable of speaking the truth, either. So I was just stuck there, the words choking me.

"Sweetie, please. You're scaring me."

"He's not..." My voice cracked.

She held me a little tighter. "He's not what, Sweetie?"

I wasn't making any sense, and I knew it. It's just that I wasn't sure I could do any better. Not with the hot, crackling ball of fear lodged in my throat. "He's not..." I gasped the last part out, "just my friend."

"Tell me what happened, Rikker. What were you talking about before? Something happened in an alley. Graham got beaten up?"

I shook my head. It wasn't something I could discuss with her.

But Bella's laser eyes did not retreat. "Graham didn't get beat up," she whispered. "You did."

I was in love with Rikker, and had been forever. I didn't tell him, though. I mean, this is me we're talking about here. The usual coward. Rikker would have liked to hear it, I'm sure. And I would have liked to hear it back. But me being me, that wasn't going to happen.

He loved me too, I guess. He'd have to, right? Why else would he stay with my cowardly ass, and sneak around like a stalker every time he needed to use the john? In the locker room he ignored me, as I needed him to. And this was my worst sin - when someone made a fag joke, I said nothing at all. That's how I repaid Rikker's nighttime affection during the daylight hours. With my silence.

But at night, we held each other. We whispered and laughed, and we kissed until our lips were bruised. We worked our way through a serious stash of condoms, and then bought more. In the mornings, he stole out of my room before daybreak. That kind of sucked, because I would have liked to wake up next to him.

I just didn't want it badly enough to ask him to stay.

Five years ago, two boys had kissed in a car. And a bunch of assholes turned that moment into a life-altering disaster. But right now, two grown men could kiss in a car. And then go home to play one more game of RealStix like it was no big deal.

I stretched one hand across the seat to take Graham's. But he wouldn't look at me, even when I gave his arm a tug. "Come here," I said. "Or I'm coming over there." The truck had a bench seat, so it would be easy to make good on that threat.

He looked at me then, a warning on his face.

"It's just a kiss," I whispered, rubbing his big hand in mine. "Do this for me." I pulled him toward me again.

He came almost willingly.

Slowly, we eased closer, our eyes locked on one another, until I could feel his breath on my face. I closed the final inches between us, just ghosting my lips over his on the first pass. I saw his Adam's apple bob nervously. So I was gentle when I cupped the back of his head, pulling him in. I pressed my lips to his, tasting musk and beer. Mmm... My kiss was slow. Appreciative.

After several beats of my heart, he relaxed into the kiss, melting for me. I licked into his mouth then. If I was only getting a kiss, I wanted to make it a good one. On the first wet slide of tongue against tongue, Graham made an achy little sound in the back of his throat.

Heaven.

Leaning in, I wrapped him in my arms. This wasn't like the frantic, tequila-soaked mashup after the Saint B's game. This time, I could feel us both holding tightly to our control. And even though my body wouldn't have minded an escalation, we both knew that it wasn't going to happen. This kiss was all about heartache. It was deep and sweet and sad. My chest fluttered with disbelief that I was holding him, and kissing him. Each moist slide of his lips against mine undid me a little more.

It was possibly the best kiss I'd ever had.

— Commençons par la mauvaise nouvelle. Cet été, Bridger McCaulley a abandonné le hockey pour des raisons familiales. Je l’ai enguirlandé pendant une heure, mais ça n’a rien changé. Malheureusement, nous allons devoir nous passer de lui. Un murmure mécontent s’éleva dans la salle. C’était un coup dur. McCaulley était un ailier solide et j’avais toujours apprécié ce gars–là. — La bonne nouvelle, c’est que nous avons un nouveau joueur, un transfert de Saint-B. C’est un étudiant de deuxième année, en ligne d’attaque. Alors voilà, le Seigneur nous a repris un ailier, mais il nous en a accordé un autre. Une deuxième silhouette apparut alors dans l’encadrement de la porte, un sac de hockey sur l’épaule. Quand j’aperçus son visage – ces grands yeux sombres et perçants sous un enchevêtrement familier de cheveux noirs brillants –, je fus déstabilisé comme jamais auparavant. Ma vision périphérique se brouilla et la voix du Coach fut noyée, comme si j’avais la tête sous l’eau. Ce fut un bruit soudain qui me ramena à la surface. Un instant plus tard, Bella me tendait mon casque, la mine perplexe. Je venais de le lâcher et il avait roulé par terre avec fracas. Ce fut à ce moment que ma mémoire musculaire, développée après des années passées à dissimuler toutes sortes de réactions spontanées, se remit en marche. Je pris le casque des mains de Bella et en soulevai la grille, comme si je n’avais jamais rien vu de plus fascinant que ses mécanismes de fermeture.

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."