by Van Barrett
Devon got up and quietly walked over to my chair. She wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me while I sat.
“I'm sorry, Lane.”
I let out a deep sigh. Me and Devon are always screwing around and making horrible jokes. But the one thing I love about her is that we can always get real in a hurry. And her show of love here almost made my eyes misty. Is someone cuttin' onions in here?
“Hell. It's my fault.” I swallowed, and my throat was so tight, I'm sure we both heard the gulp. “It was way too soon to get my hopes up. As if I haven't learned that lesson enough times? I'm pathetic, I know.”
She squeezed me tighter.
I tapped my hand on her arm. “Um, Devon?”
“Yeah?”
“Your breasts are totally mashed against my face.”
Devon jumped back and covered her mouth. I laughed too, and I started to feel kinda normal again.
“Just think. If you were the back massage guy, and my tits pressed up against your face, you'd have totally died and gone to heaven …” Devon joked as she plunked back into her seat.
“Yeah. Or you'd have died and gone to heaven, 'cause you actually got close to that creeper.”
Devon clapped and squealed with delight. “That's so dark! I love it!”
After trading a few more one-liners, we turned back to our monitors and went to work.
***
If you're wondering how I can possibly be qualified to give relationship advice to people while my own love life is a complete disaster … well, first of all – hey, I resent that, pal! Ahem. Second of all, you're totally right. I'm not qualified.
But I'm also not paid to be doing this, and I'm not administering my advice as if it's some kind of professional or legal counsel. No, see, Bitch and Moan is branded strictly as entertainment. And for me and Devon, it's a labor of love. We're not even doing it for bragging rights or publicity, since we write under pen-names and no one knows who we really are. (I'd rather not have all of campus know me as 'that gay guy in the newspaper who always writes about his love of sucking dicks,' thank you very much.)
So how did we get this column? Long story short: freshman year I thought I wanted to study journalism. So I took a bunch of journalism courses, and that's where I met Devon. Bitch and Moan was supposed to be a throw-away, one-time assignment that we created together for one of our classes. But our professor liked our 'tone' and our 'chemistry,' and he ended up sharing our assignment with the student newspaper people over at the Dakota Student. The editor over there liked it, too. He asked us if we wanted to run a weekly column in the paper. We said sure, why not? And so last year was our first year in the paper. The campus loves us. We're a hit.
Now, since then, I've actually realized that journalism is not the path for me. Basically, my beef with journalism is that all the courses focus too much on the 'money' part of media, and not so much on the how to be a good reporter aspect. The j-school is more concerned with teaching you about advertising, and gatekeepers, and not pissing off the guy who signs your paycheck by covering some story that he'd rather his readers not find out about. Basically, it was all a little too 'big business' for little ol' me.
So, at the end of last year, my sophomore year, I officially switched my major to psych. (Yeah, like everyone else and their brother.) I'm not sure what I'm gonna do with that psych degree once I've got it, but … all I know is I love the idea of helping people, and if I could do that professionally? Then life would be amazing.
For as long as I can remember, my friends have always sought me out whenever they needed life advice, and that's a damn good feeling! They say I can see things objectively. Cool. (If only I could see my own life's problems objectively! Ha ha / weep.)
So that's why I keep writing for Bitch and Moan, even though I'm going down a different path now. That, and I love hangin' out with Devon.
Oh, right. There's one more wrinkle in this fold: if I complete one more j-school course, I'll graduate with a minor in journalism. Might as well, right? Who knows, maybe if I get licensed someday, that minor could actually lead to something bigger. Like, say, I dunno, a nationally syndicated column, like Dear Abby or Savage Love or something. You never know!
So this semester, I'm taking an independent study course in journalism to fulfill that requirement. Which is great, because I don't have to attend class – all I do is get assignments from Stan, the student newspaper editor. And we're supposed to meet sometime next week to discuss my final assignment. Wheee! My last journalism course. I'm pumped, to say the least.
I'm supposed to find out what that assignment is any day now … and I can't wait.
2
Stan the Man
– Lane –
An hour later.
Devon stood up from her chair and stretched. “Alright, Lane, it's about to turn six.” She pressed and held the power button until her computer chimed and shut down. “You know my rule. I don't stay any later than six on a Friday.”
She didn't have to twist my arm; I shut my computer down in a hurry, too. “Sounds good. I'm starved, anyway. I'll finish up on Monday.”
“So, if you're not doing anything tonight, you wanna hang out?” Devon asked while we stuffed our backpacks with our belongings. “We could head out to the ba~ars!”
I zipped my backpack up and shrugged. “Sure. Sounds great.”
“Perfect. With Paulo out of the picture, I could be your wingman!”
“Y'know.” I paused with a contemplative sigh. “Honestly, I think I just need a break from meeting guys. I need to get myself straightened out.”
“Sure.” Devon stifled a laugh. “I give you seven hours.”
“Hey, c'mon!”
We headed for the door. I reached for the handle, but before I could grab it, the door flew open. I had to leap back. Stan, the student editor of the Dakota Student, came rushing in.
“Hi!” Stan said, sounding like he sprinted over.
Stan is tall and skinny, and I mean skinny – so any clothes, no matter the cut, always end up looking baggy on him. He also practically lives in the journalism building. I don't think he ever goes home.
“Shit, Stan! You almost crushed me.”
“Er. Sorry. Heh.” Stan looked sheepish, always hiding his eyes under his long bangs. “But uh, you're probably gonna wanna hear this. Something just came down from above and I've got your final assignment for your independent study.”
“Hmm. Can it wait 'til Monday? We were just heading out.”
“Umm, I'd rather you hear this first. It's kinda important and it'll only take a sec.”
“Fine.” I dropped my backpack in defeat and plopped back into my computer chair. “Dev, you can go on without me, if you want.”
“You kidding?” She dropped her backpack and took a seat, too. “This sounds juicy already. I'm stayin'.”
Stan shut the door and leaned his wiry frame against it. He jingled keys and coins and god knows what else was in his pockets.
“Okay.” Stan chuckled nervously. “You're not gonna believe this.”
I propped my chin up with my hand. “Just tell me already, Stan.”
“Alright. So. I know you're not a fan of sports.”
I already didn't like where this was going.
“… To put it mildly, no, I'm not.” I caught Devon's eye and we exchanged expressions.
Stan whipped his bangs out of his eyes. “But I just got off the phone with the head of PR over at the Athletics office.”
“Okay, and?” I blinked at Stan. “Keep going.”
“He told me that there's an athlete here at UND who wanted a reporter to follow him around and write an expose on him.”
I laughed. “An expose on what?”
“He's kind of a big deal, I guess.” Stan didn't look too certain himself. “All I know is they want the article to coincide with an award that's given to the best college player in the nation.”
“So … they're assuming he'll win that award, then?”
<
br /> “Sounds like it.”
I scoffed. “Giant ego – check.”
Stan shrugged. “Maybe his agent told him it'd be a good idea?”
“College athletes have agents?”
“I know as much as you do, Lane.”
“Okay. So what's this gotta do with me? Because I know you're not saying what I think you're saying right now.”
“Well!” Stan clapped his hands together and rubbed them furiously. “Actually, I am telling you that! You're the man for the job.”
Stan swallowed uncomfortably. As if he knew how crazy he sounded, too. Was this a joke?
“No.” I laughed with disbelief. “No. I am not the guy for the job, Stan. I don't know a thing about sports.”
“Believe me, I know it.”
“Wait, what sport are we even talking about, anyway?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.
“Hockey.” Stan grinned toothily.
“Hockey!” I howled, slapping my palm against my desk. “Here's everything I know about hockey, Stan: a bunch of angry men punch each other and skate around on ice, all while chasing a little, uh – a little black thing … Shit, I forgot. What's it called?”
“The puck,” Devon volunteered.
“Right. Puck. Thanks Dev.”
With a mousy face, she gave me the thumbs up. “No prob.”
“See that, Stan? I didn't even know the word for puck. And yet I'm the first person you thought of for this assignment? Are you nuts?! Ask any one of the sportswriters on this newspaper if they'd do this and they'd leap at the opportunity …!”
“Correction.” Stan raised his index finger. “You are not the first person I thought of for this assignment. In fact, you're the last.”
“Care to explain, Stan?”
Stan nodded. “Apparently those same sportswriters have already burned their bridges with this guy, and he won't give 'em any more access.”
“How? The hell did they do?”
“Honestly, I've got no idea, Lane. All I know is that I was told to pick someone different for this, alright? Someone with no sports background, no media background, even. The more an outsider to newspaper editorials, the better. The absolute last person I could think of.”
I whipped my head over at Devon. “Well maybe Devon could do it, then! She at least knows what a puck is …”
“Yeah!” Her eyes lit up. “Can I, Stan? Please? I love hockey players …” Devon bit her lip.
Stan shook his head. “The Athletics PR guy said it should probably be a male, since you'll have to be in and around their dressing room.”
“Aww!” Devon pouted.
I gulped. “Did you tell them that I was a gay male? Because I think those meat-heads would rather have a girl in there than me.”
“Of course I didn't tell them that. That's not my business to share.”
“Oh. Well. That's a relief, at least.” I folded my arms and sunk into my chair. “I still don't wanna do it, though. I can't stand jocks.”
“It's too late, Lane.” Stan shrugged. He reached into his pocket and tossed something into my lap. I picked it up and groaned: it was a laminated press pass with my name and picture already on it.
“I'm sure I don't have to tell you how much money Athletics bring to this school. When they want something, they get it.”
“Of course. Money. It always comes down to money, doesn't it.”
“Yeah, I guess it does.” Stan suppressed a laugh and moved for the door. “Oh. Hey. One last thing.” He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Here's the hockey team schedule. Looks like they're playing tonight, actually. Maybe you could check it out? See what hockey's all about?”
“I don't think so, Stan.” I let out a wounded sigh. “What's his name, anyway? Does he even have a name?”
“I didn't tell you? His name's River.”
“River,” I mocked. “River what?”
Devon's eyes lit up. “River Brame!” she cheered.
“Raw-meat?” I repeated his name incredulously. “His name is River Rawmeat?”
“No,” she laughed. “Brame. B-r-a-m-e. He's the Fighting Hawks team captain.”
Stan nodded, looking impressed. “Yeah, actually, she's right.” He grabbed the door handle. “You do know a little somethin' about hockey, don't you, Devon?”
She made a show out of inspecting her nails. “I know enough.”
“Huh. Wouldn't have guessed. Well alright you two, have a good weekend.”
“See ya Stan,” Devon sang.
“Bye Stan,” I grunted.
And with that, Stan was gone.
“I … really don't understand why you can't do this assignment instead of me.” I pouted as we stood up to try to leave again. “I mean, you actually know who this River guy is!”
“He's kind of a big deal, Lane. I think I'm actually more surprised you haven't heard of him.”
“Whatever. You actually want this assignment – I don't! This doesn't make any sense.”
“Stan's the man,” Devon said with a shrug. “And besides, you heard him. They're not cool with ladies in the room.”
“Aren't you offended by that?” I asked, flabbergasted.
“Look. As much as I wanna see all those sexy, round, nekkid hockey butts? All those built thighs and washboard abs?” Devon let the question linger, pondered it, and then sighed dreamily. “It doesn't feel right. Like there'd be too much masculine energy swirling around in there. I don't think I'd feel comfortable, y'know?”
I tutted. “Oh, as if I'd be comfortable in there! All those reasons apply to me too, you know.”
We pushed through the building's doors, taking in the first breath of fresh air we'd had in hours. The sun was setting and campus was quiet and strangely calm, like any other Friday evening.
“So? You wanna go tonight or what?” Devon asked as we strolled along the sidewalk.
“What, the bar? I already said yeah!”
“Not the bar … I mean the hockey game! We can go to the bar after the game.”
“Ha! Hell no!” I huffed. “I don't even wanna think about hockey.”
“C'mon, Lane! It'd be fun!” Devon panted.
“River Brame.” I said the hockey player's name with more than a hint of derision. “Never heard of him in my life.”
Who the heck is River Brame? I wondered while we walked.
3
Smooth
– River –
After our center Jono Clark took a two-minute penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct, we're stuck in the defensive zone, trying to fend off Denver University's power play. We can't let them score, or we'll lose the game. This is sudden death overtime.
Teammate Shayne Elliott grinds play to a halt when he pins the puck against the boards with his skate blade. Players from both teams surround him; Denver wants to pry the puck free so they can resume their attack. We just want to keep that puck snug and secure on the boards to take precious seconds off of Jono's penalty.
So bodies bump and shove, jostle and grind, jab and swear at each other. It's a mass of human bodies, like layers of an onion. Denver wants to peel the layers off, but our guys keep pressing tighter and tighter, trying to hold it all together.
The puck isn't going anywhere.
“Move the puck! Move it!” the referee yells. He'll blow his whistle if this goes on any longer. The crowd didn't pay good money to watch us push and shove for 20 minutes, after all.
I've hung back because I want Denver to wear themselves out in the grind. But now it's time. I make my move. I sneak up on the group and I spot it – a sliver of black rubber, held against the boards by Elliott's skate. I slip my stick through a forest of legs, sticks and skates.
“I got it Ells!” I say as I cup my stick blade against his skate.
My teammate knows my voice. We've been through hell and back in four years together. He knows what my stick blade looks like, too. He sees it, lifts his foot, and lets me snatch the puck free.
What happens n
ext is why I practice my stick-handling for hours every day of my life – for moments just like this.
With blinding speed and machine-like precision, I work the puck back through the maze of legs and feet and sticks – back and forth, zig-zagging, left and right, dodging the slashes and kicks along the way.
I've snatched the puck like a skilled diamond thief before Denver even realizes what's missing. And then it's off to the races.
I cut right down the middle and split right past Denver's defense. I bear down on the goalie. All alone, one-on-one. It's a short-handed breakaway in overtime.
Time slows for me. It always does in these game-breaking situations. It's a gift, and I know it. Not everyone has this.
The goalie lowers into his stance, readying himself. I notice his micro-movements, his muscle twitches. Like a cat that's about to pounce on its prey. He wants to stay loose and be ready for anything. He knows he'll have to be fast if he wants to stop me. I am, after all, the leading the scorer in the NCAA.
Being fast is one thing – but staying calm is another. And this goalie has already psyched himself out. He's anticipating my moves so hard, he hasn't left any room for error. I'll use his eagerness against him.
I wait until I'm close. I pull the puck forehand and sell a shot with a head-fake. Sure enough, the goalie bites. He drops down to his pads.
So far so good. He's not finished yet … but he will be soon.
I sweep the puck across the ice to my backhand. Goalie digs one skate blade into the ice and pushes off mightily, lunging across his crease. He's desperately trying to square up to my new shooting angle.
But instead of shooting, I've got one more trick up my sleeve.
A flurry of snow and ice and water sprays from my skate blades, shooting right at the goalie. I've stopped on a dime. And lost in that storm of snow was one quick movement – I've yanked the puck between my feet and gone forehand once more.
I've got a yawning, open net in front of me. All I gotta do is tuck it in and the game's over.
The goalie's not even sure what happened, but he knows he's toast. He's still sliding in the other direction. The look in his eyes says he's already accepted defeat.
