by Van Barrett
It wasn't until Alan Rickert texted me later that evening that I got the message.
“Hey River. Think any more about that decision? Choose Carolina! Here's just a hint of what will come if you don't …”
His 'hint' was a blue hyperlink. I clicked it, my blood pressure boiling already. And then I read the DeadSpin article headline:
“River Brame's Private Biographer … And Gay Sex Advice Columnist!”
“What. The. Fuck!” I growled. With my heart already pounding like a war drum, and my hands shaking with adrenaline, I scrolled down and read the article:
“Local sportswriters at the University of North Dakota knew something wasn't right.
Over the past four years, UND senior winger River Brame has risen from college athlete nobody to future NHL star. But this year, despite his phenomenal play, the beloved star winger has had a dark cloud following him: rumors that he might not sign with the NHL team that drafted him. If Brame rejects the Carolina Hurricane's contract offers, he can wait for free agency instead – when all 29 other NHL teams will be eligible to offer him contracts.
Throughout the year, and as Brame's stock continued to skyrocket, the questions that surrounded his future decision began to smolder. But Brame downplayed any public comment, oft repeating that the issue was between him, his agent, and Carolina.
And then something bizarre happened: Brame refused to do any more interviews with any local media. Sources suggested that Brame was 'upset' with how media were reporting on his impending decision.
And then something even weirder happened: he privately sought out the UND student newspaper to hire a reporter to act as his personal biographer. This reporter is now known to be Lane Matthews, a complete unknown at the student newspaper. Try as you might, you won't find Lane Matthews' name amongst the staff who write at the Dakota Student.
Sportswriters at UND were rightfully tiffed to lose access to the 6'3 power forward to a student whose name is suspiciously missing from the newspaper's staff listing.
But the plot thickens. DeadSpin has now learned, thanks to anonymous sources close to the team, that Matthews does indeed write for the school newspaper – though not under his own name. Instead, Matthews writes under the pseudonym 'Moan,' as a columnist for the weekly sex advice column, Bitch and Moan.
Writing as 'Moan,' Matthews extols the pleasures of gay anal sex, and professes endlessly for his love of fellating 'big dicks' – sparing no graphic nor obscene detail.
You can't make this stuff up, folks.
The question remains: did Brame know exactly to whom he was granting this special access? If not, has Brame since learned?
Carolina fans, it might be time to stock up on lube. Because it looks like Brame's dead-set on exploring his options in free agency – and he may very well be receiving professional advice on how to give it up the ass.”
I slammed my phone down on my counter-top so hard, the screen shattered. My fists clenched in anger and my vision went white.
“What the fuck! Fuck! You gotta be fucking kidding me!”
I shook the glass shards from my cell phone and dialed Alan Rickert. He answered after one ring.
“Hi River--”
“You motherfucker!” I roared.
“Okay, River, listen--”
“You've fuckin' done it, Alan! You think – you really think – that this is going to make me want to sign with you?!”
“No River. No.”
“Then why the fuck--”
“Calm down and let me explain.”
“I can't calm down, I feel like my heart is about to explode! I can't believe this shit I just read!”
“River. Calm down.”
My nostrils flared and I stewed with pure rage. I didn't doubt that Alan could hear my seething over the phone.
Alan continued. “This looks bad for you, yes, River. But you still have plausible deniability. All you have to do, is say you didn't know who this gay guy was, and he'll take the blame.”
“The blame?” I repeated, outraged.
“Well, you know, whatever. The 'responsibility,' if that word suits you better. I don't care what you call it, River. The point is, the optics will change. The story won't be that you sought out a gay reporter. The story will be, you sought out a reporter, and whoopsie, the campus newspaper hooked you up with a gay. Not much of a story there. It'd blow over in a matter of days, if not hours.”
“So you obviously had something to do with this.”
“I told you, River, if you don't sign with us – you're inviting this mud-slinging nonsense. I hate that it has to be this way, but that's the business.”
“You clearly don't hate it or you wouldn't do it!”
“And so you'd leave us in free agency. And then the fans would be screaming for my head, since I let you walk, and I'd be out of a job. You see? It's unfortunate, really. But this is what it comes down to. You think you have leverage, River, you think you have a right to free agency … but now you see, you don't. Not without a cost, anyhow.”
“Fuck you. Fuck you, you motherfucker. All along! All along I knew you were a real fuckin' motherfucker.”
“Mm. Yes, River, sure. Whatever you have to say to feel better.”
“Fuck.”
“The point is. Sign with Carolina, and this story ends there.”
“And if I don't?”
He snickered. “I think you know the answer to that, River.”
“Did Jono tell you this shit?”
“Even if he did, I wouldn't say.”
“So what is it you know, Alan?”
“I wouldn't give the game away this soon, River.” He laughed again. “Sign with us and it doesn't matter what we know. We'll protect you. Now, and in the future, too.”
“Never.” I growled. “Never, you hear me?”
“I understand you're very emotional right now, River, so I'm not going to hold you to a hasty, and let's face it, poor decision. I'm going to send my latest offer to your agent – which I'm sure you'll find very, very lucrative. And now I'm going to hang up and give you some time to think this over.”
“Fuck you Alan. Fuck you.”
“Ta ta for now, River.”
And with that, he hung up.
“Motherfucker,” I growled again. “How could this happen!?”
I called Jono next. His phone went to voicemail. I left a message – “Jono, call me now!” – and called again and again. But he wouldn't answer.
And then I called Lane.
37
Bzzt, Bzzt, Bzzt
– Lane –
I was in the computer lab working on Bitch and Moan when my phone started buzzing. Slowly at first – Bzzt. Then a couple, and then a trickle more – Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.
Then it was non-stop. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.
“Holy shit.” I grumbled.
“What's up?” Devon asked.
“I'm getting all these Facebook friend requests out of nowhere.” I scrolled through the list of strange and new faces, tapping one [X] after another. “I don't know you, I don't know you, I don't know you …”
“That's weird.” Devon cinched her lips suspiciously. “Have you achieved insta-fame?”
“Who knows?” I shrugged. “They look like total randos to me. Maybe they're bots?”
“Oooh. Maybe you're being hacked by Russian agents!”
“Yeah. Right.” I scoffed. “Like I have anything that would interest them. Hell, like I have anything that would interest anybody at all. Anyway, the Russians are distracting the heck out of me, so away they go!” I pressed and held the power button on my phone until it shut down.
“Thank you.” Devon winked and clicked her tongue at me. “Much more peaceful.”
“Yup.”
Part of me wanted to worry – but what if Riiiiiiiiver tries to text me?!
But that was the annoying, clingy part of myself. The fact of the matter was, River hadn't tried to text me. He didn't pick up on t
he obvious clue that I was annoyed with him last time we saw each other. I'd practically gotten on my knees and begged him to just say, “Lane, I like you.” And he couldn't even do that. Not without launching into his theories about how Jono is this spy trying to bring down his hockey career or something.
So shutting off my phone was a relief – not just because I silenced the barrage of weird Facebook friend requests. But also because I silenced that pitiful part of myself; that saccharine, pathetic, and endlessly hopeful part of myself that got zapped by a desperate jolt every time my phone buzzed. Thinking … this time, it'll be River!
I left my phone off. Me and Devon stayed late, working like we used to. Around 9, we finally left. I'd forgotten to turn my phone back on when we left, but y'know what? I didn't care.
***
I climbed up the flight of stairs to my apartment. And when I saw the person sitting on the floor outside my door, I nearly had a heart attack.
“Oh Jesus!” I yelped. It was River, and not some crazed mugger, thankfully. “You scared the shit out of me, River.”
He looked up at me, his phone pressed against his ear. If this was supposed to be a sweet surprise, it'd do him well to look a little less gloomy. Or a lot.
He spoke, but not to me – he was leaving a voicemail message. “Jono. For the last time. Call me. We need to talk.” River hung up and stared at me.
Huh. This doesn't seem good.
“Oh … hi?” I said.
“Yeah. Hey. Hi Lane Matthews, Bitch and Moan columnist.”
“Um, hi River Brame, hockey player.” I cleared my throat. “And what brings you outside my apartment, exactly?”
“We need to talk.” Whatever we needed to talk about, it was serious. He stood to his feet and stepped aside so I could unlock the door.
“Okay …” Shit. My mind raced: had I done something wrong?
I unlocked the door and River followed me in. When the door shut, he started in on me.
“You lied to me, Lane.”
“Lied to you about what? What're you talking about?”
“Don't play dumb anymore, man. You told me you hadn't told anybody, but obviously you did.”
He handed me his phone. I read the headline and gasped. Uh oh.
River stared me down. “Yeah. Yeahhhh. Now you see.”
“River, I don't …”
“Go ahead. Read the whole thing.”
So I did. I read it all. Not only did the article paint River in the worst possible manner – all but explicitly questioning his sexual orientation – but I took offense at the way they wrote about me, too! (I don't just write about gay sex and sucking dicks, for fuck's sake. I write about love and relationships and hetero sex too. Fuck you, sensationalist asshole media people. For real.)
But I guess this explains all those friend requests I'm suddenly getting, huh? Great. I'm famous.
I looked up at River with a pout. “River … I … I'm sorry.”
“So? Who'd you tell?”
“I haven't told anybody that we've hooked up, and that's the truth.”
“But you told me that no one else knows that you write for Bitch and Moan.”
“Well,” I stammered. “I mean, no one besides Devon … because she's the other columnist.”
River's eyes grew huge. “What? You never told me that! That's kind of important, don't you think!”
“I didn't … I didn't think it'd matter …”
“You didn't think it'd matter, even when she's dating my teammate?!”
“I told her not to tell him, way back when I first got assigned to you, alright! I trusted her!”
River folded his arms defiantly. “Well I guess she couldn't be trusted, could she.”
I knew that meant that I couldn't be trusted now, either. And I didn't blame him.
“I'm sorry River. I'm so, so, so sorry. I don't know what to say.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He bitterly laughed. “You know … whatever. Honestly, I was mad a few hours ago. I've been calling you and leaving messages all fucking night. At this point, I've been outraged for so long, I'm just burnt out. I don't even have the energy to be mad anymore.”
To my surprise, River sat down and then sprawled out on my hardwood floor, staring up at the ceiling. He rubbed small circles on his temples. He looked stunned.
I felt horrible. I crawled next to him but I didn't dare touch him. I felt like I didn't deserve to. “You probably hate me right about now, don't you.”
He peered at me from the corner of his eye.
“Fuck,” I groaned hopelessly. “You do. I can see it. I can tell.”
“… I don't hate you,” he said after a pause. “I'm in shock, Lane. I want this to go away. I wanna crawl into a hole and hide. I don't even know what to do or say next. I haven't even told you the other part of the story.”
It took some coaxing, but River told me about his exchange with Alan Rickert.
“So, Lane. Are you sure you haven't told anybody about us. Because he's threatening me that there's more. And he says it's all gonna come out if I don't sign with Carolina.”
“I …” I sighed heavily. “I told Devon that I had a crush on you, okay? But that was before anything actually happened between us.”
“And after?”
“Not a word.”
“Well. If what you say is true, then this is all they have.” He blew out a frustrated gust that made his lips flap. “Still, I can't tell if he's bluffing or not. I can't shake the feeling that he's not. He's too confident. It could just be his poker face, but damn. It's a good one.”
“God.” I hid my eyes under my hands. “This is such a fucking mess.”
“Yeah.”
“I'm sorry River, I never should've done anything with you. I feel like I'm a fucking – I don't even know. Like I'm a virus or something, just spreading and ruining more lives.”
River turned to look at me with his softening eyes. “It's not your fault. You're not a virus and you haven't ruined my life. I played a part in this too, you know.”
I didn't believe him, but I thanked him for saying it anyway. He nodded. And then we laid in silence, both of us thinking. Both of us obsessively searching for a way out of this predicament.
“So what do we do, River? About our media situation.”
“I dunno. I have to figure out my next step.”
… I noticed that I talked with we's, while River talked with I's. That was another let down. But an understandable one.
I knew what was coming. I figured it was better to throw myself in front of the train, rather than sitting around and waiting for River to give me the push instead.
I shut my eyes. “We shouldn't see each other anymore, should we?”
“I guess not,” he said softly.
“Yeah.” I was disappointed. But it wasn't unexpected.
We both let a long silence pass between us.
“River?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something.”
“Sure. Why not.”
“All along – what did you want from me?”
His eyes shut. He suddenly looked sad. I touched my palm to his cheek. And he laid his palm on top of mine.
“What did you want from this?” I asked again, stroking his cheek gently.
He was silent for a beat while he chose his words. “I liked you, Lane. That's all I know how to say.”
“Did you like me more than just – sex?”
His eyes gently opened. He swallowed, almost guiltily, but then he nodded. “… Yeah.”
“But?”
“But I like hockey, too. And I feel like I can't have both. And time's running out.”
And if it came down to a choice? It was obvious. I knew I wouldn't win that one. Hockey was River's true passion. Not me.
My throat tightened and my eyes might have watered. I hated to hear it, but it wasn't anything new or unexpected. This little fling, after all, always going to have an expiration date. And that was the
problem with relationships with expiration dates: they still fucking hurt when they end. Especially if you're dumb enough to let yourself have feelings for someone you can't be with.
I cleared my throat. “So what do we do?”
“I dunno.”
“I know we shouldn't see each other anymore. But … I want – I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you? One last time.”
He gulped loudly. “Yeah.”
I scooted closer and curled up against his large frame. I leaned in. Our lips touched tentatively – we were both holding so, so much from each other. And we had good reason to. There wasn't much feeling in that kiss. Our emotions were stopped up; they didn't flow.
We probably could've both pulled back then. We could've buried our little weeks-long, meaningless fling then and there, held a few brief words in eulogy, and moved on with our separate lives.
But something, something else, inspired us both to lean in and claim a second, and maybe last?, kiss. I felt it: his lip quivered against mine. And my lip, in response, trembled against his. The smallest emotional current passed through us. Like a single stick that shook free from a dam and floated downstream.
Curious to follow it, we locked lips again – heavier. We explored each other like it was the first time. Stick by stick, cluster by cluster, the dam fell apart – and our emotions came spilling out. River ran freely at last.
When I pulled back and looked up, I saw that River's eyes had welled up – and a wet trail slid down both cheeks.
“Oh, no,” I gasped. “River.” The thought that he could cry in front of me was more than enough to put me on the verge of tears too.
I brushed the wet trail from his cheek, and he soon did the same for me. And then we kissed again – our kisses even deeper than before, our tongues weaving and dancing together as they learned to truly move as one.
I climbed on top of River, cupping his face between my hands. Our sweltering lips plumped larger with each kiss. River held me by the waist, his hands so large he could almost span me entirely.
