The Understatement of the Year by Sarina Bowen Read Free Book Online Page A

stupidity.
    A second later he dropped his gaze and passed me, heading for the front of the house. I watched him go. Because I could not look away.

 
     
     
     
     
    — October —

    Shadow : Covering an opponent closely, limiting his effectiveness.
     
    — Rikker
    I walked to the hockey weight room through a fine autumn afternoon, admiring the decorative old architecture. After four weeks, I’d learned the campus pretty well, and figured out a lot of that new guy stuff that you have to learn. The dining halls had Pepsi products. The graduate school libraries were open later than the undergrad ones. You didn’t need quarters for the laundry, because they took credit cards.
    Also, I tried not to get depressed about always being the new guy.
    People passed me in twos and threes, chatting together. The transfer student is an awkward thing to be. Friendships have already formed. Allegiances made. I was going to be separate for a while. An outsider.
    I was already used to it.
    At the gym, I got busy sharing a squat rack with Trevi. He was another forward with curly dark hair and a nice smile. (Though he was obviously as straight as a ruler.)
    I put Trevi at a solid six on the Rikker scale. That was my private rating for how tolerant my teammates were of me. Trevi had earned his six by always looking me in the eye, and acting friendly enough when we found ourselves standing next to one another at Capri’s or using the same piece of weight room equipment.
    But he’d never started a conversation with me. Not once. It was as if volunteering anything about himself would be taking it too far — as if the other dudes might start to wonder, you know?
    That was life in the locker room.
    “You’re up,” Trevi said, stepping aside to stretch.
    I maneuvered myself beneath the barbell and hoisted it onto my shoulders. Then I took a good step backward, stuck out my ass and squatted. The first three reps were okay, but numbers four and five nearly killed me.
    When I’d finally parked the barbell back onto its holders and turned around, Trevi was massaging his own shoulder with one hand. He’d done that a lot this afternoon. “That bothering you?” I asked him.
    “It’s just a big knot,” he shrugged. “But it’s going on two days now. Stubborn bitch.”
    “Huh,” I looked around the weight room. “Do you know if they have any tennis balls around here? I know a trick.”
    “Yeah? Hang on. It’s gettin’ to the point where I’ll try anything.”
    I stretched my quads until he came back with a hard rubber ball. “Will this work?”
    “Sure.” I took it from him. “Now sit down on that bench.” That’s when I saw the slightest hesitation. Maybe Trevi didn’t realize that I’d actually have to touch his shoulder. And now he wondered whether it was worth it. “It won’t make you queer,” I joked.
    His expression turned sheepish, and he sat down on the bench. The best thing to do would be to probe his shoulder with my fingers, looking for the knot. But I knew he’d be happier if I kept my hands off him. “Point to the spot,” I said. He reached two fingers back, digging them into the muscle. “Okay,” I said, putting the tennis ball there. When he took his hand away, I began to press. “Right there?” I asked, putting some weight behind the ball.
    “Yeah. A little higher?”
    I adjusted the ball a fraction of a centimeter, and put even more weight behind it.
    “Christ,” he grunted.
    “I know. But it works. In fact, it will still work even if you cry like a little girl right now.”
    He chuffed out a laugh.
    “Drop your head, and just try to relax. It takes a couple of minutes for your muscle to stop fighting back.”
    “‘Kay,” he said.
    Pressing the ball into his muscle, 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