Five

I unlocked my dorm room; it was dark and cool. Ziggy’s gone. I was glad, it’d give me a minute to collect my thoughts. I went over to my dresser and picked up the penny, turning it over and over then throwing it down. It hasn’t brought me any luck. I moved methodically to the German flag still hanging on the ceiling and ripped it down, a few pieces of tape sticking on the off-white ceiling. I left them. I’m furious with myself suddenly, wondering why and how where this all started. I don’t even remember.

I hadn’t turned on the light, and the room was still dim, since it wasn’t quite evening. I stepped over to Ziggy’s dresser, each half-breath caught in my throat. His dresser was exactly the same as mine, the same smooth, cool, fake wood that was mass-produced for every dresser, but it felt different. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and maybe it was my imagination acting up again. In jerky movements, I hauled his top drawer open and stepped back to look at his shirts. The shirt on top was a button-down, smooth and ironed and nice. White. I tried to touch it; it was the same cotton that I had in a dozen shirts at home, but a different style. Something was screaming in my head to get away, it wasn’t mine, but I couldn’t pull myself away. His smell was mixed in with the clean shirts, almost hypnotic. I leaned forward.

Suddenly I snapped back and slammed the dresser shut, leaping onto my own bed and staying for a moment. Then I shuddered and ran out the door. I had to get out of there. I felt like I had crossed some invisible line between admirer/worshiper and stalker, and I wanted to go back. But I couldn’t. Not back to the room, and not back to admirer. I was stuck in some kind of creepy limbo, and I had to do something about it. Talk to him? I didn’t know.

When I left, I didn’t know where I was going. I wasn’t actually trying to go anywhere—I was trying to get away from my twisted psyche. This is it, Miro, I thought. You’re sick. You’re done for. If Marian tells even one person, it’ll get around everywhere and you might as well leave the NHL. I could find a house in the Canadian boonies, live off the land, it’d be fun. It’s be a festival of fun-ness. Ah, shit, who was I trying to kid? I was twisted and weird. I’d frighten small children. But I didn’t want to do that! I wanted to play and win a Cup and a gold medal, and most of all, have Ziggy love me.

My self-esteem had plummeted through the floor. I’d never win a Cup, or a medal, I’d never do anything of worth. I hated myself more at that moment than any other time in my life, that time as I walked through the halls that evening at the Olympics. Here I was, supposed to be having the time of my life, when I wasn’t. Life was too hard, everything I was was too hard. I wanted to be normal and straight and a Cup-winner and a medal winner. Life sucked! I hated myself and everything in the world as I walked around and back to my room. I let myself in and saw Ziggy lying on his bed, engrossed in some book.

“Ziggy?” I asked. He looked up, wearing reading glasses. I nearly shuddered, but decided I couldn’t go back. Not now. Not after all I’d put myself through in three and a three quarters of a year.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” I took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut. One—two—three—four—five agonizing seconds passed during which I didn’t breathe.

“Miro…OK. Open your eyes,” Ziggy said slowly. He sighed, looking down. “I don’t quite know what to say.” Well, thanks, Ziggy, neither do I. I’ve spent three and three-quarters of a year worshipping you, please, please, say something!

“Say you love me too.” Man, where did that come from? It’s a sappy movie line—oh, damn, this is turning into a sick, pathetic love story! Help me, someone!

“But, Miro, this probably is going to hurt, but,” dammit, here it comes, please earth swallow me up, kill me, “I don’t love you back.” To his credit, he looked apologetic and everything, but I didn’t realize it then. I was reeling from the pain and ready to cry. “I’m so sorry—but I’m not gay.” He sucked in a deep breath.

“Not at all?” I squeaked. My voice had been growing steadily tighter and therefore higher as he spoke until only dogs and maybe very old people could hear me. “Are you sure?” thinking please don’t be sure. But to no avail.

“Miro, I’m engaged, this is not me. I realize I sound horribly crass and rude and mean, but—I don’t love you.” That was where I flipped out. Totally lost it. Looked like a nutcase.

“What are you talking about? What do you MEAN you don’t love me! I LOVE YOU! Nearly four years, FOUR YEARS, I’ve spent worshipping you to the point of deification! I love you! I swear I do! Hours upon hours I’ve spent thinking about you—wondering about you—wanting you to love me back! I can’t believe I’ve wasted three and three-quarters of a year on someone who doesn’t love me back! I might as well go back to Slovakia, because obviously my life here isn’t worth ANYTHING ANYMORE!” I finished, my voice the same volume as a jet plane taking off. Ziggy had backed himself up against his headboard and looked a little frightened after listening to a half-English, half-Slovakian barrage of words screamed at him.

“Miro, I’m sorry! What should I say? I don’t want to lie to you!” he exclaimed, and I fell silent.