Break Away

by Van Barrett

  Hmmf. Fine.

  I worked harder and faster to clean up, my anger rising. I was eager to get out of there as fast as possible.

  At last the job was done. I picked up the handful of papers I'd printed – the piece I wrote on River – and pushed it into his chest.

  “Here's your piece. It's done. So I guess we're done too.”

  “Great. Y'know, I've been thinking.” River grabbed the report, walked over to his trash can, and dropped it in. “I don't want this anymore.”

  I huffed. “Seriously?”

  “You really expect me to have this piece come out? After all that's been said about us in the media?”

  “If it doesn't run, I won't pass my independent study course. I'll have to take it again next semester.”

  River shrugged. “I guess we'll share in some of the pain then, huh.”

  I shook my head. “Okay. Fine. Have it your way.” I stormed around his apartment to gather my things. “Nice knowing you.”

  “… I can give you a ride,” River muttered as I headed for the door.

  “No thanks,” I scoffed. The thought of my arms around his chest filled me with disgust.

  He grabbed my arm to stop me from leaving. “Just lemme give you a ride. You're not gonna get a taxi out there.”

  “Then I'll walk!” I yanked my arm back and broke free from his grasp. “I don't fucking care!”

  I rushed out the door. “Best of luck with your hockey career, by the way. Hope it's worth everything.”

  45

  Not Right

  – River –

  The next day, I slept in.

  Coach had given us the day after off – which you'd think would be a given, considering how late we got in. But Coach doesn't like to give us too many days off. He says it'll make us lazy. And weak. But today, he said, we should sleep in. Because we'd earned it. He was proud of us for battling back and winning that game.

  And so here we were. One weekend away from playing in the championships.

  This was it. What I'd been looking forward to my whole college career – bringing a championship to UND. The years had flown by. It's ridiculous how fast it goes. It's ridiculous how hard it is to get here. How one bad game, one bad period, and the tournament can end on you. And you have to go fight and claw your way through all those battles just to get to this same point again the next year.

  And it always hurt so damned bad to lose – to know that you just lost an opportunity. One you can't get back.

  I always figured, if we made it this far, I'd be nervous all week. Just absolutely overwhelmed with anxiety and adrenaline, every minute dragging by until the puck drops and I can be free.

  I was wrong, though. Because right now, that hockey game doesn't mean anything to me. And I'm grateful Coach gave us the day off, because I know if we had a practice today? It'd be obvious that something wasn't right with me.

  All I could think about was last night.

  As mad as I was – and believe me, I was still mad – I felt something. When we broke it off, officially, this time for real! There was some voice I heard. A gentle whisper. That told me … no. This isn't how it ends.

  And I thought it was so ridiculous. I wanted to laugh out loud, at myself, and say – yeah right! The guy back-stabbed me. Turned my cock into public domain. Anyone who browses Google images for “River Brame” isn't going to be treated solely to pictures of me on the ice, I'll tell you that much.

  Friends. Family. Teammates. Coaches. Fans. The whole world. My erect penis – it's out there for everyone to see. Just a few keystrokes away.

  Meanwhile, the hockey media is ablaze with rumors about me. Me and Lane. Thank God, they don't have anything concrete on us … yet. But the circumstantial evidence is pretty damning. Lane is clearly shown to be at my apartment, holding a Clone-A-Cock dildo.

  And yet still. There's that small, niggling voice, that even now says to me … “this isn't how it ends.” That voice wanted me to stop Lane from leaving in a huff last night. That voice wanted me to pull Lane back in and say, hey, wait. Hold on. Look, I'm mad, but give me time, alright? I can get over this. I think I can. And there's still – well, there's still more I need to tell you.

  Because I haven't exactly been totally honest with Lane.

  But then, in a fit of rage, I forced that voice out of my head. No River! I told myself. Don't listen! Lane was the guy who brought all this on me. Maybe he's right and he didn't say a word about me to Devon once we started hooking up. But he still invaded my privacy. He still took a pic of that dildo, knowing it had to be mine, and shared it with his friend. That's not something you do to people. It's just not.

  So I fortified my anger. As long as I was angry, I could keep that voice down – that pathetic, weak, hopeless voice that always wanted to see the world in rainbows and sparkling glitter. Where did that voice ever lead you, but to pain?

  My anger. My anger is my fuel. My anger will make my skin as thick as a rhino's and get me through this: the most embarrassing period of my life. Thanks to Lane.

  ***

  I spent my Sunday afternoon talking to my agent, Pete Donnelly. He was understandably concerned and plotting out the future on my behalf.

  “What else is out there, River?” he asked me.

  “Truth is, I don't even know.”

  He paused. “Could it uh, possibly get worse?”

  I sighed. “It could.”

  “Euch.” I heard his grimace through the phone. “This Alan Rickert cat's been calling me all night and day, River.”

  “What's he want?”

  “He wants to make sure I've got the offer. I told him you got it. He wants to know if you're in or what. Seems more eager than ever to get a verbal agreement.”

  “Yeah, I bet. Strike while the iron's hot, huh.”

  “River, if you think there's more leaks out there, and you think it could get worse …” Pete trailed off. “I know it's not what you want. But signing with Carolina might be the only way to put an end to this shit. And as embarrassing as all this is right now – let's not lose sight of the fact that nothing too damning has come out yet, River. I've had clients with way worse shit than this in the news, and with my help, they've always bounced right back.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Always. We'll hire a PR team and work on your image. Do a few community service things. Visit a few hospitals, a few animal shelters. Re-brand you as River Brame, good community guy and animal lover. Bury the dick story from the headlines. The people forget. They've got short memories.”

  I grumbled. “Yeah …”

  “And, hey, honestly? Right now, the only thing people know about you is – pardon my bluntness – is you got a big penis, alright? Trust me, that ain't bad at all River, hah-haha! In fact, we can go the opposite direction, we can use that big dick to our advantage, y'understand? Put you in nothing else but some Calvin Klein underwear, make your bulge all noticeable, oil the rest of you up, and throw you on a billboard. Boom. Ladies will want you, and men will wanna be you. Ladies will secretly fantasize about the rumors of gay adventure, and the men will conveniently forget about it and just assume you're slayin' broads left and right. This could really end up being a big thing for you in the long term. Or, hey, picture this – River Brame brand jockstraps! Motto? 'For when ya got a big one!'”

  I sighed. “Pete.”

  “Okay, I'm getting ahead of myself, I know. My point is, if some worse headline is just lurking out there, River … and I don't wanna know how much worse it can get, alright? But if it's out there, we could lose out on endorsements like that.”

  “Right. Gotcha.”

  “So? Should I give old Alan and the cats over at Carolina your word? They want your answer within a week, River.”

  I thought it over. I knew what he was saying made sense. But I still couldn't pull myself to do it. I had to talk to Jono, for one.

  “Nah. Not yet. I wanna think it over some more.”

  Pete took a deep breath
. “Alright. Yeah, you think it over. But I don't know how much longer we should wait, River. Who knows what else is out there.”

  “I know. I'll get back to you in a bit, Pete.”

  “You bet River. Ciao.”

  ***

  We had practice on Monday. Or rather, the boys did. Coach actually called me beforehand to ask how I was doing. I lied and told him I was doing great. He didn't believe me.

  “I can hear it in your voice, River. You sound fucked up. Take the day off, alright?”

  “No, Coach, I need to be there with the boys.”

  “River, we need you to be yourself, alright? We both know how you play when things aren't right. So do whatever you gotta do to make things right. Understand? Don't even bother coming to practice. I won't let ya on the ice.”

  It's not often I take a day off. I don't like it.

  Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday crawled by like a hazy, never-ending dream that you can't wake from. I went to my classes. My legs carried me there, anyway. But my mind stayed somewhere else. I failed to turn in homework. I bombed quizzes and tests. Put a multiple choice test in front of me, I'd fill in random bubbles. Give me an essay test, I'd just stare at the sheet until the class was over. I didn't care.

  In class, I heard people around me whisper and giggle. Were they laughing and gossiping about me? Maybe. I thought so, yeah. But I didn't care to listen in. It didn't bother me anyway. I already knew I deserved it. That's what happens when you're careless.

  I was too dazed to care. After all, my mind was still frozen in time. I kept playing that moment over and over in my head.

  When I let Lane go without telling him what I'd been meaning to tell him all along.

  Fuck it! another part of me immediately went on the defensive. It's over and done with. Everything worked out the way it's supposed to. You got your dick sucked the way you always dreamed of and hell, no one even found out for sure. They might suspect it, but so what? They can't prove a thing. You're River fucking Brame. You're untouchable. Right now you're even more famous than ever – and you know what they say! There's no such thing as bad press. All anyone knows is that you got a big dick. And now, because of that fact, you're gonna get to pose in underwear and you're gonna get paid millions of dollars. Really, you should toss a few grand over to Lane as a thank you and a parting gift.

  … God damn. I sound like my agent. Thinking only about money.

  ***

  We had practice Wednesday evening. Coach had called me throughout the day, but I didn't answer. I heard his voicemail messages, but I didn't call back. I shuffled into the dressing room early and unseen, because I knew what Coach had wanted. He wanted to hear my voice, to see if I was 'right' yet. And I knew if I answered, he'd tell me to stay home. Maybe even go see one of the counselors up at the student health services department.

  That'd be a trip – what if I went to the student health services department, only to be assigned to sit with Lane? He told me he had to do that sometimes as part of his psych courses. At least I wouldn't have to tell him what's wrong with my life … he'd already know damned well.

  Lane. I sighed. He had a way of getting me to talk. I know he didn't think so – he thought that I'm impossible to get anything out of. And he's right, mostly. But he doesn't realize he's the only guy to get anything out of me. No one else can. Not like he could.

  It hurts to form that bond and then lose it. It's like a piece of you just evaporates. An avenue through which you experience life is suddenly no more. It'd be like shutting down a major highway that cuts through the heart of a big city. Suddenly, things aren't so easy; no one's getting in or out like they used to. Other roads are getting stopped up and blocked too. Horns are blaring. Grid-lock traffic. No one's going anywhere. Stores aren't getting their deliveries. There's mass panic. Groceries shelves go bare. People are starving, and start fighting in the str--

  “River? River!”

  It was Coach. He was standing right in front of me while I laced my skates in a trance. I guess once you've done something a million times, you can do it pretty damn well on auto-pilot.

  I snapped my head to shake off the funk. “Hey Coach.”

  “I've been standing here waving my arms at you! You alright? Why didn't you answer my calls?”

  “Busy with class.” I shrugged.

  He folded his arms. “Or because you knew I'd tell you to take the day off and clear your fuckin' head?”

  “I gotta play, Coach. I gotta work through this.”

  He grumbled. “Yeah. Yeah, alright. Fuck it. We'll see what you got.” Coach shook his head and made for the door.

  “He's aliiive!” Ells joked when Coach left the room. The others chuckled.

  “We've been trying to talk to you, River.”

  “Oh. My bad.”

  “It's alright, bud. How ya been? We missed ya on Monday.”

  “Yeah. I'm … I'm okay. Kinda reeling still.” I swallowed.

  “You don't look so hot, man.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wasn't a compliment.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay.” Ells laughed. “Hey River.”

  “Yeah?”

  Ells sat by my side and patted me on the thigh. “You know we love you, right bud?”

  My throat knotted up. “Uh, yeah. Course.”

  Ells turned to the boys. “Right boys?”

  The room returned a chorus of uh-huhs, you-betchas and that's-rights.

  “So uh. You know.” Ells cleared his throat. “Whatever, man. We just wanna win. With you. Who cares about the other stuff, eh? We're here for ya, pal.”

  “… Thanks,” I croaked, not entirely sure I knew what he was getting at.

  I suppose I should note the obvious and say that Jono was not in the dressing room with us. Officially, he was suspended from the team for missing the flight. Not that it mattered – Jono's message was loud and clear after he was scratched. He didn't want anything to do with us anymore.

  The gear in his stall still haunted our dressing room, though. A ghastly reminder of the player who, as far as anyone else knew, high-tailed it back home after he got scratched.

  Lettuce told us he felt terrible about it. He volunteered to sit for Jono in the championship game. I reassured him no way, it wasn't his fault, and he was absolutely gonna play in that game because we needed him.

  ***

  Once everybody was geared up and ready to go, we filtered out of the room and took the ice. I went last. When I took my first step onto the ice, something went wrong. Instead of hitting ice, my skate blade caught a puck. I lost my footing and down I went. All 210 pounds of me crashed onto the ice with a sad, dull thud.

  Everyone saw – even if they politely turned their heads and pretended they hadn't seen their captain take a pee-wee level spill.

  Jeez. Great start, eh.

  The rest of practice wasn't much better. I flubbed passes, bobbled pucks, whiffed on one-timers, screwed up drills. Line rush? I couldn't keep pace with our slowest skater. No mustard on my shots. Our goalie batted all my shots away with a look of pity in his eyes. He knew it wasn't supposed to be that easy, not when I shoot. I could see him thinking – should I let him score? Will that get him going?

  “Don't you dare,” I hissed under my breath and let another weak wrister fly. The goalie plucked the puck out of the air like it'd been frozen in time and waiting for him to do something about it. He shook his head and tossed the puck aside.

  After Coach had seen enough, he pulled me aside.

  “Christ,” Coach muttered. “Brame.”

  “Sorry, Coach. I know. It's bad. I'm bad.”

  “You tell me. What am I supposed to do here, Brame?”

  “I dunno, Coach.”

  Coach's shoulders slumped. “I don't wanna put anymore pressure on you, Brame. But we've got the championship on Saturday. And we need you to figure this out.”

  I let out a sigh.

  “So it's up to you. Whatever you gotta do to figure
this out. If that's being here with us, fine. But right now, I'm telling you, you're worrying the boys. No one likes seeing you like this.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. You're right.”

  “Take it easy, will ya? Go home. Do whatever you gotta do.”

  “Right.”

  I pushed off with a stride and glided across the ice, while the rest of the team stayed behind to practice.

  'Do whatever you gotta do' was easier said than done. I wasn't sure what I had to do in the first place. All I knew was I had a big, gaping hole in my chest. How do you fix that?

  I made my way through the hall and pushed the dressing room door open. I walked in and saw that I wasn't alone.

  “You,” I growled, blood boiling and surging through my veins.

  Jono, hastily packing his belongings into a duffel bag, turned to face me. “Aw shit.”

  46

  Internet Fame

  – Lane –

  I'm famous! I'm a star! Everyone knows my name! Wheeee!

  I knocked back another big gulp of cheap vodka and club soda. Mm. Nasty. I ran out of real mixer yesterday. The club soda doesn't do such a great job, or truly any job, of masking the vodka's harsh bite … but oh well! I don't feel like leaving my apartment and heading out into the real world.

  Because I'm a sta~ar!

  And you never know who might recognize you out there. Don't let anyone tell you that fame comes at a cost, oh no! It's great. It's great, I tells ya.

  For one thing, your phone never stops. The first few days after the news broke, I preferred to leave my phone off. But now I think it's funny to keep it on instead. In fact, I've turned it into a drinking game. Every time the phone buzzes, I take a drink.

  Bzzt. A Facebook message from a new admirer: “So you touched his dildo even huh??? omfg youre even worse than I thought. You know he uses that dildo to bang girls right? He probably needs it for when he brings home more than one girl in a night and they all get in a slap fight over who gets his cock first ... its the only way he can keep the ladies happy and satisfied, lol, hes only one man after all”