Breakaway

by Avon Gale

  Lane nodded, made the appropriate responses, and waited for the coach to cool off. Finally he sighed, shoved his hands in his suit pockets, and stared up at the ceiling. “I know what you were trying to do, Courtnall. I hope it worked. I know you can play better than you’ve been playing. I’m glad you’re trying to do something about it, but try not to end up on the injured reserve list, all right?”

  “Yes, coach.”

  “Score some goals, Courtnall. We’ve got guys who can fight.”

  They did have those guys, but Lane didn’t point out that they weren’t exactly rushing to his defense. It didn’t escape him that the coach knew he was having problems getting along with his teammates, and if Coach Spencer hadn’t done anything about it by then, he wasn’t going to. He clearly wanted Lane to deal with the situation himself.

  And without bleeding.

  When Lane went into the locker room, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t to be ignored like every other time he came into a locker room after a game. Except he was, and something inside of him quietly snapped. He stood right where he was, holding his stick like it was a life preserver, and he started... talking. Loudly, but not shouting. He was still Canadian.

  “You know, I’m sorry I said that stuff. Okay? I’m an idiot. No, really. I know that, but you know what?” The room fell silent as the guys elbowed each other and nodded toward Lane. “You can get over it. If you’re that offended that you can’t pass me the puck or, I don’t know, be a defenseman,”—he glared at Bridey—“then that’s your problem, not mine. I’m not apologizing for saying all the wrong things again. I’m not. So get over it already.” Lane crossed his arms and glared. “Also, I want to go to dinner, and I’m really tired of the Econo Lodge, so does anyone need a roommate?”

  There were a few moments of silence, and Lane thought he’d actually made things worse—which didn’t seem possible, but maybe it was. Then Reeder and Sparky started clapping, and the rest of the team followed suit. Lane flushed hot at their applause and the “It’s about time” and “We almost gave up on you, Courts” that were thrown his way.

  Finally.

  Chapter 2

  Lane went with his teammates to Cruisers after the game and had two cheeseburgers and fries with cheese on them, and basked in the warm glow of having a team that didn’t hate him.

  Ryan Sloan, a third-line winger, sat by Lane at the table. He was a nice guy, chatty. Before they’d finished eating, Lane knew everything about him. He was from Toronto, a Leafs fan like Lane, and came to Florida because he knew he’d never get drafted, but he loved playing, he really did.

  “It’s fun. Hockey is supposed to be fun, you know? I mean, sure, we don’t get a lot of money and fame or anything, but we get to play.”

  “Well, I haven’t been having very much fun, but I’ll take your word for it,” Lane said dryly.

  “Hey. Well, my first team? I asked if there was an age restriction because the guys all looked old enough to coach.” Ryan winced. “It wasn’t as bad as the stuff you said, but it still sucked. Sorry, dude. Want to be roommates?”

  And just like that, Lane had an out of the Econo Lodge, a dinner invitation... and a hockey team. He also had a buzz, because they kept buying him beer he wasn’t old enough to drink. But Lane didn’t think you turned down team bonding, no matter what form it took. Or foam it took, which was a thought that Lane kept giggling about even if he couldn’t explain it to anyone.

  Someone took him home to the Econo Lodge so he could sleep it off. He had two more nights there, and then he could move into the apartment with Sloan. Lane got a package of donuts from the vending machine, ate two, threw up everything in his stomach, and fell asleep on the bathroom floor.

  That was a lot more like what he expected playing professional hockey would be like.

  What he did not expect was waking up at eleven thirty at night, dry-mouthed, starving, and vaguely sickened by the thought of packaged donuts. He took a shower and brushed his teeth, which took a long time because he was dizzy. Drinking was dumb when you played a contact sport for a living.

  Lane eventually hauled his sorry ass down to the front desk, where he asked if there was a restaurant anywhere within walking distance. The man at the desk sucked his teeth for a few seconds—which Lane was starting to think might be secret code or some kind of weird Florida dialect—and then he shrugged.

  “Not really. Can go over to Bomber’s, though. It’s a bar, but sometimes they got pizza.” He pointed vaguely toward the front door. “S’across the street.”

  “Thanks,” Lane said, smiling weakly. He crossed “the street”—which was the interstate—and went into a dive bar with a plane painted on the side of it and a blinking red Budweiser sign in the window. He realized at the last second that he wasn’t old enough to be drinking in a bar, and he didn’t have his entire team there to vouch for him.

  It didn’t seem like anyone cared, though. No one said a word to him as he walked in and stupidly sat at a table for ten minutes before getting up and going to the bar. The bartender was a guy about his dad’s age, with white hair tied in a ponytail and a beard that made him look like a pirate.

  “Get you somethin’?” he asked, cleaning a glass.

  “Pizza?” Lane asked, hopefully. Damn. He was starving.

  “Nah. Oven’s broke. Got some peanuts. Oh, and a fry daddy. We still got some chicken things in the freezer, if you want those.”

  “That sounds great, thanks,” Lane said, his stomach growling.

  “You want something to drink with that?”

  “Sure... do you have Dr Pepper?”

  The bartender stared at him for a good two minutes, silently drying the glass until it was squeaking. Then he reached into a cooler, pulled out a bottle of Bud Light, popped the cap off, and placed it in front of Lane.

  “Thanks.” The last thing Lane wanted was beer, but he also didn’t want to get kicked out before his dinner of “chicken things from the fry daddy” showed up. Or maybe he did. Florida was so weird.

  He was messing with the coaster when he caught the guy a few seats down looking at him. Lane’s stomach did a little flop when he met a pair of familiar, pale-blue eyes. Jared Shore, of all people, was in that stupid bar and giving him an unfriendly look. “You even old enough to be in here?”

  “I’m starving,” Lane told him, as if that were any kind of answer. “I just wanted some pizza or something.”

  “They have delivery, you know, here in America.” Jared was also drinking a beer, out of a bottle, and the sight of his mouth on it was distracting. “Rest of your team around?”

  “No.” Lane’s stomach rolled unpleasantly when he took a sip of his own beer. He didn’t think he looked as cool as Shore. “Is yours?”

  “Nah. They’re all out at nicer places,” Shore said, still watching him. “Your lip hurt?” The way he asked was direct. His intense eyes focused on Lane, and oh, that made Lane dizzy, made his stomach curl with heat.

  Oh, he should get out of there. Fast. “Umm. Kinda. Yeah.”

  “Good.” Jared finished his beer and placed it on the bartop. For all his reputation might suggest, he was a quiet man who moved with more grace than aggression. And he had nice hands. Lane wondered why it was so warm in the bar. “I hope it was worth it.”

  “Huh?” Lane could tell the guy was pissed at him, but he didn’t know why. Shore was the kind of guy who got in fights all the time, wasn’t he?

  Shore laughed, and it wasn’t a very nice sound at all. “You think you’re the first pretty boy who’s tried to make his teammates like him by throwing down with me? You’re not.”

  “Really?” Lane expelled a breath. “That’s good to know. Thanks.” The bartender dropped a plastic basket in front of him. It smelled like food and fried things, so Lane ate one and nearly burned the roof of his mouth to cinders. When he was over the embarrassment of that, he looked back up to find Jared had moved next to him. That wasn’t helping his equilibrium, but it
did distract from the screaming pain in his mouth.

  That was the second time in one day that Jared Shore had made Lane’s mouth ache. Technically other things were aching, but they were in the category of Things Lane Courtnall Didn’t Think About.

  “Did you really mean that? I’d say you were being a smart ass, but you don’t really strike me as the type.”

  Lane swallowed his small piece of burning processed meat, shrugged, and took a long drink of the cold beer. “I’m Canadian. We’re subtle. It’s easy to miss sometimes.” He went back to the chicken things, broke one in half, and wisely let the steam rise out of it for a few seconds before eating it. “I mean, it was a dumb thing to do, but it worked. So yeah, it was worth it.”

  If Lane hadn’t been hungover, tired, hungry, and distracted by the continual searing pain in his mouth, he probably wouldn’t have said that.

  “Guess I see why your teammates didn’t like you,” Shore snapped, standing up abruptly.

  “Wait,” Lane said, confused, holding half a steaming chicken thing in one hand. “Why are you mad? That’s your thing, isn’t it? Getting in fights?”

  “Yeah, pretty boy. That’s my thing.”

  “So you shouldn’t be mad, but you are. I can tell. I know mad. Believe me.” Lane put the other bit of chicken into his mouth, swallowed hastily, and washed it down with the aid of the Bud Light. It was the worst meal he’d ever eaten by far. Good thing he could barely taste it.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?” Lane asked, studying him intently. Shore looked like he was a good seven or eight years older than him, and he had the faded remnants of a black eye and a bruise on his jaw. It suited him—made him look a little like a boxer. “Is it because I hit you in the face?”

  Shore laughed, a sharp, mean bark that reminded Lane of a husky again. His pale eyes darkened, like the sky before a storm. “You want to know why I’m mad, kid? I’ll tell you. Yeah. I fight, and that’s my thing. And you score goals, or at least, you would if your teammates weren’t having a bitch fight with you for whatever reason. And you actually made up for it by throwing down with a guy who could break your ass in half, but didn’t. Because guess who they’d blame for that? The kid drafted by the NHL, or the guy who’s turning thirty-two next year, who’s on his tenth team since he started playing?”

  Lane very deliberately made himself not say anything about Jared knowing he was drafted, even though it was the first time anyone had mentioned it to him without Lane telling them about it first. “Umm. I guess... you?”

  “Yeah, genius. Me. And so I can’t fight you like you deserve, because you’re the talent. So I look like I can’t do my fucking job, and you can’t fight or score a goal but suddenly you’re Mr. MVP. I do get tired of being the easy answer to someone’s personal problems with their team. You want to fight someone, why don’t you fight one of your teammates instead?”

  There was a point there, but Lane was too confused by the beer, the not-really-dinner, and Shore being so close to him to figure out what it was. “You knocked me over, though.”

  Shore blinked, like that was the last thing he expected Lane to say. “You got in my way.”

  “I was on my way to the goal,” Lane reminded him. He pushed the basket of chicken across the bar. “Do you want one of these?”

  Shore was still staring at Lane like he was the equivalent of the water tornado with a hockey stick from the Storm’s terrible jersey. “You have defensemen who are supposed to protect you. That’s what they’re for.”

  “They didn’t. Seriously, they’re not bad if you just let them cool off for a second. The chicken things, I mean. But I guess that’s true about my team too.” Lane felt nervous, but he wasn’t worried about Shore hauling off and hitting him again. It was something else.

  Lane wasn’t good at feelings. That’s why he played sports.

  “What—look, what are you even doing?”

  “Having a really awful dinner?” Lane answered, picking up another chicken piece. “I don’t think this is actually chicken. Do you?”

  Shore slammed his hand down on the bar. “Do you even get why I’m pissed? I’m starting to see why you had to do something desperate to get their respect. You’re a weirdo. Or maybe a robot.”

  Lane just shrugged. “Then why are you still mad at me?” He pushed the basket toward Jared again. “You might want to blow on these first, though.” His face turned scarlet at the words the minute they were out of his mouth.

  Shore ignored him. “Because if you’re mad at your defenseman, go knock him over. Fight your own damn battles, don’t start one with me because you know goddamn good and well I won’t flatten your face into the ice like you deserve. You want to make a statement to your team, kid? Try making one by getting mad at the people who’re treating you like shit. Not me. Except that’s the fight you’re actually afraid of, isn’t it?”

  Lane pulled the basket of chicken toward himself, silently rescinding his offer to share. “I did. And I should have done that first. You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t do stuff like that—not usually. But you’re really good at fighting, I just thought maybe you wouldn’t mind since you do it all the time anyway. And you really did knock me over, I think you keep forgetting.”

  “I really want to hit you again. You know that?”

  Lane nodded. “I can tell. Yeah. What do you want me to say, Shore? I did a stupid thing to make up for a lot of other stupid things, and somehow it gave me the courage to do the thing I should have done all along.”

  Shore was motionless for a long time, but then he sat down next to Lane and took a piece of chicken from the basket. He popped it in his mouth, swore, and grabbed for his beer. “Holy fuck, these are disgusting.”

  “I didn’t say they were good. Just that they weren’t bad. And you know, I totally thought you’d pound my face into the ice. It was scary. But you ran me over, and I know you said my defensemen should stand up for me, but they didn’t. And now they will.” Lane politely cut the last chicken piece in half so Jared could have one. “I’m sorry if it made you mad, but you’re not on my team. And you know, anyone you take down like that could turn around and drop the gloves, Shore. Even guys like me, who don’t fight.”

  “Are you giving me a lecture about hockey, rookie, because it sounds like you are.” Jared didn’t seem all that angry anymore, though. He also didn’t eat the piece of chicken Lane left for him fast enough, so that meant Lane could have it. Jared motioned to the bartender, and ordered them both another beer.

  When they arrived, Jared held his bottle up and clinked it against Lane’s. “We play each other a lot. I’m going to keep going after you, because you’re going to try and score goals. And it might work, since your teammates will now pass you the puck on occasion.”

  “And the guys will fight you. I hope. Because I don’t think I really liked it, and I don’t want you to punch me again. You have bricks for fists. You want some more of the chicken things? I’m still hungry, I can split some if you want.” Lane smiled at him tentatively. He was still feeling weirdly uncomfortable around Shore even though it seemed like they were friends now. Maybe if he burned his mouth some more and got drunk again, he’d be able to ignore it.

  Jared laughed and said, “Sure, why not.” He was a pretty nice guy once he was done with the threatening glares and condescending calling-Lane-kid thing. Which meant that uncomfortable feeling didn’t go away, no matter how much Lane drank.

  He tried to remind himself of the look on his mother’s face when she opened his bedroom door and saw for herself why her son was so shy around his teammates. How she’d closed the door quietly and never said a single word about what she’d seen. Instead, he thought about the two minutes before she opened the door, how they were maybe the best two minutes of his whole life, and how he relived them when he was alone.

  They split a basket of the steaming-hot chicken things, and Lane had two more beers. He wasn’t drunk, but he was tired, and it occurred to him that the re
ason Jared was still in town was because they had another game the next day. That was the thing about the ECHL. They liked to schedule back-to-back games on weekends. Their Sunday game was a matinee too, which meant Lane was pretty much fucked all around.

  “I have to go back,” he said, and Jared nodded and grabbed his wallet. Lane was paying too much attention to Jared’s fingers. They were long and almost slender, not the kind you’d expect to find on a hockey enforcer. Jared caught him watching and made some joke about “I already helped save your career, kid. You think I need to buy you dinner, too?” Lane blushed hotly and reached in his pocket for his money.

  “You’re all right,” Jared told him while they waited for an opportune time to stupidly dash across the interstate. “I’m not going to be nice to you on the ice tomorrow or anything. I expect your defensemen to step up and.... Are you okay?”

  Lane was not okay. He kept blinking and looking at Jared’s eyes, sucking idly on his lower lip—which was still sore—and thinking about all the things he wanted that he couldn’t have. “Sure. I’m fine. I’m not used to being drunk twice in one day.”

  Jared gave a short laugh. “You say the weirdest things. Come on. Let’s go. Don’t fall or anything. This would make the stupidest obituary ever.”

  Lane nodded, looking with determination at the road. “Tell me when,” he said, and he could feel Jared watching him, but he didn’t look over. He kept his gaze firmly on the glowing Econo Lodge sign until Jared said, “Okay. Now.”

  They dashed across the road, and it was fine. There wasn’t a single car, but it still made Lane breathless, like he’d done something exciting—something forbidden. Like fighting Jared Shore, or climbing on top of Derek Bishop and kissing him in his bedroom.

  They kept running—through the front doors of the hotel and into the lobby—all the way to the elevator. Lane was breathing hard, and his head was a little clearer from their sprint, but his blood was pumping, and it was making him restless. “Your team is staying here too, huh?”