by Avon Gale
“I know what you’re not ready for, because you told me, ‘No, Lane, wait until you’re thirty-one and you’ll see why.’ That must mean you want to hit me.” Lane nodded, pleased with himself. “You’re not so tough, Jared Shore.”
“Oh yeah. Is that so? How many times has my team beaten yours? Three? And how many times have I beaten you up?” Jared leaned over and kissed him, then punched him in the shoulder. “I meant it, though. You don’t have to, Lane. That’s not.... I mean, I understand it’s important to you or whatever, but I’m never going to be that guy who makes you out yourself to anyone.”
“Thanks,” Lane said, relieved—even though he should really, really tell his parents. But it was nice that Jared understood, and maybe that was the kind of thing you should think through before doing. “I want to, you know. It’s not that.”
“I know, Lane.”
“I’m proud of you and all that stuff. I do love you, and I would—”
“Lane,” Jared leaned over him and kissed him again. “I know. Now who’s being dramatic? Go to sleep.”
Before he did, Lane said quietly, “And you don’t have to tell me your story until you’re ready, either. I can wait.”
Jared didn’t pretend not to understand what Lane meant by that, and Lane could feel him tense a little. He was curious, of course, about what Jared meant by “I have my own issues,” but if Jared was cool about letting Lane talk to his parents in his own time, Lane would do the same for him.
“Thanks,” Jared said quietly, and Lane closed his eyes.
Chapter 8
The rest of winter—such as it was in Jacksonville—moved in a hurry toward the playoffs.
The Sea Storm won the next two games with their rivals, which was great, even if one of them again ended in the third round of a shootout. Bridey was thrilled that it had ended because, as he said, “Next they’re going to send the defensemen out there. I’ve seen it before when shootouts just keep going.”
Bridey didn’t have to take a shot, but in the next game, he took a slap shot to the knee and ended up out of the lineup indefinitely. It was an accident, and the Renegades’ player who shot the puck even came to apologize and ended up hanging out with Bridey in his hospital room for an hour. It turned out they played with a few of the same guys in the juniors, and there were clearly no hard feelings.
The fans didn’t feel that way, though, and the Renegades and Sea Storm rivalry was notched up a few levels. The crowds were steadily increasing, and Lane was both embarrassed and ridiculously pleased to see Zoe wasn’t the only one sporting a Courtnall jersey. That was weird.
Lane was finally able to buy a car, which was an eleven-year-old Toyota Corolla with a sunroof. Which was good, because the air-conditioning was broken and that would suck in the summer. He and Jared sometimes met for a night in Brunswick, Georgia, in the middle of the week. They spent a lot of time on the phone and on Skype. But the middle-of-the-week meetings became rare, and Lane looked forward to their next one—until he was told to pack a bag, grab his gear, and drive like hell to the Jacksonville airport.
He was being called up to play a game with the Syracuse Crunch.
Everything happened in a blur. Ryan hit him on the back three times, saying “all right, Courts, fucking all right!” Lane flew through his room, grabbed a Dr Pepper, and jumped in his car like a superhero on the way to battle dark forces. Since he was going to catch a commercial flight, it was pretty much the same thing.
He texted Zoe with omg syracuse!!! and called Jared, who he knew had a game that night. He left him a message that said, “Holy fuck. Going to Syracuse. Hate sex-canceling, but omg, man, Syracuse!”
Jared called him back when he was on the plane. He had a message when he got out into the freezing winter air—wearing only his Leafs hoodie, which in hindsight was a bad idea and made him feel like a failure as a Canadian.
“Holy fuck” was Jared’s voice mail message. “That’s awesome! But I can’t believe you just said ‘omg.’”
It was awesome but it was also stressful. He had to jump into a morning skate with a team he didn’t know. And no matter how much professional hockey he’d played, these guys were a level above Lane, and it showed. He could compete with them. He knew he could, but it was hard to do so with only one day and very little sleep.
He took advantage of having a single hotel room to himself by having loud phone sex with Jared. Twice. He was a ball of energy and adrenaline. He even got himself off again after Jared hung up.
Lane was filling in for a third-line center whose father was ill and who was expected back in the next few days. The guys were all pretty okay, and if some weren’t overly friendly, they certainly weren’t dicks—just intense and focused. Playoffs for the American Hockey League were just beginning.
He didn’t clock very much ice time, but he did assist on a goal in the second period. The pace was frantic, and the speed of the skaters kept him winded, but the crowd was fun and loud. More than that, Lane was very aware that he was one level away from his ultimate goal of playing in the NHL, and it reinforced his desire to train harder and increase his speed. That was where he wanted to be next year. It was the next step in his career.
It was also really far away from Savannah. There’d be no driving to Brunswick in the middle of the week. That was for sure.
The Crunch lost the game, but the coaches were complimentary and said he’d had a good showing. They told him they’d heard he was having a great season in Jacksonville, and they were keeping an eye on him. The guys gave him stick taps and wished him good luck. Lane tried not to feel like a little kid, even though he was one of the youngest guys there. He was one of the youngest on the Storm too, but it seemed a lot different in Syracuse.
When he got home from his impromptu trip, Zoe was in his living room, sitting next to Ryan, watching a movie. Ryan had his arm around her.
“How was your trip?” she asked, as if it were normal behavior.
“Did you show those guys up?” Ryan asked, looking very happy. “I bet you did. I bet you ‘brought the Storm.’ Yeah?” Ryan said that in a really loud, announcer-type voice.
“Ryan,” Zoe said sternly.
“Sorry, baby,” he answered, and squeezed her. A little exuberantly. He better be careful with her, or Lane would hit him. He’d been taking some fighting lessons from Jared—which always ended in blowjobs. But still.
“It was good. I got an assist.” Lane went to drop his stuff in his room, more freaked out about finding Zoe and Ryan watching a movie than if he’d walked in and found them fucking on the living room floor. He texted Jared, which distracted him for a minute, and then took a shower. When he went back to the living room, it was empty and quiet. Lane shook his head, gave up trying to figure out what was going on with his best friend and his roommate, and ate some cereal.
In the morning, Lane ambled into the living room to find Zoe was still there, and Ryan was making eggs in the kitchen.
“Wait. You know how to cook?” Lane blinked. “Really?”
“It’s just eggs,” Ryan protested, with a “play it cool, man” look at Lane.
“Yeah. I know. But you don’t make girls breakfast when they stay over, ever. Even eggs.” Lane grabbed a piece of pizza because he was starving. “What?” Ryan was glaring at him.
“It’s okay, Ry,” Zoe reassured him, giggling. She was wearing one of Ryan’s shirts and no shorts. “I’m used to Lane by now. Believe me.”
Suddenly Lane got all protective of his best friend. “Why are you making her eggs?”
“Because it’s time for breakfast?” Ryan was still shooting daggers at him with his eyes. “And not for my socially-awkward roommate making me look bad in front of the girl I like?”
“Like? As in, like out of bed or in bed? Because that’s fine if you’re just sleeping with her, but if you’re making her breakfast, you better be nice.” Lane had never quite experienced that feeling before—protective and on guard. That must be what it was lik
e to be a goalie.
“I’m nice. I am.” Ryan looked at Zoe. “Baby, tell him I’m nice.”
“Lane, can we talk about this later?” she asked him, in the sweet version of her accent that Lane knew meant she was serious.
“Yeah, sure. Can I have some eggs, since you’re making them? I can eat them in my room,” he added as a concession.
“Sit down. Eat,” Ryan ordered, pointing with the spatula. Lane didn’t even know they had one of those. Or a pan. Come to think of it, he’d never seen eggs in their fridge either.
Lane went to get a Dr Pepper and casually looked in the trash can. There were a couple of plastic bags from Publix. Lane rolled his eyes, but smiled. That was something, if Ryan was buying groceries for her.
He didn’t get a chance to talk to Zoe until a few days later, though he saw her once—and heard her, more than once—in his apartment. They went for a walk on the beach again, and this time, Lane made sure she met him after he’d run a couple miles first. It was the playoffs, and he had to stay in top shape. Especially given his diet of pizza and Dr Pepper.
She brought him some water, and they were quiet for a few minutes as they walked. “Do you know why I was all bitchy in the car when I took you to Jared’s at Christmas?”
“This is one of those questions I shouldn’t answer.” Lane nearly finished his water in one drink.
“Probably,” she agreed. “I brought you another one. It seems like all that running would make you thirsty.” She waved the other bottle in her hand. He finished the first gratefully and tossed it in one of the containers for recyclables.
“Anyway I was mad because, I... like him. Ryan.” She made a face. “I can’t believe that, given what a sexist ass he was when we first met. But the thing is, I’m learning that a lack of social skills among hockey players is not just limited to you, Lane.”
“Thanks.” Lane took the other bottle and drank half of it.
“You’re welcome. Anyway I was mad because I didn’t want to like him. He apologized for that whole blowjob comment and said he was just trying to get you laid because you were sort of uptight.” She giggled. “Then he let me explain why doing that to a waitress was both sexist and classist.”
“So it’s tits?”
“Shh. Ugh, Lane, you’re impossible.” She was smiling, though. He could tell. “He suggested I could smack him if it would make me feel better, so I did. He really likes that.” Her smile turned into a leer. “Which is great.”
“Except it’s not. You said that was what made you mad.” He would never understand girls. All of the feelings and things that went with them seemed like way too much work.
“Not the smacking. The thing is.... Lane, it’s hard to explain this, but it’s not easy being bisexual. I imagine Jared would get it, maybe? He seems not to be too concerned about that kind of thing, which is maybe because he lives in your world of macho boys with amazing abs and endless references to sucking cock.”
“It’s a nice world, when you put it that way,” Lane said dreamily. “No wonder I wanted to be a hockey player.”
She laughed. “That was funny, Lane. But it’s not easy to be bisexual, especially as a girl. And I know, I know. People say it’s okay because who doesn’t like two girls making out? And don’t you dare say you, because you’d watch it, and I know it.”
“Only if it involved the roller skates, I think.” He coughed. “Sorry. Keep going.”
“A lot of people think it’s a phase, and that we always end up with men anyway. So we’re just playing at being gay.”
“But you’re not gay,” he said, tossing the second empty water bottle at the next container. He missed by a mile. Reasons why he didn’t play basketball, part one. “You’re bisexual. So why would anyone expect you to act like something you’re not?” He jogged over to pick up the bottle and throw it away.
“It makes sense when you say it that way,” she said when he jogged back to join her. “But trust me. It happens. And I guess part of it wasn’t... like I would think about how people will say, ‘You’re not really into girls’ and ‘You’re just causing problems for the true gay people,’ or ‘Isn’t it infuriating how your family will start talking to you again if you’re dating a boy, even if he’s a player?’”
“They don’t like hockey?”
“No. I mean the kind that sleeps with a lot of girls,” she corrected. “My family hasn’t ever watched a game of hockey in their lives.”
“Maybe they will if you’re dating Ryan.” Lane still wished she’d date Riley, though for some reason, he didn’t see Riley letting Zoe smack him.
“Maybe. Anyway I thought all of this stuff and realized, hey, you know, maybe it’s not other people that think all that stuff. Maybe it’s me? Like, I internalized all that stuff and was just projecting it on others.” She bowed. “I took one class in psychology in undergrad. Behold it paying off.”
“So you mean... that’s not true? People don’t think you’re just pretending, or whatever it was you said?” Lane felt like that was somehow relevant to his life, but he wasn’t sure why or if he wanted to think about it too hard.
“No. But I can’t do anything about that. And I don’t even know who I’m talking about, really. My friends don’t think that, and my parents aren’t my problem. And I’m not going to not be happy just to prove some kind of point. You know? I told them I was bisexual. I am. And I was in love with a girl, and now I am dating a guy.” She tilted her chin up a little, defiant. “And they can fuck right off, all of them. So if I was worried about all of that, maybe it was me who thought I was just playing before, or that I was somehow not really who I said I was. But I know who I am. It was just all a mess in my head that I had to get sorted out.”
“Okay.” Lane didn’t know what to say. That was a lot of stuff to take in, and he also had a nagging feeling that it was maybe applicable to his own situation. He didn’t want to think about that, at all. “So you.... It’s all straightened out, then?”
“You didn’t even mean that pun, did you?”
Lane ran through that again and then brightened. “No. But that was one. Wasn’t it? A pun. Cool.”
“Yes and yes. And really.... Hey, stop for a second. Walking with you is like a workout because you’re too goddamned tall.”
Lane stopped, and she surprised him by hugging him tightly. “Thanks, Lane. For being such a great friend. I’m so glad y’all sat in my section that day, even if I almost cried seeing how many of you there were.” She elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “Race you to the car. Winner buys the milkshake. And you’re not allowed to slow down and let me win.”
“But I don’t know where the car is,” Lane told her, momentarily distracted by the thought of both competition and a milkshake.
“That’s what makes it interesting,” she said and started to run.
Determined to play in the AHL next season, Lane asked for some pointers from the Storm’s coaching staff on how to improve his speed. The assistant coach, Jean-Louis Demarre, agreed to meet with him on some of the off mornings to go through a few drills. Until the playoffs. Because he couldn’t risk their number-one scorer being injured doing drills at optional practices.
Especially considering that Bridey was still out with the injury to his knee. It was unlikely that the Storm’s defenseman would be ready in time for the playoffs. If the Storm had one main weakness, it was a lack of defense. And when a team had a weakness before the playoffs, it meant one thing—a trade.
One morning following his optional skate with Coach Demarre, Lane went into the locker room to find the Storm’s captain, Max Reid, cleaning out his locker. Reeder had been skating on the second line for a while, since Lane had been scoring so much. But with Lane a sure lock for the ECHL’s Rookie-of-the-Year award, he seemed to not mind.
“Hey, Courts.”
Lane was really glad that he was awkward with people most of the time, because he didn’t have to try to not be in situations like this. “Hey, Reeder.... Wh
y are you cleaning out your locker?”
“I got traded.”
Lane just blinked at him. “Huh?”
“Traded, Courts.” Max kept putting his stuff in his bag.
“Why are you all dressed up, though?” It seemed strange to Lane that he’d wear a suit and tie when it wasn’t game day.
“You ask the weirdest things, man.” Reeder shook his head. “I got told I had an important meeting, so I wore nice clothes.” He made a face. “My fiancée told me to. She’s smart about this stuff.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you had a fiancée.” Despite the fact neither of them took their inherent rivalry on the Sea Storm personally, they didn’t hang out much. Lane was suddenly sad about that, because he liked Reeder. Also, he looked really good in that shirt and tie.
“Yup. Her name’s Bethany. We’ve been together since high school.”
“Can she go with you?”
He nodded. “Yeah. It’s funny that you ask that, and you haven’t even asked me where I’m going.”
Lane was never going to be good at that—ever. He sat on the bench, unlacing his skates. “Where are you going?”
“Vegas. And if you apologize, I’m going to hit you with my stick.”
“Why would I apologize?” Lane fixed him with a steady look. “I’m just playing hockey. That’s what I’m here for.”
“I know. And you’re good at it. And here for optional skating sessions with Demarre, so obviously you’re a masochist.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone who... ah... likes to be hurt.” Reeder waved a hand. “Anyway I’m glad you’re here, Courts. I was going to call you and have this conversation on the phone, which I thought would be less awkward. But maybe now I’m not so sure that’s possible with you.”
Lane shrugged and gave him a what-can-you-do look. “It’s probably not.”
“Look. So I know we gave you a hard time when you showed up.”
“Yeah. But I deserved it.” Lane winced. “I said some dumb shit.”
“Right. But knowing you better, I think the whole team would agree you were just being you. Still, I’m sorry. We kept waiting for you to yell at us or tell us off, but since you didn’t, we figured you just meant all that stuff, and so we gave up.”
