Carried Away

by P. Dangelico

  In the middle of all this organized chaos, Turner stands tall on his skates, a whistle hanging from his neck, expression wolfish as he surveys his flock. On bare feet he’s formidable, on skates he looks downright scary.

  Good news, his ankle seems to be fine.

  I walk down the stairs and sit behind the penalty box. Spotting me, he does a subtle double-take, confirming that Gray didn’t tell him who was covering the story when he booked the appointment.

  He skates over to the railing in one fluid motion. “You’re with the Gazette?” I nod and give him a tight, apologetic smile. “So you’re doing the story…”

  It’s not really a question. Although judging from the way he’s examining me, he doesn’t seem upset by it.

  “I won’t get in your way and any questions I have I can ask when you’re done.”

  “I don’t mind questions as long as the story stays local.”

  Turner nods and skates away, back to the group of boys of various heights and sizes, all of whom are watching me curiously.

  Blowing his whistle, he directs the boys to split up into groups and begin a series of drills. It’s immediately apparent that not all of them are at the same level of play. One in particular, a rather heavier one, is having trouble with a sprint drill.

  I watch, transfixed, as Turner skates up to him and tips his head down, murmuring something to the seemingly frustrated boy while the others smack talk. Pulling out my phone, I snap away.

  A few close ups of man and boy in deep conversation. Some of the other kids laughing. Turner eventually reprimands the group carrying on, and pats the heavy boy on the shoulder.

  Holy crap. I did not see this coming at all. I’m shocked. Absolutely flabbergasted at how easily Jake Turner, aptly named Scrooge by yours truly, communicates with these kids. And it’s obvious they worship him in return. One look at their faces and you can tell they are hanging on his every word.

  The drills start again and Turner skates around to each groups, issuing corrections and praising what they’re doing correctly. The heavy boy is playing one-on-one defense, and when his opponent makes a break for the goal, he body checks him to the hard cold ground.

  Peals of little boy laughter ring out through the arena. Jake skates over to the boy on the ground and helps him to his feet. He looks to be unharmed. Other than maybe a bruise to his pride.

  But most of my attention is elsewhere, to the dark haired man calmly and quietly explaining the correct technique of playing defense.

  Turner is sweet with them….would you look at that.

  I guess I expected him to be overbearing and strict. A hard-ass. But he’s just the opposite. From this vantage point, there’s hard evidence to believe that Jake Turner is a good man in disguise.

  “Subject is not a total prick. I repeat, subject is not a total prick. Rescues evil cats from trees and coaches young boys with a soft touch.”

  He skates backward, out of the way of the boys practicing, and blows his whistle. The boys line up, start taking shots on goal, and I start snapping pictures again.

  He’s graceful on those thin double blades. For man his size, I didn’t expect him be so…elegant? Sensual? Erotic?

  I guess the best way to describe him is erotic. Never thought I’d use that word to describe how someone skates but here you have it. Jake Turner is an erotic skater. Which obviously leads me to wonder what else he does this well.

  Turner looks over his shoulder at me, and I automatically grin and wave because I’m a goober like that. He frowns, but I don’t let it get me down. Not even a little.

  “Nice try, pal. I’m on to you.”

  There’s something deeply satisfying about discovering someone whom I thought was a self-centered ogre is actually a good person. Damn sure beats finding out the opposite.

  While the boys carry on with their drills, Jake skates over to me and leans back against the railing to face the action.

  “Any questions so far?”

  “A million…” I say, examining his profile which is intense and laser focused on the kids. “how long have you been running this program?”

  “About a year.”

  “Why? I mean, I know you sports stars have your pet causes, but why kids?”

  He doesn’t answer immediately and I get the impression he’s deciding how much he wants to tell me. “I was these boys…someone helped me.”

  “Do you mind if I ask who?”

  He looks over his shoulder and measures me. “The cop who caught me breaking into the high school. He played one year in the NHL. Ran a league for inner city kids.”

  I’m strangely both surprised and not surprised at all. If I’ve learned anything about him, it’s to never rule anything out. “Why were you breaking into the school? Off the record.”

  He crosses his arms. “Boosting computers to pawn. Not a secret.”

  One of the boys skates up to us. He’s got light brown shaggy hair sticking out from all sides of his helmet, a wide bright grin, and large hazel eyes with way too much trouble lurking there.

  “This your girl, coach?” he says, with a half-cocked grin, overconfidence just oozing out of him. “She’s cute.”

  You’ve gotta be kidding me. This kid doesn’t look a day over thirteen.

  “Show some respect, Kyle. Miss Anderson is a reporter for The Gazette.”

  Kyle’s grin doesn’t diminish one bit.

  “Cool. You gonna write and article about us?”

  “I am.”

  “Make sure you write something good about me, okay?” he says and skates away.

  I see a successful career in law for Kyle should he ever wish it. Or politics.

  “Why does he talk like a thirty-five-year-old player?”

  Jake gives me a faint smile. “Foster care since he was five. Arrested for selling drugs when he was twelve.” Any noticeable humor on Jake’s face is gone. He’s back to being shuttered and distant.

  “He’s seen more than most thirty-five-year-olds.” Jake taps the railing. “Let me finish up with them and we can talk.”

  Then he skates back to the boys, leaving me alone––and with more questions than I had when I arrived.

  “What’s that?”

  Jakes raspy voice makes me jump in my seat. I was in the middle of blocking more Twitter trolls when he snuck up on me. I look up to find all six foot plus of him standing a few feet away in the aisle of the stands, glaring at my phone which I immediately turn off and stuff in my tote.

  “Nothing…more blowback.” I get no response to this, only more silence––his signature reaction. “What?”

  “How bad is it?” He takes the seat right next to me and I immediately straighten my legs. Ever get a feeling that someone doesn’t want to be touched? Yeah, that’s what I’m getting from him.

  “Pretty bad. Most of which I can’t repeat.”

  “So delete your account.”

  “No. Absolutely not. Then they win. I won’t be bullied into staying silent.”

  “It’s Twitter. It’s not real life.”

  I’m sure he’s had his fair share of haters. “Is that why you aren’t on social media?”

  He turns to look at me. “Never had much use for it anyway. The team was handling my accounts until…” He shrugs.

  “How bad did it get for you?”

  “I don’t know. Never looked at the accounts.”

  “But?”

  He smiles tightly. It’s cold and lacking any humor. “I had to sell my townhouse in Boston. My neighbors couldn’t take the press harassing them all the time.”

  That breaks my heart. Along with it comes a pang of guilt. I know something about the press and their thirst for a story. It can easily override common decency. “If you’re not first, you’re last,” Ben used to say.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs again. It’s then, as I watch him absently stare out over the rink that I realize what it is about Turner that gives size and dimension to the dark cloud hanging over
him. It’s not lack of emotion. It’s too much emotion.

  It’s grief.

  “How do you do it? How do you keep going when everything falls apart?” he murmurs. “When you’ve screwed up so badly, there’s no way to repair it?”

  I’m not sure if he knows he’s speaking out loud. That he’s let his guard down when he’s usually so buttoned up I can barely get a word out of him.

  I don’t have to guess what he’s referring to, either. I can see the guilt on his face every day. Carrying the weight of someone’s death on your shoulders must be exhausting.

  “Everyone screws up, Jake. I’ve screwed up more times than I want to admit, but it’s not going to stop me from trying again. I’m not going to go down without a fighting for what I want.” When all I get is silence, I glance sideways and study his profile. Elegant and proud. He seems a million miles away. “You know what tomorrow is?”

  “What?” he says, humoring me.

  “Tomorrow is another chance to get it right.”

  He takes a moment to look me over, his gaze sailing over my face. “What do you expect out of life, Anderson? Because I’m afraid you’re gonna be sorely disappointed.”

  “Thanks for your dour two cents, Negative Nelly…And it’s not what I expect. I don’t expect anything.”

  A catalogue of emotions cross his face. “What do you want then?”

  His genuine curiosity draws me in, makes me want to be honest with him…makes me willing.

  “I want my life to be a grand adventure. I want to wake up in Tokyo and go to sleep in Rome. I want to live a life worth writing about. I want to worship and be worshipped…” Now that I’ve gotten started I can’t seem to stop. “I want what my sister has, I want a once-in-a-lifetime love.”

  A slow, one-sided smile creeps up his handsome face. “Is that all?”

  “It’s a start…what about you?” I say, smiling back.

  “What if I said I want all those things for you.”

  His unexpected answer sets me back. It makes me feel foolish, like he’s teasing me again. “I’d say you’re full of it.”

  Turner looks away, across the empty ice rink, his smile and the life in his eyes flickering dim. “I want to be left alone, Anderson. That’s all I want.”

  Despite that he was just a world-class jerk, he sounds so defeated it troubles me.

  Standing, he takes one last look at me and make his way down the bleachers. I watch until he disappears into the tunnel. Making me wonder if maybe, just maybe, in some wild outlandish parallel universe, Jake Turner was being honest with me too.

  Two days later I’m standing over the kitchen sink staring out the window and discover he’s at it again. The shirtless wood chopping, that is. If he keeps it up, we’ll have enough kindling to heat the house for the next decade. The view does hold a certain appeal, however. Especially since it’s late in the afternoon and the sun is casting a golden, almost heavenly, glow on him.

  I hate myself right now.

  Absently, I turn on the faucet and the water sputters out. This is what the two hundred and fifty dollars I paid the plumber yesterday gets me.

  “Not much to look at, but he’s a gentleman.”

  Screeching, I wheel around to find Nan standing a few feet away, lazily petting Elvis. “Jesus. Can you keep the creeping to a minimum?”

  Nan puts the cat down and Elvis sashays away, his tail at full mast. “My house, my rules,” Nan’s quick to remind me. “Means I can creep around as much as I want.”

  “Yeah, I know what it means.” I grab the coffee beans out of the refrigerator, pour some in the speed grinder. “And I would hardly call him a gentleman,” I feel compelled to shout over the loud buzzing. Once that’s done, I spoon the fresh coffee grinds into the cappuccino machine, pull the lever, and wait for magic to happen.

  A gentleman? Turner is a lot of things but a gentleman isn’t one of them. I’m still a little bruised over what happened at the rink. I thought we were getting somewhere. I thought we were sharing some deeply personal thoughts. And he turns around and ridicules me. What kind of person does that?

  Cheap shots at my looks––those I know how to handle. But what he did cut much deeper.

  “He’s the opposite of that––whatever that is.”

  Except that he did save my life and is paying for my room. Can’t forget that. Because fair is fair.

  Then it hits me. My grandmother just took a swipe at Turner.

  “I mean, he’s not bad…looking, I mean.” A bout of awkward silence follows in which I fetch some milk and pour it in my coffee. I don’t know what just possessed me to come to his defense. God knows he doesn’t deserve it.

  “He’s no beauty,” Nan says. “You don’t have to pretend for me. Now your dad, that’s a good-looking man.”

  “You have told me at least a million times ‘never trust a good-looking man.’”

  “Well, that’s true. But I’m talking about your dad, honey. That rule doesn’t apply to him. Try and keep up, will you. Now where was I? Oh yes, the girls used to chase him.” Nan’s face tightens. “Including the hooker.”

  There she goes again. As much as I want to agree with her, I can’t.

  “Okay. First, I can’t believe you’re making me defend Zelda. Please stop calling her that. She is not a hooker.”

  “She sure acts like one.”

  “I see age hasn’t taken the edge off. No, Nan. She doesn’t––and for the record, Jake is a beauty.”

  Wtf am I saying? A beauty? I hate myself right now. “I mean…I don’t think…I mean, objectively he’s very handsome.”

  Nan frowns. “What are you saying, child? Spit it out.”

  “What I am saying, grandmother…” I can hear my voice rising as my frustration at this absurd discussion peaks. But the more I meditate on her disparaging remark, the more it gets under my skin. “Is that Jake is a very good-looking man. Objectively, he’s probably the second-best looking man I’ve ever seen.”

  Fair is fair and Ben, the traitor, still takes first prize.

  “Second-best, Carebear?” a scratchy voice inquires.

  Every muscle in my body contracts involuntarily and not in a pleasant way. I can hear it distinctly––he’s on the verge of outright laughter. Slowly, I turn to find Jake standing in the doorway, a smile flirting at the corners of his lips.

  I hate myself right now. “Don’t say another word.”

  Marching over to the pantry, I retrieve the monkey wrench from the portable tool box and open the doors under the sink. I need to hide my face right now and under the sink seems to be the perfect place.

  Laying down on my back, I cram my head under the sink and inspect the pipes. Do I know anything about pipes? Hell no. But apparently neither does the plumber I hired.

  “Don’t break anything,” Nan calls out.

  “Thank you for your vote of confidence,” I return.

  “I’m confident you know nothing about plumbing, sweetheart.”

  Whatever. From my spot on the ground, I can see Turner’s boots. He hasn’t moved, as I had hoped.

  “Go away Turner. You’re killing my focus.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m the second most handsome man you’ve ever seen.”

  Ugh. Wonderful. He’s going to milk this for all it’s worth.

  A beat later he’s on the ground next to me, attempting to inject his massive upper body into the small space along mine.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure you don’t break anything I can’t fix.”

  “Nobody asked you. I’ve got it, but thanks.”

  “Move out. I can’t breathe under here with you flapping your lips.”

  Jerk. My blood pressure hits a dangerous level. The last thing I need right now is to look incompetent in front of this guy, giving him more material to ridicule me with. “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “What’s the problem with the sink?” he says ignoring my attempt to maintain control over the situation.
>
  “It’s still sputtering. And I just handed Spalding two fifty to fix it.”

  Turner wraps his fingers around the handle of the monkey wrench over mine and an electric current travels up my arm. I hate that phrase, but in this case, an electric current is the only way to describe the feeling.

  Then he levels me with an unblinking stare that could arguably make a grown man cry. Not me. Na-ha. Nope. I’ve seen this fraud in action with the kids. Scowl away, pal. I’ve got your number.

  “Let go Anderson.”

  Let’s keep it real, though. Nan is right. I hand over the wrench because who am I kidding? I know less than nothing about plumbing.

  Turner gets his game face on while I watch him scope out the pipes.

  “Sputtering you said?”

  “Hmm.”

  He checks the tightness on the washers while I watch. “Do you know anything about plumbing, or do I have to call Spalding and drag his ass?”

  “Where I grew up, you had to know how to do a little bit of everything.”

  I did more research on him last night and discovered there’s very little out there about him. “In Chicago, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why did you have to know a little bit of everything?” I can’t help it, asking questions is a compulsion.

  Turner pauses his fiddling with the washers and meets my eyes. “What, you didn’t Google me?” A one-sided smirk shapes his lips. “I thought you were a reporter.”

  My blood boils, needling the skin on my neck. “Look, I don’t really care that your delicate feelings were hurt by some big bad journalist in the past. But taking shots at me won’t make that go away. I was asking you because I don’t always believe everything I read.”

  The smirk drops and a small part of me feels vindicated. I’m fairly certain he seldom gets called out on his shitty behavior and it’s about time someone did.

  “South side,” he says and resumes tinkering with the pipes. “Public housing doesn’t have good plumbing so I learned to fix things.”

  “You lived there with your parents?” I prompt. I found almost nothing about his family online, and my mouth is a runaway train right now. When something piques my interest nothing can stop it, and Jake Turner definitely piques my interest.