Breaking South: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 3)

by Alyson Santos

  “Will you play more of your songs for me?” I ask, searching her eyes. I love the way they light up again, so different from the fear and anger when I first saw this other side of her.

  “You really think they’re good?” she asks with a sincerity that tugs at me. She’s not fishing for compliments. How can one of the biggest voices in the world not know how good she is?

  “They’re amazing. You should record them.”

  She laughs, her grin fading when I continue to stare at her. “Wait, you’re serious?”

  I shrug. “Why not? Don’t you record songs for a living?”

  “Yeah, but, not those kinds of songs.”

  “So record those kinds of songs.”

  Her expression darkens as she straightens to a sitting position, clasping the sheet to her chest. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Does it have to be simple?”

  “I have a brand, Oliver. People expect me to perform stuff like ‘Boy Crazy’ and ‘Horizontal.’ They want me to make them feel light and carefree while they dance to my music in a club. I can’t just become an angsty rocker all of a sudden.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because! Do you have any idea how huge my platform is? How much rides on everything I do or say? I can’t even wear a new outfit without a global discussion, let alone change everything that makes me me.”

  “But it’s not you. That’s the problem. Your own music makes you happy. That’s you.”

  She cringes, and my frustration builds again. I hate how she reacts as if she can’t think of anything worse than playing the music from her heart.

  “Yeah, well, not everything in life is about being happy,” she says quietly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  I prop up on my arm, glaring at her. “No? You think it makes me happy to push through hour after hour of grueling physical therapy? You think I’m happy to limit every single thing I put in my body, every choice I make on and off the ice? No. Sometimes I hate it so much I want to put my fist through a wall, but I do it. You know why? Because happiness isn’t about finding something easy. It’s about finding something that’s worth the pain. What’s worth the pain to you, Genevieve? That’s what you need to figure out.”

  Her brow knits in a mix of contemplation and defensiveness, but her response is cut off by a knock at the door.

  “What the heck?” she mutters. Strangely, she picks up her phone instead of answering the door and releases an audible groan. “It’s my mom,” she rushes out, slipping from the sheets and reaching for her clothes.

  “At the door?” I ask in alarm.

  “No, that’s probably Hadley trying to warn me since I didn’t respond to the messages.”

  “Gen? You there?” Yep, Hadley. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s okay! Tell her I’ll be right down,” Genevieve calls through the closed door. She jumps up and bounces into her sweatpants. Now’s probably not the best time to tell her how hot she looks in sweatpants and a sports bra but yeah, I’m officially screwed as I harden again just watching her.

  “Do you want me to sneak out? This room is what, a twenty-foot drop?” I ask.

  Her urgent expression lapses into a grin. “Yeah right. You really think I want to be responsible for breaking your other knee?”

  I laugh and swing my legs to the floor to start collecting my own clothes. “Then I guess I’m meeting your mom.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that to you. Why don’t you just stay here while I see what she wants and get rid of her?” Her tone is light, but I see the trepidation behind her forced enthusiasm. Is she concerned for me or her mother? Maybe both? I don’t know her parents, but based on the shitstorm they manufactured for their daughter, I’m not a huge fan. Maybe that’s not fair, but right now I’m not overly concerned with what’s fair.

  “Just wait here. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she says, leaning forward for a quick kiss. She lingers close, however, as if she doesn’t want to leave, and I can’t help searching her eyes in the silence. The dread I find in her expression is not something any child should experience in the presence of their parents.

  “I’ll come with you,” I say gently. There’s a flicker of relief in her eyes that quickly dissolves into panic.

  “No, that’s not a good idea. She’s…” She shakes her head. “Difficult. Judgmental.”

  Ah. There it is. I won’t be good enough for their royal daughter. I don’t like that I’m not sure which of us she’s protecting. I’m not entirely certain it’s me.

  “Please, Oliver,” she pleads, probably reading my frustration. “It’s not worth the battle with them. I’ll see what she wants and be back in a few minutes.”

  “I have to get going anyway,” I mutter. “There’s a game today.”

  Despite my resentment, I can’t help but smile at her surprised excitement. “The Trojans? You’re on injured reserve, though, right? Wait, aren’t they playing in Philadelphia tonight?”

  Now I’m full-on grinning. “Did you stalk my schedule or are you a legit hockey fan?”

  “For your information, I happen to be a huge Trojans fan. I may have even seen your back-to-back shutouts against the Riverstars in the playoffs.”

  I lean back on my arms, studying her with renewed interest. “Did you now.”

  She blushes and crosses her arms. “I’m not going to fangirl over you, Oliver Levesque, so you can wipe that smirk off your face. Even if you did have a one-point-four-six goals against average in the playoffs. Youngest player ever to post those kinds of numbers.”

  My smile expands into a grin, especially when her gaze drops to my bare chest again. I settle back further to give her a better view. Her eyes burn hot for a second before she swipes my shirt off the floor with a grunt. “One-point-four-two, actually.”

  “Get dressed, all-star. I’ll be back in a second.”

  Like earlier in the day, my wait for Genevieve starts with the best of intentions. But one minute becomes two, two becomes five, and soon I’m staring at the time with a mixture of irritation and concern. I wasn’t kidding that the team plays today, and being on the IR doesn’t mean I flake out on the season. I’ve been sitting through meetings with the coaches and watching film since I woke up from surgery, attending every home game and watching every road game on TV. Tonight we’re playing Philadelphia, considered to be one of the top teams in their conference, in a nationally-televised game. With the time difference, I’ve probably already missed half the first period. Randy has been struggling in net since he replaced me, and I feel compelled to help as much as possible, even if it’s only tips on what I’m seeing. Not that anything would make it okay that I’m out, but this two-and-eight stretch we’re on certainly isn’t helping my mental state. After last year’s playoff run, this was supposed to be my breakout year, the season I established my status among the elite goaltenders of the league. Instead, I’m spending it in the weight room with Carlos.

  I push away the dark thoughts, refusing to go there right now, and direct my pacing toward the door. Yes, she told me to wait, but inaction isn’t something I handle well. I currently spend enough time on the sidelines. Besides, they’re parents. How bad can they be? Maybe it’s time they meet someone willing to stand up to any bullshit related to their daughter.

  I find my way to the back stairs and descend as quietly as possible. Once I reach the lower floor, I listen for voices and think I hear activity in the kitchen. The conversation grows stronger as I approach, and soon I can make out Genevieve’s voice along with an older one I don’t recognize.

  “Really, Genevieve. I don’t know why you’re acting like this. White Flame has invested so much in this tour. It’s what you wanted. They even said they’d try to accommodate any cities you’d like to include.”

  “I’m not ready! I was planning for March. January is too soon.”

  “It’s a month from now.”

  “That’s hardly any time. And the new song? It’s so lame, Mom. I just… can’t.”
I hear the tears choking her voice, and my heart constricts in my chest. Surely her own parents can see how injured she is. How desperate she is for one person to see her. To just shut up and listen.

  “What has gotten into you? A week ago you were fine. Now all of a sudden you’re contrary and unfocused. You’re lucky White Flame didn’t drop us today after your silliness.”

  I stiffen, my fist clenching at my side as I move into view. The older woman notices me first, her eyes widening in shock, then suspicion.

  “Who are you? What are you doing in my daughter’s house?” the woman snaps.

  Genevieve spins back, and I bristle at the tears in her eyes and blotches on her cheeks.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

  “I could ask you the same question. Who’s this, Genevieve? Is this why you’ve been acting so weird lately?”

  “He’s just a friend, Mom. This is Oliver,” she mumbles, shrinking as she says it. Oh hell no.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Fox,” I say, moving forward with an extended hand. “Your daughter is an amazing woman.”

  I’m almost surprised when she takes my hand, giving it a swift, perfunctory tug before letting go with a clear scowl.

  “Yes. She is. With a lot of responsibilities and commitments.” Her eyes bore into me, dimming with a strange coldness. “You look familiar.”

  “Genevieve and I met last week at the meet-and-greet at my training facility.”

  Her cold look shifts into shock, then horror. It’s kind of funny, actually. I could have said I was a convict she met at a charitable prison event and probably gotten the same reaction. “You’re the hockey player! The injured one she had to help up when he fell.”

  My jaw tightens at the description, but I force a nod. “Yes. I’m better known as the Trojan’s starting goalie.”

  “Well, not at the moment, are you?” she quips, and steam builds in my chest.

  “Mom!” Genevieve says, casting her mother a pleading look. She sends one to me next, but I have zero patience for bullies like her mother. Genevieve clearly feared what’s about to go down when she asked me to wait upstairs, but as long as this woman continues to treat her daughter and other people like garbage, it’s going down.

  “Nice of you to follow my career, ma’am. You’ll be pleased to know that I’m working very hard to come back as soon as possible. By all accounts, I’ll be better than ever when I do.”

  “Well, good luck,” she tosses flippantly, brushing me off with a dramatic sip from her water bottle.

  “I don’t need luck. I’m working my ass off to get back on the ice and go after what I want.”

  She glances back at me, clearly not accustomed to being challenged. “As does my daughter. And please watch your language around us.”

  I glare at her. “Does she? Or is she working her ass off for what you and everyone else wants? Do you even know what she wants?”

  Shit. Probably shouldn’t have gone there right out of the gate. I just have zero filter when it comes to protecting those I care about. Or when dealing with tyrants like her mother.

  Both women stare at me in shock for a moment. Even Hadley, who’d been watching quietly from the sideline, cringes and gives me a subtle warning look.

  “What’s he talking about, Genevieve?” the woman asks her daughter.

  I hold my breath, half wanting to retract my statement and half grateful I let it slip. I gave her an out. Will she take it?

  My heart beats wildly in the silence, willing her to accept the pain and go after happiness. It’s right there, waiting for her to reach out and grasp it. One step. Then another. Then another. Slow and painful at first, but I’ll be right behind her, supporting her through the agony of the journey so she can touch the glory of the prize. Hope sinks with each silent second she doesn’t respond.

  “Are we forcing you into a life you don’t want, Gen?” the woman continues when Genevieve doesn’t. “You don’t want to be one of the biggest names in the industry? You don’t want top records and millions of fans all over the world? You don’t want this beautiful mansion, access to the best of the best, and invitations to join the nation’s elite? Did we make a mistake giving all of this to you?”

  The woman waves her hand around her, and I have to clench mine at my side. A biting retort rises in my throat, but when I cast a look at Genevieve’s anguished expression, I swallow it back. Maybe I’ve done enough damage for one day. Still, how can she not see what’s right in front of her? How deep do their manipulative hooks run? She might be afraid of her parents and the corporate monster that created her, but I’m not. They better prepare for battle because it’s on.

  “No, of course not,” Genevieve says finally, so quiet we have to lean forward to hear her. “I love my life. I’m very blessed to have all of that.”

  Her mother releases a sigh and squeezes her daughter’s arm with a smug look.

  I stare at Genevieve in disbelief, nearly shaking from the effort of suppressing my anger. Is she fucking serious? She loves her life? What about the girl constantly on the verge of a panic attack? The girl who called me crying from a bathroom stall just hours ago? The girl who can’t even look in a damn mirror? Is she so brainwashed that she actually thinks her life only has one viable trajectory? I study her in the heavy silence, searching for any sign that my efforts over these last few days have made an impact. What about the girl whose music burned a hole straight through my chest to lodge in my heart? When does that girl get a chance to live?

  “You should probably go, young man. Genevieve and I have a lot to discuss. She told you she’ll be leaving shortly on a lengthy world tour, right? It will be constant rehearsals and meetings to prepare before then. It’s probably best you focus on your rehab.” She spits the word like it’s a criminal activity. Like I really am some kind of felon.

  I ignore her, focusing instead on Genevieve, searching her, silently pleading with her to give me a reason to stay. Because I want to. Fuck her mom. I’ll stay and fight forever, the entire damn world, if she wants me to. Genevieve’s huge, watery eyes lift to mine, so sad, so broken. She wants to say something. Her lips move several times as if the words are pushing against them, struggling to come out. Say it. I urge her silently. Tell her what you want!

  Finally, she speaks. “You said you had to get home to watch the game, right? I’ll call you later, Oliver.”

  She could have just punched me in the stomach.

  I can’t imagine sitting alone at the house with everything boiling inside me and head to the training center instead. It’s pretty much abandoned, and I make my way to the weight room, throw the game on one of the TVs and jump on the treadmill. Randall’s in net again, even after giving up five goals to New York on Monday, but I’m not surprised given their lack of options at the moment. They called up Mercier from the minors but he’s not ready for this level, and I’m waiting for the announcement that they’ll be signing a veteran free agent now that it’s practically confirmed I won’t be back this season. I drive up the pace of the treadmill.

  Sure enough, the game is halfway through the second period and we’re already down by two goals. In just a few minutes of observation it’s clear Randall is shaky, a weakness Philadelphia seems keen to exploit. I can practically see their coach drilling it into them in the locker room between periods. Test him! Test him! They’re being extremely ambitious, taking chances instead of waiting for the perfect play. I grunt in frustration when Carson Ingram snaps a wrist-shot from the boards that sails to the back of the net. Down by three.

  I increase the speed past walking until I’m almost jogging. Carlos wouldn’t be happy about my pace or choice of equipment, but the voices in my head are loud tonight. A casual jaunt on the stationary bike isn’t what I need right now. I need to push, to hurt, to pound out a violent rhythm until my lungs burn and my muscles protest in agony. My knee… fuck my knee.

  Philadelphia scores again, and I fire a curse, slinging a nearby towel to
ward the TV. Fucking… I clench my eyes shut against a sudden pressure in my chest. This one comes from a deeper place. Not physical—a bristled memory lodged in my head like a burr. Always there. Always threatening to scurry back at any sign of weakness. Watching Randall loosen up in the crease after another easy goal seems to be all it needs to feed the darkness and trigger the familiar burn. The scene crashes back in vivid detail like it’s happening right here, right now in this empty room. Travis Bailey on a breakout, barreling toward me at full speed that feels eternal in the moment. The crowd dissolving, the ice becoming small and focused on his singular movements. Left, right, left, the puck curving in and around his stick with laser precision. My shutout on the line, my starting spot all but secured after a preseason that surpassed even the high expectations from last year’s playoff heroics. Just me and Travis. Just a small puck and a giant career. My defenseman struggles to backcheck, getting in just as Keegan Manning joins Baily on the rush for a two-on-one. I cheat toward Baily, anticipating a shot. And then…

  A pass.

  I throw my weight to the right to block the new threat from Manning, just as my defenseman dives late to block it with his body. Goal! And—

  Collision.

  Time stopping.

  Sound fading.

  Light bursting and dimming into darkness. White hot nothing followed by searing pain and alarming tingles through my lower leg. Cavernous dread. My entire life, everything I’ve worked for, disintegrating to shadows before my eyes as the pain becomes agony and my brain catches up with my body. Intense leg spasms send me back to the ice when I try to get up as the trainer rushes out, and I know, know, in this moment what happened. That I’m done. That twelve weeks from now I’ll be on a treadmill alone, watching my teammates get slaughtered on a journey without me.

  I gasp back to the present, fighting for air as tears burn my eyes. With labored breaths, I scan the gym in alarm, finding myself alone and running from the flashback in the dark. How long was I in that haze? Long enough for my body to get caught off-rhythm.