Breakaway (4 page)

Some guys resisted and got called up to the more prestigious—and more financially solvent—American Hockey League, and Jared even knew one or two guys who went up to the NHL and were never sent back down again. But as Jared got older, those guys became more and more rare, and the norm were dudes like him or Wynn. Guys who realized that it was as good as it was going to get and didn’t mind all that much. They were getting money to play hockey. When he walked off his college team at Ferris State, Jared knew that a lucrative pro career wasn’t in the cards for him. But it never really had been. So the fact he had a pro career at all was awesome.

Guys like Courtnall, though… he had that shine, all bright like a new penny. It’d been a while since Jared had paid all that much attention to rookies, but fuck, the kid was good. Drafted by the Bolts and only twenty years old. He had his whole goddamn life ahead of him and a career that didn’t necessarily have to be played out in civic arenas on two-dollar beer night.

Jared turned the shower on full blast and stared at himself in the mirror while the bathroom filled up with steam. There was the fading remnant of a black eye from that game in Baton Rouge the weekend before, and Lane’s ridiculous punch had given him the slightest bruise on his jaw. He also had the first scruff of a beard growing in, more red than blond, and the scar from where he’d been cut by a skate when he was twelve was a thin, white line down his left cheek.

It was gratifying to think someone as hot as Lane Courtnall thought he was attractive. Sure. But he was too old for this. Jared hadn’t ever been too picky about who he took to bed, whether they were girls or guys, as long as they wanted to be there and didn’t mind that he usually left town the next day. But he’d learned not to fuck his teammates, and while he might have broken that rule a time or two to get his dick sucked, he knew better than to do anything else.

As of late he’d mostly left all of that to his younger teammates. Like tonight, when he’d come back to the room to find Wynn sucking some girl’s admittedly amazing tits. He’d politely declined the offer for a threesome and decided to go to the bar instead—and very nearly broken every rule he had so he could fuck Courtnall. Sure, Courtnall was pretty, but it was more than that. It was how Courtnall was clearly attracted to him, had no idea what to do about it, and thought that Jared might not notice. How he’d offered him chicken fingers and
shared the last one
, had argued with a seasoned veteran about how hockey worked, and didn’t back down, even though Jared could be a scary son-of-a-bitch when he wanted.

How he’d stared at Jared’s hands when he went to pay for his drinks. The way he’d looked at him when they were standing by the highway. That whole “Tell me when.” The way he’d sucked on his lip—

Goddammit.

Jared got in the shower and winced at the hot water as it hit a few bruises he’d forgotten about. But his cock was causing him more pain than anything, so when the door opened and Wynn’s leggy brunette came strolling in, he didn’t say a word to stop her as she climbed into the shower with him, her hands on his chest and her mouth warm and soft beneath his own. It had to be a different girl. This one was all legs but had way smaller tits—not that Jared would complain.

When she got on her knees, he threaded his fingers through her long, soft hair and leaned back against the tile shower, careful not to choke her while he moved himself in and out of her mouth. His eyes slid closed, and he thought about Courtnall, imagined it was him down there, staring up at Jared like he had in the elevator—desperate and wanting things he clearly had no idea how to even ask for.

He remembered to warn the girl before he came, and she climbed gracefully to her feet and finished him with her hand. After it was over, he moved her against the shower wall and put his face in her neck and his hand between her legs. If she was faking it when she got off, he was too tired to call her on it. But she seemed happy when she left, and Jared waved a halfhearted good-bye and fell into bed, exhausted and wearing his boxers and a shirt from some team he’d played for years before that had probably folded and reopened in some other city, with some other name.

THE NEXT
day’s game being a matinee, Lane was regretting a few of his choices from the day before. It was nice to have his teammates not hate him, though, and he could see the coach was almost as relieved as he was to see things had been straightened out.

“Listen up. Don’t let your fucking centers get run over by that goon Shore,” he snapped, and Lane looked down at his skates and tried not to be irrationally angry at Coach Spencer for calling Jared that.

“Aw, Shore’s all right,” Adam Landers said, shrugging. “I played with him once, in Evansville.”

“He’s played with everybody,” Spence said, hitting Landers in the back of the head. He was smiling, though. “He might be older than I am. But today we fucking hate him, you got that?”

Lane kept looking at his skates, his face burning. Adam noticed and nudged him in the side. “Hey, don’t worry, Courts. I’m pretty sure Bridey and Becker aren’t going to let Shore demolish you again.”

“We’re not,” Bridey said, leaning over. “Sorry about that, Courts. But hey, you had a fight. And you were awful, but that’s okay. I’ll avenge you today.” Bridey hit one glove into the other, eyes sparkling. Shane McBride might have had a few screws loose. He actually looked
excited
. “Just score some goals, hotshot.”

Lane smiled at him and nodded. He wasn’t sure he liked his team thinking he was afraid of Shore. He was, but not for the reasons they thought. It was less being punched by Shore, and more how his mouth felt against Lane’s, the way Shore pressed up against him in the elevator, hot and hard and—

“Courtnall. Stop daydreaming. Gretzky, and get out there,” Spence yelled, and Lane shook himself and hopped over the boards to take his first shift. Hockey. He had to play hockey. Right.

With his team finally including him in the game, Lane expected to have a much better showing than the day before. Even if he was distracted by the Renegade’s enforcer, who seemed to be on the ice every time he was.

Bridey and Becker were almost
overzealous
about Lane’s safety, and obviously felt bad about previously making him a moving target, which meant they were manfully putting themselves in between Lane and the Renegades.

“Guys, I don’t think this is a good plan,” Lane told them, knocking his stick against theirs to show his appreciation. “I mean, I get what you’re doing, but could we maybe just forget about me and play hockey?”

His wingers nodded. Lane thought they maybe looked a little relieved.

Things went much better after a scoreless first period, and Reeder put them on the board during one of the six thousand power plays earned from all the penalties in the second. One of the Renegades scored at the top of the third, to tie the game at one-one.

The rest of the third period rapidly became the most fun hockey game Lane had ever played. Bridey and Shore got in a fight—which made Lane feel weirdly jealous and proud at the same time—and Bridey went down the tunnel to the thunderous applause of their respectable afternoon crowd. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t the Air Canada Center in Toronto. The atmosphere was great, and Lane remembered that he played because he loved it, and it was worth all the hazing and split lips in the world.

Especially when he scored the game-winning goal on a play that was almost identical to the one from the day before, where he’d been buried by Shore. Lane got his fist bumps and cheers, and he was happy to hear “Goal scored by number forty-six, Lane Courtnall,” over the PA system.

For his last shift of the game, he found himself on the ice with Shore. Clearly the Renegades were going for intimidation, and Lane grinned when he put his stick on the ice, looked up at Shore’s cool blue eyes, and waited for the puck to drop. Shore looked at him like he had no idea who Lane was, which threw him enough to lose the face-off. Shore took the puck and immediately sent it to his winger.

He bumped into Lane, and Lane bumped him back. He saw Shore’s quick grin as he skated over to the boards to end his shift. Luckily, Lane’s momentary lapse of good sense in the face-off circle didn’t end in a goal, and they won the game two to one. Lane decided to keep scoring goals because it was much better than having everyone hate him.

After the game, they went out for a celebratory lunch at Cruisers. And it was great. It was all perfectly what he wanted, until Ryan—Lane’s soon-to-be new roommate—threw his arm around Lane and pronounced, “Now we just need to get this guy laid, and he’ll be having the best day ever.”

Everyone laughed, but not in a mean way, and Ryan immediately started hitting on the waitress. Her name was Zoe, and she was clearly not impressed with her table of rowdy hockey players. She had a Southern drawl, a lot of tattoos, and hair an improbable color of red pulled back into two low pigtails. She was cute. Lane could appreciate that, but he could also tell Ryan was driving her nuts.

“Maybe you should ease up, Romeo,” Lane told him, and Ryan grinned and pounded him on the back—way too hard.

“You want dibs, is that it?”

Lane wondered if it would do any good to explain to Ryan that the girl was absolutely not interested, and that dibs were pointless. But Ryan might take that as a challenge, and the girl already looked irritated enough. So he just nodded, and Ryan made a lewd comment and went back to talking about some game he was playing on his Xbox.

It was fine until Zoe came back, and Ryan nudged him, looked at her, and wiggled his eyebrows. Did this actually work for Ryan, with girls? But Lane had absolutely no idea what to do either. If he was inexperienced with guys, it was even worse when it came to girls. Zoe leaned in to take their empty glasses, and Ryan looked at him expectantly. So Lane cleared his throat and said, “Hi?”

Ryan started laughing.

“Hi,” Zoe said flatly. “Did you want anything else?” She looked tired, even though it was only five o’clock in the evening. Lane couldn’t blame her.

Ryan coughed and said something like
blowjob
under his breath. Lane felt his face turn the color of Zoe’s hair and kicked him under the table. He was suddenly not sure it was a good idea to live with Ryan, if the guy was this embarrassing at a public restaurant. Maybe he was showing off, which guys tend to do. Lane was too worried about what someone might think if he tried that.

“A less embarrassing friend, if you have one of those,” Lane said seriously, and she cracked a small smile at him.

“Looks like you need more than one,” she said, giving a pointed look to the rest of the table.

“Probably,” Lane agreed, and since he and Zoe were speaking to each other, Ryan went back to his conversation and ignored them. “I’m sorry about him. We just got done with a game and we won.”

“Right. That’s a great excuse to make lewd comments at your waitress,” she snapped. “Do people show up where you work and say shit to you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lane answered, nodding. “Sometimes they hold up signs. And they boo too. The other team’s fans, but sometimes if you’re not doing too great, your own.”

“What kind of sport do you play? Basketball?”

“Hockey,” Lane said. “For the Sea Storm.”

“Oh. Is that, like, a rec team or something?”

Lane laughed because it was a good reminder that the city he played in had no concept of hockey. “Nope. It’s the ECHL. Minor league.”

“Oh. Like minor league baseball. Jacksonville had a team once. The Expos.”

“So, wait. You know about the minor league baseball team that doesn’t play here anymore, but not the minor league hockey team that does?” He liked her, he decided. He didn’t want to sleep with her, but she seemed like a nice person, and she was easy to talk to.

“Welcome to the South… what’s your name?”

“Lane,” he answered. “Lane Courtnall.”

She waited, tapping her pencil on her pad of paper. “You’re not going to say, ‘Remember it, because you’ll be screaming it later,’ are you?”

“No. Why would I want you to scream at me?” Lane asked, bewildered—and then flushed hotly as the meaning became clear.

She laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a nice guy, Lane Courtnall. You do need better friends. My name’s Zoe.”

“I know,” Lane said. “It says that on your name tag.”

She gave him a weird look, which Lane was used to by then. “You need anything else? More water? I bet hockey makes you thirsty.”

“That’d be nice,” he said seriously. “Do you want me to carry some of those glasses for you? There’s a lot.”

“Are you for real?” She snatched his glass and added it to the stack on her tray. “No, I’ll bring you a new glass. But seriously, where are you from? The nineteen fifties?”

“Chatham, Ontario,” he answered and then added, “Canada,” because a lot Americans had no idea about Canadian geography, other than that it was up north.

She winked at him. “That explains it. I’ll be back with your water. And your check. And if anyone asks me to separate it, I’ll beat them to death.” She waved her notepad threateningly. “Make sure they know that, Lane.”

“Okay.” Lane waited until she left and told his teammates not to split the check because the waitress would be mad. They took that to mean he was trying to sleep with her, so he endured their teasing about it.

It was all fine until they went to leave, and Lane naturally went to get in the car with Ryan. “Can you drop me off at the Econo Lodge? I have to pack my stuff.”

“I know what you have to pack,” Ryan said suggestively, looking back toward the restaurant.

“I don’t even know what that means,” Lane told him, but he had a sinking feeling that he did, in fact, know what that meant. It meant that Ryan wasn’t going to drive him, thinking that Lane’s new girlfriend could take him home
in the morning
, and Ryan would be there around ten to help him move his stuff to their new apartment. Which Ryan told him bluntly, just in case it wasn’t clear.

“Might as well take advantage of that room all to yourself. You seem like the shy type, Courts.” Ryan flipped his sunglasses down. “And I’m not shy at all, so get used to that. I won’t fuck anyone in your bed, though.”