Break Away Read online

  But I'm not letting Denver off that easy.

  I don't score. Instead I wait. I wait for the goalie to stop sliding. He digs in again, reverses his momentum, and makes one last desperate play. He dives at me, sliding head-first across the ice, lunging for the puck with his goal stick outstretched. He's hoping against hope that I'm somehow gonna screw this one up.

  But I won't. I'll wait until he's just close enough. I'll let him get his hopes up. And then, with a flick of my wrists, I'll end it.

  The puck hits twine, the goal light flashes, and that's it. The crowd erupts.

  Game over.

  ***

  After we saluted the fans, we left the ice as a team. I'm always the last player off the ice. That's one of my honors as captain.

  After the last of my teammates had left the ice, it was my turn to walk down the tunnel to the dressing room. I handed out high-fives to the fans that leaned over the railing. And then I hurried to catch up with my rowdy teammates, running on my skates along the protective rubber mats that lined the floor. As I neared, I heard the boys had already got the wild dressing room party started. Their shouts and screams echoed down the cinder block hallway –

  “Yeeeeeah boys!”

  “Fuck Denver!”

  “Rat bastards!”

  “Fuckin' right!”

  “Woooo!”

  And our victory song for this year – the song that we play after every win – was already pumping and blaring from the stereo speakers.

  This year's victory song is Smooth by Santana, featuring Rob Thomas, by the way. Yes, I know what you're thinking; and no, we don't actually have terribly outdated taste in music. But we are hockey players, and we do have a deeply ironic sense of humor.

  And nothing gets a group of guys dancing on each other and acting all sorts of ridiculous like that song can. It's a great way to burn off the adrenaline that was still pumping through our blood.

  The shouts and screams, and Santana's screeching guitar solo, all grew louder as I neared the dressing room door. My excitement grew, too – I loved this feeling, I loved being part of the post-victory glow. And so I was grinning from ear to ear by the time I burst through the door, my arms raised in celebration.

  “Yeaaaah!” the boys roared when I entered.

  “O captain, my captain!”

  “With the game-winner!”

  Jono Clark, Robby Cooke, and Nick Ochoa were in the middle of the room, dancing to the music and pretending to do some kind of strip tease for the rest of us. Cheeseballs, all of 'em – they tore their sweaty jerseys off and twirled them over their heads like a cowboy with a lasso.

  Jono met eyes with me, and I knew exactly what was going through his mind. I ducked right in time – just as Jono's sweat-soaked jersey flew out of his hand and plopped against the wall behind me. His sweater slid down the wall and slapped the floor with a sickening, wet thud.

  “You are so lucky I've got the reflexes of a cat, you dick!” I shouted over the noise at Jono. I shook my fist at him too, half-joking, half-serious. I mean, the thought of that soiled jersey smacking my face? Euch.

  “You're lucky you didn't give me a goddamn heart-attack out there, Riv!” Jono shouted back. “The fuck were you waiting for?”

  I grinned. “Just wanted to make it exciting.”

  Jono and the two others continued the strip tease. They tore their velcro straps free, flinging assorted pads at the rest of us cheering on-lookers as they disrobed. We bobbed and weaved like prize fighters, dodging wave after wave of their sweaty gear. Some of the boys bent over and picked the equipment up, just to zip it right back at the three clowns in the middle of the room.

  That was when Coach Jilson entered. “Alright, alright, listen up,” he said.

  That was always our cue to cut the crap. We stopped talking and the noisy commotion died down immediately – well, all except for Santana. But someone quickly hit pause on the stereo and the room was dead silent at last. Coach walked back and forth, and let the room simmer into an attentive silence before he began talking.

  “Liked most of what I saw today.” Coach always liked to give us his post-game debriefing in the most, well, briefest of manners – all while he paced about the room, staring at his feet and stroking his chin.

  “Let's see. Start with the good. Liked our offense. Patient. Cycled well. Good team D. Good PK, especially when it mattered most.”

  He paused, his hands on his hips. “Now for the bad. Defense, you gotta get to loose pucks. Don't care how gassed you are. I wanna see effort. Our break outs have to get better, too.”

  Coach looked up at me. “River, can't complain about the game you had, but let's try to bury that one a little sooner next time, yeah?”

  I nodded. “Got it, Coach.”

  Coach walked a few more paces. I saw the faintest hint of a smile start to crack on his lips.

  “… Got a bit lucky when they hit that post, didn't we, boys?”

  The murmurs around the room agreed.

  “Yup, yup.” “Hell yeah.” “Sure did, Coach.” “God bless that post!”

  On the way out the door, Coach J slapped his hand twice on the cinder block. “Enjoy the win, boys. See you back here Sunday morning for practice.”

  And with that, Coach was gone, and it was just us boys again. The party started right back up again, like someone put the needle back on the record – and sure enough, Santana started up right where he left off … amidst a few pained groans.

  “Hey hey hey!” Shayne Elliott shouted, grabbing the room's attention. He's our alternate captain and #1 d-man, and the guy that lives to make a joke. “It's time for the mullet!”

  Elliott reached into his stall and fetched 'the mullet,' a wig that he keeps in his stall. The classic 80's hairstyle is kind of an icon in hockey.

  “With two goals and two assists … the winner of the mullet is … big surprise, I know … River!”

  Elliott tossed the mullet across the room to me. I caught it and pulled the crusty thing on. I turned about the room and modeled that terrible rug to a chorus of sarcastic applause and hoots.

  “Hey River!” Ochoa yelled from across the room. “Sick move on that game winner! I think that poor bastard goalie is still out there, sliding outta his crease!”

  Everybody laughed. I accepted the compliment with a head bob. “Thanks Ocho.”

  Ocho ranted on. “And the way you got their hopes up after? Making 'em chase after you before you roofed it? Oh my God – twist the dagger a little more, why don't ya! Please tell me you'll still pull shit like that in the NHL next year? You know we'll all be dying when we're watching your games on TV.”

  “I've never seen a net that open in my life,” Elliott laughed. “And I guarantee you that if I ever was staring down an empty net like that, I'd get so excited, I'd fucking …” Elliott trailed off. He made a gesture like he was jerking off wildly – only to act shocked and disappointed that he suddenly blew his imaginary wad prematurely, shooting his pretend load all over the room.

  Elliott grinned. “… I'd fuckin' shoot wide. I fuckin' know I would!”

  Everybody laughed.

  “So hey River, you gonna come out with us to the bars tonight or what?” Jono raised a brow at me. “We could use you out there.”

  I grinned. “Don't think so. I've got so much homework this weekend. This geology class is gonna tank my GPA if I don't start taking it seriously.”

  “Aw, fuck! He never wants to come out anymore!” Jono whined to his audience. “Ever since that chick dumped him last year, he's got a serious case of the sad brains.”

  I chortled. “Fuck you, Jono! I'm over that shit.”

  “Suuure you are!” he laughed. He quickly ducked, dodging a roll of tape that I threw at him. The tape banked off the cinder block wall behind him, leaving a black mark on the white paint. “I'm just kiddin' ya, bud. But, you do realize we get a lot higher quality ass when you come out to the bars with us, don't you? Take one for the team, Riv!”


  The boys cheered. “C'mon, River!” “Yeah, come out with us!” “Dooo it.” “Don't be a pussy!”

  “Plus we like being around you and shit!” Ocho added.

  My resolve started to melt away. Homework could wait.

  “Alright, alright. Fine, I'll come.”

  “Yeaaaaaah!” the boys roared.

  Just then, Coach J came back into the room. We all went silent again, but Coach J raised his hands as if to say 'hey, don't worry, keep being a bunch of screwballs.'

  He did, however, come up to me and slap me hard on the shoulder.

  “Hey Riv.”

  “Sup Coach?”

  “You got somebody out there to see you.”

  “Who's that?”

  “That team rep. From Carolina.”

  “Oh.” I pinched my bottom lip and pulled at it, twisting it between my fingers.

  Coach cocked his head. “Want me to send him away?”

  I stood up and made my way for the door. “Nah. I'll talk to him.”

  4

  Optics Matter

  – River –

  I bustled through the door and walked down the hallway, in search of the team rep from Carolina. A group of media personnel lingered about, hoping to catch somebody for an interview. Their eyes grew huge the second they spotted me. My sweat-dampened undershirt was plastered to my chest, but I was still dressed in the rest of my gear from the waist down.

  As I walked past, they jumped into action and stuck right by my side – following me like remora that cling to a shark, desperate for a meal ticket.

  “River! Great game! Got time for an interview?”

  “Hey River, your thoughts on making the jump to the NHL?”

  “River! River! Is it true you're not going to sign with the team that drafted you?”

  I waved them off – “Sorry guys. No interviews.” – and continued on.

  I followed the hallway out to the large ante-room. There, I spotted him. Alan Rickert. Alan was dressed in a nice suit, as always. His arms folded, he checked his watch, tapping his loafers on the floor impatiently.

  He heard the reporters chasing after me and glanced up. A look of relief washed over his face and he waved at me. I waved back as I neared.

  “There he is! River Brame.” Alan Rickert put his hand out to shake mine.

  “Hey Alan, how are ya.” I gave him my hand, and he yanked me in close to give me a 'bro hug.' He slapped his hand heartily against my back, making a couple of wet smacks. If my sweaty bod had grossed Alan out, he didn't show it.

  He took a few steps back and appraised my frame. “Jeez, River, every time I see you it looks like you've added more muscle. What are you at now? Two-oh-five?”

  When Carolina drafted me right out of prep school four years ago, I barely weighed 165 pounds sopping wet. (I also only stood 5'10. Since then, I've shot up like a weed. I'm 6'3 now.)

  “Two-ten,” I said quietly. Sure, I was proud of the work I'd done in the weight room, but I always got a little embarrassed when people made a big deal out of it.

  “Two-ten! Holy shit. You're a big goddamn boy, River. I'm tellin' ya, you're gonna be a force in the NHL. You've got the size. And you've been throwing that weight around more, I've noticed! Wham!” Alan pasted a hypothetical opponent into the boards with a shoulder check. “NHL pros, River. They're gonna fear you.”

  “Yeah,” I chuckled softly. “So what brings you out here?”

  “Well, I came all the way out here to see the phenom play, naturally!” He slugged my shoulder. “And I wasn't disappointed. Damn, we could use you, River. Right now, right this very day.”

  I forced a smile. “Thanks.”

  With a shit-eating grin, Alan reached out and tugged on a lock of 'my' hair. “How many of those 210 pounds are from the new hairdo?”

  “Oh, God, forgot I still had this thing on,” I muttered, realizing that I was still wearing the stupid mullet. I whipped the wig off and ran a hand through my short hair to fix it. I felt the slick, gritty salt of my sweat, clinging to my hair – man, I couldn't wait to get back to that room and shower!

  “You going to a costume party tonight or something?”

  “Nah. It's just a team-gag. After every win, Elliott gives the mullet to our MVP of the game.”

  “Bet you're pretty comfortable in that wig this year, huh? I'm not surprised, River, that was some goal you scored.” Alan grabbed an imaginary hockey stick and mimicked my move on the winning goal – forehand, backhand, a quick snow-spraying stop and forehand once more. Then he shot the pretend puck into the net.

  “You make it look easy, River.”

  “Thanks,” I chuckled again.

  “Too easy, River,” Alan said, and his tone suddenly changed – from sounding impressed to sounding admonishing. His eyebrows lifted, and his piercing eyes demanded some kind of answer from me. “Aren't you ready for a challenge? I mean c'mon, is it really that great being the big fish in a little pond?”

  I looked away. “I'm having fun out there, Alan.”

  A voice, deep inside me, added – for once.

  “I can see that.” Alan grinned.

  “And I've said all along I want my degree.”

  “Okay, okay, I know.” Alan waved a hand. “You know we've been patient with you, right River?”

  “Yeah,” I grumbled. “Of course. And I appreciate it. But my plan--”

  “I've been patient with you, River, haven't I?”

  “Well … yeah. I mean, I guess.”

  “C'mon, River. I'm not talking about leaving school early anymore. I get it. A degree means a lot to you. And you're already so close to your goal.”

  “Thanks for understanding.”

  “Not that you couldn't get your degree while you played in the NHL. Or any time after! Lord knows you won't have a problem paying that tuition with the millions of dollars you're gonna make.”

  Alan studied my face, waiting to see if the arguments that I'd already heard a thousand times in the past four years still didn't sway me.

  Nope: they didn't.

  So Alan continued. “Anyhow, I didn't come all the way out here just to have this conversation again, so … actually, I came out here to share some exciting info.” He nodded enthusiastically.

  “Oh yeah? What's that?” I asked. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't skeptical about his info.

  “I talked it over with our coach and GM, and I've got great news, River, great news. I got their word. All you have to do is give us a verbal agreement that you'll sign with us after your season ends here at UND. As soon as your school year's over, you can join the big club, just in time for the playoffs. And you'll have a guaranteed top-6 spot on the team. Guaranteed! How's that sound, River?!”

  “Alan …” I chuckled uncomfortably. “I appreciate that. Really. But you know I wanna take my time. See what my options are. I don't know how many other ways I can say it …”

  “If you do that?” Alan swallowed and shook his head. “You're gonna make us look bad, River. You're gonna make me look bad.”

  I let out a quiet groan, lifting my gaze at the ceiling. “It's not like I want to, Alan.”

  “Then don't!” he volunteered.

  As if it were really that simple. I shook my head, at a loss for words.

  Alan folded his arms. “So you're really serious, huh?”

  “Yeah. I am. I always have been. It's not like I've kept it a secret from you.”

  Alan blew out a sigh. “Alright. Well. In that case, I have some bad news.”

  My eyes narrowed. “What's that?”

  “Carolina can't just take this lying down, River. We're gonna have to protect ourselves, 'cause the fans aren't gonna be happy. You know how many jerseys of yours we've already sold?”

  I didn't answer; I just rubbed my eyes.

  “They can't wait to see you play for us, River. You're gonna break their hearts if you walk. And then they'll be angry. Angry at us, angry at you, angry at everybody involved. And they'll be
calling for somebody's head. I hope you realize that. This is a business, a business where optics matter. If you're not gonna sign with us, we don't have a choice. We're gonna have to put a spin on this to protect ourselves.”

  See, that all sounds great – except when you realize what he's actually saying is that they're going to trash me in the media. Even though I've been upfront with them about my intentions this whole time. Call me crazy, but I don't think they have the right to act like I'm the bad guy here and I've just blind-sided them with my sudden change of plans.

  And, what's more, they've already started this 'spin' process. I've seen the headlines, after all. I get tagged in the Tweets. I know what people in the hockey world started saying about me this year, when Carolina started to get nervous. Hell, it was enough for me to have a sit down with somebody from the student newspaper earlier this week to arrange something of a PR counter-attack.

  So I shrugged at Alan. “Do what you gotta do, I guess.”

  “But see, it doesn't have to be this way, River. You could save us all the grief. All you have to do is just sign with the team that drafted you! Like everybody else always does! Just think about it – okay? Think about the offer, alright?”

  “Alan …”

  “Just think about it!” Alan demanded.

  And oh, I'd think about it, alright. I'd think about how I saw this coming from a mile away.

  “Sure thing,” I said with a sigh.

  “Can you do one last thing for me River?”

  “Hm?”

  “Send my other young prospect out here, will ya? I haven't chatted with him in too long.”

  He meant my teammate Jono Clark.

  I nodded. “Sure.” I walked back to the room, dodging the gauntlet of reporters one more time.

  “River, River!” “Got time for ...”

  I shoved my way past them. “No. Nope. Sorry. Excuse me.”

  The dressing room was littered with sweaty gear and jerseys were strewn all over the place. I could hear the excitement – the shouts, the jokes, the bickering, the roasting – had mostly moved to the showers.