Break Away Read online

  The Fighting Hawks started a skating drill. Back and forth they skated. There wasn't much to take notes on, and my mind started to wander elsewhere.

  Okay, there's an elephant in this arena that should probably be addressed before I move on. Yeah, we're all thinking it, so I might as well get it over with. Paulo.

  What happened between us that Friday night, you ask? To make a long story short … I went home with Paulo to make sure he didn't pass out in a ditch somewhere. (Although why I would care about that particular outcome is beyond me.) Walking him home took twice as long as it should have, because he could barely hold his drunk-ass up and I might as well have been carrying him on my shoulders, fireman style, all 1.6 miles.

  By the time we made it to his place, it was nearly 3:00 AM. Paulo has a studio apartment. No couch. His mattress sits right on the carpeted floor. Which is in serious need of a vacuuming, by the way. But you can't vacuum with all those dirty clothes strewn about the floor. Stacks of dirty dishes cover any horizontal surface. The whole place is messy as fuck. You get the idea.

  Basically, it was the last place I wanted to be – but I was also way too tired to make the trek across town back to my apartment.

  So, in all my genius, I climbed into his crusty bed sheets and stayed the night. The one caveat was that we slept head to toe. Of course, that arrangement didn't stop him from trying to man-handle my junk, no matter how much I slapped at his hands and told him I hated him and I wished he'd fuck right off and let me sleep.

  Yeah, yeah, I know. I should've called a taxi and high-tailed it outta there the second I dropped him off. But please understand that I was at the point where my body had simply had enough for one day, and demanded that I drop everything and fall asleep immediately. I couldn't have kept my eyes open long enough to look up a phone number – let alone wait for the cab to arrive.

  Then again, with Paulo pawing at me every fifteen seconds, it's not like I got much rest anyway. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

  When we woke the next day? Well, let's just say that Paulo never fails to impress. He blinked at me, looking surprised.

  “Huh. What're you doing here?” he asked.

  “Wow. You don't remember a thing, do you?”

  “No.” He grinned. “Did we – y'know – do it?”

  “Ha! You wish.”

  And that was it. I grabbed my things and took off.

  Devon, from what I understand, had a way better night. But I still haven't seen her since, and haven't gotten the whole story. She prefers to spill details in person, not over the phone. So that will have to wait.

  ***

  After practice ended, I had to make my way through a nightmare of bureaucratic red-tape just to try to find the team's locker room. I met with team rep after team rep, telling them about my supposed arrangement. I showed them my press credentials. I gave them Stan's number, told them to call the editor directly. (They just stared at me instead.) I told them about how the Athletics PR Department had arranged this whole thing, and wondered aloud how, exactly, had they not been prepared for this?

  Everyone wanted to just look at me skeptically and grill me with the same questions over and over. They treated me as if I was some unhinged, psychopathic fanboy. Surely I'd gone through all the trouble to fabricate press credentials, just so I could get a sniff of that locker room in person, right?

  Eye roll.

  It took all the will-power I had not to tell them that I didn't wanna be here in the first place and in fact, I couldn't give a damn about hockey to begin with, let alone any of the team's players. I had half a mind to march right back to Stan's office and tell him it was hopeless, even with the press pass.

  Alas – finally, someone actually picked up the phone and dialed a number and spoke to someone, who spoke to someone else, who must have spoken to River. Because after a few minutes of being on hold, the team rep guy hung up the phone, shrugged, and told me –

  “Okay, guess you weren't lying after all. The big guy says you can come on down.”

  “Thanks,” I hissed, rather ungratefully.

  At last, I was taken down a level and shown the team's dressing room door.

  “There you go,” the rep said, pointing at the door.

  I could hear loud music and muffled banter behind the solid wood door. It sounded like a party in there – a party where I wasn't truly welcome, even if I did have an invite … sort of.

  “Okay. Um.” I swallowed. “So, I just – go in there?”

  The rep rolled his eyes at me and walked off without saying another word.

  “Ooookay. Guess so.” I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  And it was like stepping into a strange and new world.

  First, before you even step foot in that room, you're hit by the wall of noise. I mean, it sounded loud on the other side of this door, but once that door opens? It really grabs you by the throat and doesn't let go. And it's not just noise, it's something else. It's the energy of that place.

  Testosterone, thick and manly, pumped through the air. Heavy metal blasted from somebody's boom-box. Ten different conversations took place at once. All those deep voices bellowed, competing with the music and each other. But the punchline of a filthy joke was somehow heard by all, and the room erupted in gut-busting laughter so raucous, and so spontaneous, it seemed almost choreographed.

  Oh, shit, I thought to myself, needing to catch my breath. I'm not in psych class anymore.

  I nervously slid through the doorway and into the room, like the new kid at school who tries not to be noticed.

  Somehow, unlike my days as the school's new kid, I wasn't noticed. No one paid me any mind.

  I took a look around. The air was humid and had that dank locker-room smell of hot, sweaty bodies. Billowing clouds of steam enshrouded, and rolled from, a connecting doorway. The harsh smell of cheap bar soap was somehow pleasant. Players emerged from that doorway with their hair wet and towels wrapped around their waists, their supple skin looking clean and soft after a warm, post-practice shower.

  And that's when the realization, the doubt, the absolute terror hit me: I'm supposed to be around all these student athletes; men at the peak of their physical prime, in various states of undress.

  And I'm not supposed to look.

  I will not look. I will not look!

  I sunk my teeth into my bottom lip as towels came undone and dropped to the floor. I swore to myself that I'd keep my line of sight above the navel – but that wasn't much help. Because everywhere I looked was a gorgeously jacked torso, cute nipples, hairy chests, boyishly bare chests … all these lovely, perfect, hot bods!

  Suddenly, a loud snapping noise – whap!

  Followed immediately by a blood-curdling scream – “aieee!”

  All the heads in the room whipped around. One player, dressed in only a towel and sandals, danced about the room with his hands clutching and grabbing at his towel-covered ass. Everyone roared with laughter.

  I spotted the perpetrator close by. Wearing a sadistic grin, he twisted his towel into a familiar and terrible weapon. And again he whipped that towel at his teammate, the poor guy who was still dancing about the room in pain.

  Whap!

  “Aieeeeeeeeee!”

  This time, he must've jumped two feet in the air. And the blow of this last strike had the magic touch – for the tuck of his towel came undone, and the item tumbled down his muscled legs and fell at his ankles. A perfect ass, toned and tight as a drum, was revealed – and received by delighted hooting.

  (And yes, my personal vow to 'not look' lasted all of twenty seconds.)

  The victim bent over, picked up his towel, and immediately launched into a counter-attack. The two men dueled, whipping their towels at each other while their laughing teammates cheered them on.

  Well … I swallowed. I guess jock culture hasn't changed much since high school.

  Except, back then in gym class, we didn't just stand around with our half-mast cocks out for ev
eryone to see.

  And we certainly didn't look like these guys did. I mean … yow.

  I will say this – I was pretty glad that I didn't see River in this locker room crowd. Words wouldn't have been able to convey my disappointment if River was the guy doing the towel-snapping. Was he still in the shower? I wasn't sure.

  Suddenly, the dressing room door opened again and a player peeked his head into the room.

  “Guys! Come quick! You gotta see this! Guys!” The towel battle stopped and everyone grumbled and cocked their heads at him curiously. With their attention, he added: “River's training Lettuce! And he just puked all over the place!”

  “Oh, I gotta see this!” “Yup, me too!” “Let's go!”

  And just like that, the athletes wrapped their towels around their privates and gleefully stampeded out the door.

  I followed the pack, still slightly amazed no one had noticed me yet. Truth be told, I began to feel invisible. Hell, if this is what it was like being a sports writer …? I might actually be able to do this for a living, y'know? The unfettered access! The sexy studs, standing around naked and just enjoying each other's company in the buff … umm, yes please!

  We went down the hallway and through another doorway. Again, I slipped in unnoticed. With exercise equipment everywhere, I figured this must be the team's own training room.

  The crowd of players gathered around a stationary bike, blocking my view. I stayed back, not wanting to get too close.

  The teammates laughed and made jokes.

  “Ahh, Lettuce! What happened here bud!” “Gross, Lettuce!”

  A strong but gentle voice suddenly commanded everyone's attention. “Step back, boys. Give him room.”

  The crowd obeyed and backed off, their banter quieting to a hush. That's when I saw them.

  Lettuce, whoever the heck that was, sat at a stationary bike with his head resting on his forearms. A bright blue liquid – Gatorade, I guessed – trickled down the bike, where a puddle of it pooled on the floor.

  Ew, I thought, my stomach turning. That's gross as hell. He puked? Is he sick? What's wrong with him? And why the hell did his parents name him Lettuce?

  I assumed that the person bent over to comfort Lettuce had to be River. I couldn't see his face, and he wore a black ball cap, but I could sure see that he was tall and jacked as hell. He was still dressed in his long-sleeved athletic under-gear from practice, generously dampened with sweat. The sporty outfit was charcoal-gray from head-to-toe, and the skin-tight fabric clung tightly to every mound and crevice of his chiseled build.

  Lettuce, looking beat, gave River a sad stare. “… I wanna quit, Riv, my stomach's killin' me. God damn!”

  “I know you do, bud. But you can't stop yet. Your heart rate's too high. You gotta cool down first. We'll take it light. Just a few more minutes. Here. Hop on this one.” River patted the clean seat of a neighboring bike.

  “Ugh,” Lettuce grunted. “Alright Riv. If you say so.”

  Lettuce hopped on the new bike and pedaled slowly. The soft, quivering weakness in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a cold, hard stare. He steeled himself for a few more minutes of hell.

  River finally turned to face us, the crowd. At last I saw his face. “Hey boys. Give Lettuce a hand.”

  But while everyone else clapped and cheered, I could only gasp. Because River, I now knew, was the guy at the bar Friday night.

  River was the dude-bro.

  My eyes must've grown as big as dinner plates. I slowly backed away, retreating for the door.

  River glanced in my direction. Fuck, he saw me – and I could tell by the way his smile disappeared and the troubled look on his face, that he recognized me, too.

  Then one of his teammates finally spotted me.

  “Hey!” his teammate roared, pointing directly at me. “What're you doing in here? No media in here!”

  “Oh, I, uh …” I muttered. At a loss for words, my hands stayed up in surrender.

  “It's alright, Jono.” River clapped his teammate on the shoulder to call off the dogs.

  Jono?! Oh no!

  River nodded his head at me, slowly and deliberately. But he did not look enthused. “He's with me, actually.”

  “Huh? He is? Well who the heck is he?”

  “Oh, it's some media thing I gotta do.” River shrugged nonchalantly. “My agent recommended it. I'll tell you about it later.” River gestured for everyone to leave. “Alright boys, let's give Lettuce some peace and quiet. Everybody out.”

  And with that, everyone marched out. I followed them through the doorway, too – only this time, I was going to make a run for it and not come back.

  But a hand, big and powerful, landed on my shoulder and pulled me right back into the training room.

  “But you stay here,” River said firmly.

  I turned around to face him. Gulp.

  “Oh, uh – hey there?” I muttered meekly.

  He pursed his lips – those same lips that were so adorably soft last weekend. But right now, those lips did not look so kissable …

  “So you're Lane, huh.”

  “Yeah, and you're … obviously River.”

  “Yup.” He folded his arms. I tried not to make note of the rippling veins in his meaty forearms.

  And so, for a seeming eternity, we stared at each other. Or rather, he stared at me. I switched between staring at my shoes and glancing up time and again to see if River's big brown eyes looked any less pissed off.

  And uh … nope. Still mad.

  Worse yet, no one said a word. The only noise came from Lettuce. His rhythmic pants – huff, huff – and the mechanical, gliding whirrrrr of his exercise bike.

  Now what?

  8

  Oh, It's You

  – River –

  Well holy shit.

  When the team told me that 'a reporter named Lane was here for a meeting,' I did not expect to see the guy from the bar the other night.

  You know, I honestly thought he knew exactly who I was when he first approached me. You can almost always spot the fans who try to play it cool, pretending like they don't know who you are, before they strike up some conversation.

  But there's always a dead giveaway: first, they can't stop stealing glances at you from the side of their eyes. Second, when they finally do talk to you, they get all tongue-tied and nervous sounding.

  Same deal with 'Lane' the other night. But I guess for a different reason. He must've figured he could get a few quotes from me with my guard down.

  I'll admit it though, he had me going. The thing that convinced me was when I realized Jono was flirting with his friend – because that'd just be way too convenient of a coincidence. But I guess that's exactly what it was?

  Whatever. I can't figure it out. The point is, I think I've been had.

  And I gotta hand it to 'em, the UND media is slick – slicker than I thought. I thought for sure I was going to get an unbiased reporter, someone who didn't know, or give a shit, about hockey. And what's the first thing this guy does? Tries to stake me out at a bar and interview me in secret?

  Classy. Real classy.

  He couldn't even look me in the eye. That told me all I needed to know – the guy was guilty. That said, I knew I still needed this guy, even if he was already trying to play me. I had to let him know that it wasn't gonna work like that.

  “Wait right here,” I said gruffly. “Don't go anywhere, 'cause we gotta talk.”

  “Um, okay.” Lane swallowed so loud, I could hear it.

  I marched my way over to Lettuce and checked his heart rate. “One-thirty-five beats per minute … keep going Lettuce. You're almost there. Nice and easy.”

  Lettuce nodded. I walked over to the phone and dialed the front office.

  “Hey, it's River. Can we get somebody from cleaning down here in the training room? Got a mess to clean up. Alright. Thanks.”

  I hung the phone up and went back to Lettuce. I watched until his heart rate dipped below 120.

&nbs
p; “Alright bud. You're good to go.”

  With a relieved sigh, Lettuce stopped pedaling and slowly slid off his bike.

  “Thanks, River.”

  I grinned. “How you feel now?”

  “I feel fine.”

  “Good.”

  “I felt so cold when it happened, River. I was sweatin' bullets outta every pore. And I got this awful feeling in my stomach and then … man, I'm sorry about that …” He shook his head at the mess on the floor, ashamed of himself.

  “Hey. Don't worry about it.”

  “I've never pushed myself that hard before.”

  “That's good, man. You crossed your limit. Now you know just where it's at and what it feels like. A lotta guys are too afraid to ever go that far. They chicken out way earlier. You've got an extra gear that some guys would kill to have.”

  No doubt about it, I was proud of the freshman. I squeezed him with a bro hug and loudly clapped my hand twice against his back. “Keep it up.”

  “Thanks, River.”

  “Alright bud. Now go hit the showers.”

  Lettuce bobbed his head and trotted for the dressing room. I watched him until he disappeared from view.

  I turned to Lane, who hadn't moved an inch.

  I pulled the brim of my hat lower, hiding my eyes. I motioned to Lane.

  “Me and you. Let's go for a walk.”

  ***

  I pushed through the training room's double doors. They flung wide open and we made a quick right down the hallway. Lane followed closely behind, hurrying to keep up with me.

  “So did you think I wouldn't recognize you?” I asked, speaking over my shoulder and keeping my voice low – so no one lingering around the arena would hear our conversation. Reporters liked to hang around after practice, hoping to grab a quick sound bite from us players on our way out.

  I pushed through another set of double doors, leading us to yet another hallway.

  “Huh?” he stuttered. “You mean the other night, right? At Joe Black's?”

  I smirked. At least he wasn't gonna play dumb with me. That was good.