Break Away

by Van Barrett

  “Yeah. That's exactly what I mean.”

  “Look … I know what it looks like, River, but--”

  “Yeah? That's good, 'cause it looks like you tried to ambush me. C'mon, follow me.”

  I stopped to open a solid metal door that the maintenance staff uses. I hurried down the steps, leading us to the bowels of the arena. The basement was like a catacomb. A man could easily get lost in this labyrinth if he didn't know where he was going. But after four years, I knew my way around. We zig-zagged left and right through the corridors.

  Lane walked faster, hurrying to catch up to my side.

  “Ambush you?” he laughed, sounding frustrated – and maybe a little winded, too. “Could you slow down so we can talk? And actually, where the hell are you taking me? An underground dungeon?”

  I chuckled. Maybe Lane was kinda funny. “We're almost there. C'mon.”

  “We're almost where?”

  “Where no one will find us.”

  We turned a corner. I opened another solid metal door leading to another set of stairs. We trotted up the stairs and emerged right among section 307 – the 'nosebleeds' if you will.

  Lane seemed a little awe-struck to emerge from that doorway and suddenly be back among the stands – where the humming lights were so bright, and the energy felt so open and charged, and that big, blinding sheet of white stared back at you.

  But then he shot me a cynical glare. “Wait. This is your secret spot where no one will find us? I'm no hockey journalist, River, but if I were looking for a player, this is the first place I'd look.”

  I grinned. “But it's the last place all those reporters would look.”

  I grabbed a seat in the absolute highest row of the rink. Lane took the seat right next to me. I adjusted the brim of my hat again and slid lower in my seat. So I wouldn't stand out as much.

  We quietly watched the zamboni machine slowly circle around the rink like a snail, leaving a wet trail of resurfaced ice behind it.

  Lane covered his chest with his hand. “Jeez. You got my heart going with that daring escape of yours.”

  “Really?” I laughed. I glanced up and down Lane, checking out his build. He didn't look out of shape. Actually looked like he was in pretty good shape. I mean, he wasn't crazy muscular or anything, but he was trim and toned. And if he got that body by just sitting around all day, then he should really count his genetic blessings. “That got you winded?”

  He looked a little offended. “Well, it's not everyday I have to explain myself while running through a maze at 30 miles per hour. ”

  I nodded.

  “Well, we're not going anywhere now. So 'fess up.”

  “'Fess up?'” Irked, Lane turned away from me with an eye roll. “God, you must have some gigantic ego, huh?”

  I laughed. “You don't think I got to be the player I am today because I'm humble, do you?”

  Lane wasn't impressed. He shot me a death stare. “Wow.”

  “Hey, it's true. I'm just being honest.” I shrugged. “Now I'd like for you to do the same.”

  “Ugh!” The tendons in Lane's neck strained. “Look, I know you think that you're just so important that I somehow 'ambushed' you when I sat at an open stool at a bar. But the truth is, before Friday, I hadn't even heard your name once, 'River Brame.'”

  He spoke my name slowly and over-exaggerated every syllable to the point of mockery. I grinned and let him continue his rant.

  “And before Friday, I hadn't even seen a hockey game in my life. I shouldn't even have to say this, but fine, you want the truth? Here it is: I swear I didn't know who you were. I didn't know you were a hockey player, and I definitely didn't know you were the guy I had to interview. And if I had known I would've stayed far away from you. Because, P.S., I never wanted this bullshit assignment in the first place! So if you don't trust me, fine, tell your fucking Athletics Department people that you want a new reporter for this, whatever this even is! Trust me, I will not be upset about it. I did not want this assignment in the first place, River.”

  “Yeah?” I laughed. “Well good. Neither did I,” I lied.

  “Good – then we agree! This was a terrible idea for both of us!”

  Lane yanked at his press pass necklace, ready to tear it off on the spot. I grabbed his arm to stop him and calm him down.

  “Alright. Don't do that,” I grumbled lowly.

  Lane folded his arms and sat back in his seat with a huff. Crazy as it was, I was starting to believe him again.

  Then the fire returned to Lane's eyes. “Need I remind you, River, that it was you who offered to buy me a drink at the bar! Before that, I was just trying to stay out of your way! Hell, the only reason I ended up sitting next to you at all is 'cause I had to leave my friend so your friend could hit on her!”

  He folded his arms and threw himself back into his seat again.

  “Alright,” I said, nodding slowly. His pleas had the ring of truth to 'em for sure. “Fair points.”

  He chuffed, still looking annoyed. “That's it? No apology?”

  “Fine. I'm sorry. But you can forgive me for being skeptical. I mean hell, you pointed me out on the TV and told me you thought I was a jackass. I thought you were trying to ruffle my feathers or tip me off that you knew me.”

  Lane smacked his forehead. “Right. Yeah, I did say that, didn't I. I'm sorry.”

  “So? What's up with that?” I raised a palm, waiting for his answer.

  “I only said that because … well, because of your goal … I just thought you should've scored it a second sooner.”

  “So you saw your first game of hockey, and now you're an expert?” I cracked a smile.

  “No! I guess, I just thought you should – you know – play more like a gentleman. Obviously I wouldn't have said that if I knew I was saying it to your face.”

  “But you'd say it behind my back.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “Sorry. That came out wrong.” He opened his eyes again and looked over at me with these hilariously guilty and apologetic puppy-dog eyes.

  Ha, poor guy.

  I rested my hand on his shoulder and gave him a small shake. “Hey, take it easy. I don't blame you. I'll even admit it – that was kind of a dick move on that goal. Denver wasn't happy about it either!” I laughed, remembering how pissed off the DU players were after I scored – they had some choice words for me as they skated off the ice in defeat. “But we've got some beef with a couple of the guys on that Denver team and I wanted to rub it in. I wanted it to hurt a little. Stuff like that happens, man, I'm not perfect.”

  “So … you're not mad at me?”

  I shook my head. “Nah. I believe you.”

  “So … we're still gonna do this report. Whatever it is.”

  “Yep.”

  With a sigh, he searched the rink's rafters. “Darn. I was kinda hoping you'd fire me.”

  I let out a laugh. “You're funny, Lane. I like you. I bet the boys'll like you too.”

  Lane groaned louder. “Great.”

  “So? You ready to get started?”

  “Ready as I'll ever be,” Lane muttered as he cracked open his notebook and uncapped his pen.

  9

  Interview, Pt. 1

  – River –

  Lane looked ready to start the interview. He put his pen to paper, and I waited for the questions to come. Except they didn't. After a long pause, he turned and looked at me.

  “Well?” Lane asked.

  I blinked at him. “Don't you know how to interview people?”

  “No.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I'm not a sports guy, River, I dunno what to ask you about. I'm not even a reporter! I write--” Lane cut himself off, pursing his lips tightly shut. “… I write, uh, op-ed stuff. Technically, I'm only minoring in journalism.”

  I cocked my head sideways. “Huh. What's your major?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Oh, shit.” I leaned back in my seat. Something about that seemed a little threatening. Kinda int
imidating, too. Like this guy was skilled in the art of breaking into people's minds and finding things they didn't even know were there. It's a little unnerving when you think about it like that, eh?

  “Yeah,” Lane said, “so, again, if you wanna call this thing off--”

  “No no.” I waved my hands in the air. “That's actually fine. I asked for somebody who didn't have a sports background, and I got it.”

  Lane raised his pen into the air as inspiration struck. “Okay – yes! There we go. That's my first question. Why me, of all people?”

  My throat clenched and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Well, uh, why – … why not you? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why did you request someone with a non-sports background to do a piece on you?”

  “Oh. Right.” I exhaled. “So if you really haven't followed hockey here at UND, I guess you don't know much about my story?”

  “I'm a tabula rasa here, River.”

  I squinted. “You're a wha'?”

  “It's a Latin term we use in psychology. It means blank slate. I've got basically zero knowledge of hockey.”

  “Gotcha.” I nodded. “Well, to make a long story short, here's what you need to know. I was drafted by Carolina after my senior year of prep school.”

  Lane's pen furiously took this info down. “Okay, 'drafted by Carolina.' What does that mean?”

  I chuckled. “Serious?”

  Lane looked at me impatiently. “I told you, River. If you want someone el--”

  “It's fine, it's fine.” I waved my hands at him again. “Sorry. I guess I'm not used to being around people who don't know hockey. I'm realizing now that I might have to explain more than I thought. But that's fine, I don't mind. I will.”

  I cleared my throat. “Anyway. When I said Carolina, I meant the NHL team. The Carolina Typhoons. They drafted me the summer after my senior year of prep school. That means they owned my rights for the next four years.”

  I paused, watching and waiting for Lane's pen to catch up. “This isn't new information, by the way. This is stuff you'll be able to find about me if you search online.”

  But Lane kept writing. “I just wanna be thorough.”

  “Sounds good.” I shrugged. “You probably wouldn't guess it now, but UND was the only school to give me a scholarship offer. And that was because I was more or less a 'local boy.'”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Crookston, Minnesota. Little ways across the river from Grand Forks.”

  “How come no one else gave you a scholarship?”

  “Because I wasn't good enough?”

  Lane puffed. “But I thought you're like, really good and stuff.”

  “Thanks.” I laughed. “I've gotten a lot better in four years.”

  “Okay. So …” Lane gestured with his hands, like he wanted to get the ball rolling until all this info came together and started to make sense.

  “Here's the point, Lane. UND gave me a chance when no one else would. If it wasn't for that offer, I'd probably be sweeping floors or toiling in a factory somewhere. They gave me a shot, and I said I'd do four years. And my word is my bond. It's the least I can do to repay them.”

  Lane set his pen down. “So what's the problem?”

  “The problem started that same summer. After finding out that I'd committed to UND, Carolina drafted me to the NHL.”

  “So the problem is that you've been wanting to leave UND and play in the NHL ever since, right?”

  “Not quite. Look, I was Carolina's absolute last draft pick that year. I doubt if they knew anything about me, other than the fact that I was already committed to playing at UND. See, they've got another prospect playing here – Jono Clark.”

  Lane squinted at me. I could tell he didn't get it. I gritted my teeth – giving my story to someone who didn't have a clue about hockey might be harder than I thought. Was I really gonna be able to go through with this?

  “In other words, by drafting me, the Typhoons could save money. They wouldn't have to fly an extra scout out to another city just to track the progress of their last draft pick. Remember: at the time, they viewed me as a throw-away seventh round draft pick. Make sense?”

  “Er, I think so.”

  “Since I was committed to UND, where they were already sending scouts to watch Jono play, they could save a dime by drafting me. Watch Jono, and watch me, too. It was a 'kill two birds with one stone' kind of a situation.”

  “Okay. I think I get it now.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Now, where it gets difficult is … nobody expected me to turn into the player I am today.”

  Lane gave me a look again – and I could tell he was silently judging my 'gigantic ego' once more.

  I laughed. “I know what you're thinking. But I don't just mean how good I am at hockey, Lane. I mean my body too – I went from a 5'10 kid who couldn't add muscle mass to save his life, to … well,” I waved my hands down my chest, showcasing my build, “the handsome stud that sits before you today.”

  Lane slapped his pen down on his notebook and clicked his tongue. His fluttering eyes rolled back into his head.

  “God, River.”

  I cracked up. “Dude, I hate to tell you this, but you're really fun to mess with, Lane.” I pushed his shoulder gently.

  “I'm glad you're enjoying yourself,” he said, unimpressed. “So to summarize what I think you're telling me. Cheap skate team drafts you, not expecting you to ever amount to anything. But you wake up one day with the body of a Greek God and, I'm assuming, you become really good at hockey.”

  “Greek God?” I grinned. “But yeah, more or less.”

  “So what's the story here, River? You sold your soul to the devil, and, in return, he made you ripped as hell and turned you into a good player?”

  I couldn't help but notice that Lane's eyes swept up and down my body when he stumbled over those words – ripped as hell.

  “You liar,” I gasped. “You do know everything about me, don't you?”

  “… You're corny, River.” Lane clicked his tongue. “Seriously though, what's the deal?”

  I took a deep breath. “The deal is, when I'm done here at UND, I'm probably not gonna play for Carolina.”

  “And why not.”

  “Because any player that completes four years at a NCAA school and doesn't sign with the team that drafts him, becomes a free agent. That means I'll have my choice of NHL teams to sign with. And it's not just my giant ego bragging when I say that they're all gonna want to sign me, Lane. I'll have my pick of the NHL teams.”

  Lane's brow furrowed. “Okay, but … why would you do that? Why not just sign with Carolina?”

  I exhaled through my nostrils, my head bobbing left to right as I weighed my answer.

  “Carolina's been pressuring me since my sophomore season to sign with them. But as soon as you sign a contract with an NHL team, your NCAA eligibility ends – since you'd be considered a 'pro' and no longer a college athlete. So I would've had to leave college if I signed with them.”

  Lane made a sour face. “Well, that's idiotic.”

  “Is it? I dunno. But those are the rules.” I shrugged. “The point is, most college athletes who do have a future in the pros will leave college early. But like I said. I'm a man of my word, and I committed to four years. Carolina isn't happy about that.”

  “I see.” I could tell the wheels were turning in Lane's head. “So technically, Carolina owned your rights for four years, but you weren't signed. Because that meant you'd have to leave UND. Now it's four years later, and if Carolina can't sign you at the end of this year … then you're a free agent. And you can sign with any NHL team you want.”

  “Yes!” I grinned, pleased that Lane was a quick learner. “Now you're getting it.”

  “So, in a deeper sense, what you're telling me is that you feel like you've earned the right to explore free agency. To see what else is out there for you professionally, in other words, rather than being tied down to ju
st one team. A team that didn't even really develop you as a player.”

  “Nailed it, Lane.” I fist-bumped his thigh. “Damn, man. Lifelong hockey fans seem to struggle with understanding that, but you got it in five minutes.”

  I saw the hint of a self-satisfied smile appear while Lane quickly wrote his realizations down.

  “For having the gall to actually earn a college degree, and then wanting to exercise my rights as a free agent, the media's making me out to be hockey super villain #1.”

  “You?” Lane laughed. “I thought everyone loves you.”

  I kicked back, slouching in my seat. “Here in Grand Forks? Yes. Outside Grand Forks … not so much.”

  Lane looked confused. “But why? Why do people care what you do?”

  “Beats me. Maybe you can figure it out.” I shrugged and peeked at my watch. “I hate to cut this short, Lane, but we'll have to meet again later. I have an evening class tonight and I still gotta hit the shower.”

  I started to rise from my seat, but Lane wrapped his hand around my forearm and stopped me.

  “River.” He sounded serious.

  “Yeah?”

  We locked eyes. And I dunno how I hadn't noticed it yet, but Lane's eyes were this color that existed somewhere precisely in the space between blue and green. Look for blue, all you could see was green. Look for green, all you could see was blue. Noticing that kinda took my breath away and distracted me.

  Whoa. His eyes.

  And it was weird – this connection, this weird wave that swept over me and throttled my heart. I felt like, whatever this feeling was, it was so pure that I couldn't even handle it. An overwhelming urge to look away kicked in – and with a small touch of disappointment, my eyes darted to the side.

  “… What do you want from me?” he finally asked.

  The question caught me off-guard. “What do I – … uh … what do you mean?” I scratched my head.

  “I'm not gonna tell you how much I don't wanna do this assignment again, River, 'cause you already know. Although, I'll admit one thing. I didn't wanna do it at first because I thought you'd be this jerky asshole jock. But now, I dunno, you strike me as … a nice guy. Cheesy, maybe, but still a nice guy. I want to help you, River, because it seems like you're asking for help in some weird way I don't quite understand yet.”