Break Away

by Van Barrett

  So. There it is.

  Isn't it awful and maddening when those situations happen in life? You meet someone, you hit it off, and you might even be great for each other. But for whatever reason, the timing's just not right. You get this glimpse of what could be, but because you're not the person you need to be yet, you know you're not ready. You haven't earned it yet. And that means you can't be together.

  So you just have to hold your head high, fake it 'til you make it, and get over it. Because if you dwell on all the shit that's going wrong, it's gonna eat you alive, and that's not the lesson you're supposed to learn. You're supposed to learn what you need to do better next time.

  ***

  I swung by Stan's office to break him the news. We caught up and commiserated over Bitch and Moan's cancelation, until I was brave enough to bring up the real reason I was paying him a visit.

  “So Stan. I don't have that piece on River and I'm not gonna have it.”

  “Really?” He frowned. “Bummer. I guess I understand though.”

  “Yep. He didn't want anyone to read it. Including himself. Ha. I didn't wanna piss him off anymore than I already have, so I guess I'll take the incomplete.”

  “But what about the course? We can't give you a grade for the independent study if your final is incomplete.”

  “Yeah, I dunno. I'm not sure if I'll try again next semester or what. I might just give up on the journalism minor completely. Kinda not feeling so hot about it after all this. Not to mention Bitch and Moan getting the axe.”

  “Yeah. I don't blame you.” Stan sighed and leaned back in his creaking chair. “Um. Speaking of. I hate to ask you this. But now that they've succeeded in getting Bitch and Moan canceled, the mob is demanding a written apology from you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Really?”

  “Yep. Again, it's not coming from me. We're getting pressure from the Athletics Department. They want an apology, and specifically, they want you to help distance River from the controversy.”

  “Ugh. Fine. I'll do it – but this is it. Seriously. No more after this – I'm not going on the apology tour for these people.”

  “Understood.”

  When the day was done, I went home so I could type up my 'apology.' I told River before – I'd jump on the grenade to save his career if I could. Well, this was my chance to do it.

  So I typed it all up in one go, not caring if it sounded genuine or what. I took the responsibility for my 'grossly inappropriate' actions and behavior. I apologized for the lewd pictures that tarnished the storied name of our beloved school, our wonderful students, and our cherished athlete himself.

  Most of all I apologized to River, who had a bright future, and one that shouldn't be derailed by a meddling reporter who overstepped ethical and personal boundaries.

  As such, Bitch and Moan will no longer run in this space, and I thank you for all your past support and hope the school can mend these wounds moving forward, blah blah bla-bah-dee fuckin'-dah.

  Whatever and ever amen. Signed, Lane Matthews, AKA the hated sex columnist formerly known as Moan.

  Okay, that might not be the apology verbatim, but you get the idea.

  I fired the apology e-mail off to Stan. It would appear in tomorrow's Dakota Student, where Bitch and Moan would normally run. I figured the apology would probably earn me even more hate, since I had to make myself out to be the villain.

  Kinda funny, when you think about it. I was basically a caricature of a straight guy's worst nightmare. Secretly obsessed, using my closeness to River to do weird, creepy shit. But oh well. I wasn't exactly innocent, either. And if I had to be the sacrificial lamb to save River's career … fine.

  Maybe someday he'll even thank me for it? I doubt it, though.

  Oh well.

  ***

  Friday, I was happy to only have one class. My other classes were preemptively canceled, because campus was abuzz with all the excitement for the coming championship game. Instead of attending classes, students were 'pre-gaming' for a game that wouldn't even begin until tomorrow.

  Hm. I guess I don't have too much of a right to gripe or make any snide remarks about that, considering my attendance wasn't so stellar this week, either.

  Regardless, I went to my one psychology class, thankful as ever that it was a large lecture class. I could easily blend in with the fraction of the students who bothered to attend. I didn't pick up a copy of the Dakota Student, even though I saw them littered throughout the classroom.

  I wrote my apology. I didn't have to read it, I knew what it said.

  All I had to do was get through a single class without having my eyes roll out of my head after listening to all the gushing, giddy banter over 'the big game.' Easy enough.

  River and the team would be flying to Ohio tonight. An award ceremony would be held for the winner of the Hobey Baker Award – given to the NCAA's college stand-out hockey player of the year. Nobody doubted it would be River's. It'd be criminal for any other player to win it. The campus might even riot.

  Tonight, River would celebrate his award. Grand Forks would celebrate his award too. Everyone would get good and trashed and go home far too late. They'd wake up tomorrow with pounding headaches, only to start the boozy festivities all over again.

  Then, tomorrow at 7 PM, the Fighting Hawks would face off against Quinnipiac University for the championship game. Whoever wins would be crowned NCAA champion. Wheeeeee.

  Everyone in Grand Forks would watch; everyone but me and Devon. We had plans to have a potluck dinner at her place, with a few of her non-sport-watching friends too.

  After my single class, I settled back in at my apartment, happy to be isolated from all the sports insanity.

  ***

  Later that afternoon – a pounding at the door.

  Bang bang bang!

  “What the fuck?” I blurted out. The heavy hammering startled me and made my heart launch into a frantic pace. That kind of knock couldn't be made by the dainty fist of a girl like Devon.

  I rose to my feet and stared at the door, but I didn't dare move. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know who it could be or what they wanted.

  Could it be River? But even that didn't seem likely. He wasn't the type to show up all pissed off or bang on doors. And he didn't have a reason to, either. I'd already jumped on the grenade for him! So what the hell?

  Bang bang bang! Again. This time, followed by a voice.

  “Come on, Lane! Open up! We gotta hurry!”

  I didn't recognize the voice. It wasn't River, I knew that much. I feared the worst. Someone read my apology and wanted to do something stupid.

  A groaning from behind the door. “Laaaaaaane! C'mon, bud.”

  Bud? After spending time with River, that sounded to me like hockey player talk.

  Bang bang bang. Lighter this time. Well, thank God, they were losing steam.

  I crept closer to the door and peered out through the peep-hole. It was two men. I heard them talking to each other:

  “You sure this is the right place?”

  “It's the address River gave us.”

  River sent people here, I thought to myself gravely. And then I realized who these two men were: Nick Ochoa and Shayne Elliott. River's teammates.

  “What do you want?” I answered at last.

  “Hey! Open up! We gotta talk!”

  “Why?” I asked. “Aren't you guys supposed to be flying to Ohio right now?”

  “Yeah, bud, that's why you gotta hurry up and o-p-e-n this door!” Ochoa replied.

  I sighed. I took a moment to think it over. Hell, if they wanted to beat me up, whatever. So be it. I'd take my licks and maybe people would finally leave me alone. I unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Hey bud. Get your shoes. You're coming with us.”

  “What? Where? And why?”

  “Too many questions, and there's no time to explain, man. We gotta hurry.”

  I sighed. I didn't know what they wanted, but … they didn't look th
reatening. They seemed more worried about the time.

  “C'mon, Lane!” Elliott implored me. “You comin' or not?”

  Oh. I didn't realize I had a choice. Well, that made things seem a lot less sketchy.

  “… Alright,” I grumbled and slipped on my shoes.

  Once my shoes were on, the kidnappers' list of demands grew.

  “Grab a change of clothes too.”

  “What the fuck? Why?”

  They groaned. “Doesn't matter why, just grab some clothes, man!”

  “Whatever,” I sighed.

  I retreated into my bedroom and grabbed a shirt and some slacks I could wear for any occasion. Then the two grabbed me by the arms and practically made me run down the stairs and into the parking lot. And what I saw there made me dig my heels in and halt.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  The Fighting Hawks team bus was parked right outside my apartment complex.

  Elliott and Ochoa grabbed my arms again. “C'mon, man!”

  “I dunno if I want to,” I mumbled, but I walked with them. The bus doors glided open. Elliott and Ochoa stood behind me, waiting for me to take the first step.

  Ah hell. Let's get it over with.

  I stepped on board and saw a bus full of familiar faces staring back at me. Grinning ear to ear.

  “Heeeeey!” they cheered and clapped. “He made it!”

  I felt like this was some kind of prank. Where was the camera man? Surely someone was about to hop out and tell me this whole episode, this whole thing with River was a very convoluted and complex practical joke since the very beginning.

  And, as I scanned the faces, my heart slowly sunk lower. The one face that mattered the most wasn't aboard this bus.

  River's not even here. What the hell is going on?

  I stepped back, to move off the bus, but Elliott and Ochoa were right behind me. They bumped me forward and made me sit.

  “Sorry bud, but we're moving, we gotta hurry.”

  “I don't understand what's going on. Can someone tell me?” I asked meekly.

  Ochoa sat across the aisle from me. “Sure.” He reached over the seat in front of him a snatched a paper from his teammate's hands. It was the Dakota Student. “You read the paper today?”

  “Great,” I mumbled under my breath. I already knew he meant the apology. It had pissed them off. Maybe it was too snarky? Too obviously tongue-in-cheek? And now I had to pay the price for my big mouth.

  “No,” I told him.

  “No shit?” He tossed it into my lap. “You should. We liked it. It was a good read.”

  The bus lurched forward with a mechanical whine. My eyes locked on Ochoa's, I picked up the paper and flipped to the sports section.

  “Who is River Brame? By Lane Matthews.”

  I yanked the paper back down and shot Ochoa a worried glare. “This wasn't supposed to run!”

  Ochoa shrugged. “Looks like it did.”

  “Shit. He's mad, isn't he?”

  Ochoa just smiled at me. And the bus continued on its journey through town, and into campus.

  They're taking me to see him, aren't they.

  50

  Big Fan of Yours

  – Lane –

  Through the windshield, I saw the Ralph Engelstad Arena come into view. Where River had played four years of hockey for UND. The bus driver pulled over on the side of Hamline Road and the door swung open.

  “Here we are.” Elliott patted me on the shoulder. “This is your stop.” He pointed up the courtyard walkway, past the statue of Sitting Bull on horseback, to the entrance of the arena. It was a good 200 foot walk.

  “Alright.” Perplexed, I stood and hopped off the bus and started walking. The bus didn't leave like I hoped it would. Instead, I felt the eyes of a busload of hockey players burning into my back as I made the long walk. Every step I took, I couldn't shake the dreadful sense of being watched. I felt naked and clumsy.

  As I neared the entrance, I spotted a motorcycle parked just outside the arena's entrance as if to showcase it. River's, surely.

  I walked closer. A figure came into view at last. Tall, dark and handsome. Wearing that same ol' black ball cap. Leaning up against one of the arena's pillars. He had his hands in his jeans pockets. Just calmly, patiently waiting. For me, surely.

  I swallowed. I wasn't sure what to expect.

  At last I was standing in front of him, my arms folded over my chest as if it were 10 degrees below zero, and not the warm spring day that it actually was.

  River, the brim of his hat covering his eyes, must've seen my legs appear in his field of vision. I saw his smile. He pushed himself off the pillar, stood straight as an arrow, and took his hat off.

  “Hi Lane.”

  I almost hated to see his smile, his big doe eyes. Over the past few days, I'd worked hard to build a barrier to protect myself from him. That damned smile, so sweet and innocent, had the power to cut through it all. Like a hot knife through butter.

  I swallowed and tried to steel myself, thinking my anger would hold as my last line of defense. The five feet of space I kept between us wouldn't hurt, either.

  “Top marks, River, for creating a very dramatic scene. Felt kind of like I'd unwittingly pissed off a powerful mafia boss, who then sent his henchman to kidnap me for a face-to-face meeting.”

  River chuckled. “Sorry. I hope they weren't rough with you. I told them to explain what this was about if they absolutely had to … but to keep the surprise if at all possible.”

  “Gee. How considerate of you.” I rolled my eyes. “So what's the point of all this? What's the surprise?”

  “Did you see your piece today?” He couldn't hide that beaming smile. He was proud of himself, that much was obvious. “Looks like it ran after all, huh.”

  “I didn't see it until Ochoa showed me just a minute ago.” I paused. “So, obviously you had something to do with that?”

  “Maybe.” River's smirk gave away whatever shred of doubt I might have. “And I don't know if you noticed, but Bitch and Moan also ran.”

  “I didn't see that. So wait, the column isn't canceled after all?”

  “Yup. I talked to some people, and they got the paper to promise they'd continue to run it.”

  “That's great,” I said, but the disappointment quickly set in. “Except, I don't really wanna do the column anymore since everyone on campus hates me. Anyhow. I'm very impressed by your show of power, River. Truly. I swoon at your influence – so great it is, you can manipulate the media with ease. And I'm still awed at your ability to organize a bus full of guys to drag me out of my apartment for an impromptu meeting.”

  River laughed softly, but his confident, rigid posture softened like a balloon with a slow leak. “Ha. Yeah, that's fair. Yeah, I thought you might still hate me.”

  “I don't--” My eye twitched. “I don't hate you.”

  “Dude. You couldn't even say that without your eye bugging out.” River laughed – I suppose at his own expense. “It's alright. I know I've been a dick, Lane, and I deserve whatever you throw my way.”

  I felt my posture go limp too. Aw, damn it.

  “It's not like I'm innocent either,” I said lowly.

  “I over-reacted.” River shrugged. “And you were right. I tried to clamp down and control things. I tried to keep us this big secret, and I selfishly expected you to be cool with it. Or, at the very least, not go crazy.”

  He paused. “I guess I thought I could live these two parallel lives. I can't. I read your piece last night and it just kinda helped put all that into perspective for me. It's like, what you were saying in that article, was always inside me. But somehow, you just – you pulled it out of me and put it into words. And you said it in a way that made sense.”

  My throat started to tighten. “Oh,” I said, the word tumbling out of my mouth. I didn't know what else to say; actually, I wasn't sure what else I could say.

  “I'm tired of pretending, Lane.”

  “Oh,” I said again.

/>   “So, you know. You can hate me if you want to, or if you need to, or whatever. I hope you won't, but I wouldn't blame you if you did. Also – fuck – there's one more thing I always meant to tell you but never could.” River blew out a nervous breath of air. “Whew. This might actually get you to hate me for real.”

  My eyes narrowed. The hell was he going to say now? He stepped towards me.

  “I'm a little nervous, I won't lie.” He put out his hand, calling for mine. “Lemme see your palm.”

  I hesitated. “Uh, what? Why? What're you gonna do?”

  “Just lemme see your hand.”

  Meekly, I raised my hand. River grabbed it, turned it palm side up, and stashed something in it. Whatever it was, it was light, and he kept it hidden from my eyes.

  “I'm actually a big fan of yours,” he said quietly, almost shamefully, as he made my fingers close up on the object. I felt it crinkle beneath my fingers: it was a piece of paper. Newspaper, to be exact.

  “Sorry I never could tell you the truth,” he said as he let go of my hand.

  I unfolded the crumpled up piece of paper and held it up to read.

  It was a Bitch and Moan column. I looked at him cross-eyed.

  “Go ahead. Read it out loud,” River urged.

  I cleared my throat and began to read, slowly and uncertainly. “Dear Bitch and Moan. Help. I can't take it anymore. I've been with my boyfriend for just shy of two years now. Our relationship would be perfect if not for one major problem: he wants something I can't give. And that's oral sex.”

  I didn't need to read the rest. I remembered it from the last time Devon made me read it: the letter from Throbbing Miserable Jaw. I peered at River skeptically.

  “You … you knew about this?”

  River nodded solemnly.

  And he never saw it coming. My hand struck him high and hard, the slap to his cheek ringing out with a loud crack.