Breakaway (The Rule Book Collection)

by A. M. Johnson

  I couldn’t even look at myself in the fucking mirror. The only thing bringing me any sort of peace was Atlas as he nudged my hand with his nose. He licked my palm a few times, and I let the heat from the shower that lingered in the bathroom pull deep into my lungs as I sucked down a ragged breath.

  “I fucked up,” I said and he looked at me, his ears perking up when I met his eyes.

  I ran a towel through my hair before I hung it on the rack and walked out into my bedroom, trying not to think about the flight home and how not even Bryson was smiling. I grabbed my underwear and sweatpants out of the drawer and pulled them on. Atlas’s collar jingled as he strutted from the bathroom, his muzzle wet from licking up stray pools of water from the shower floor.

  I flopped down on my bed and patted it. He didn’t hesitate and jumped up next to me. Atlas wasn’t usually allowed on my bed, but after the fucking horror show of the last twenty-four hours, I didn’t really give a shit. I caught my reflection in the glass of one of the framed jerseys on the wall, the black and blue surrounding my left eye was getting worse.

  Cocksucker.

  Atlas nudged my elbow with his nose, bullying his way into my lap. He rested his head on my thigh, and I scratched behind his ears. I almost left him overnight at the boarding place, but I wanted to come home and sleep, not have to worry about anything other than my fuck up and how I was going to apologize to the team. Our flight had been delayed, and when we finally landed back in Tampa it was almost midnight. I called the owner and used my celebrity, which I rarely did, to get Atlas out tonight.

  I sighed when my cell phone started to vibrate. It was a little after one in the morning, but she wouldn’t let it go. She never did.

  I leaned over, ignoring Atlas’s groan as I grabbed my phone and answered, “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

  “I wanted to make sure—”

  “I’m fine.”

  She hummed. “You’re fine. That’s what I say to Dax when I’m ready to implode.”

  “How’s Poppy?” I evaded.

  “Worried about you. You took a big hit.”

  “Fuck, she saw it?” I ran my hand through my wet hair and winced.

  “She couldn’t stop talking about it. She asked me six times if Uncle Mark was going to be okay before I made her go to sleep. I guess the blood freaked her out.”

  “It was mostly his. I think I broke his nose.”

  “Good.”

  “No, Molly. I could’ve gotten ejected. Suspended.”

  I heard her sharp intake of breath. “But you didn’t.”

  “But we lost because of me.”

  “No, you lost because your team fell apart in the third.”

  My sister always called me after every loss. She was like my post-game therapist. But tonight nothing she could say would change how I felt. I let him get to me, I let Lynch draw me out and got a major penalty called. They scored twice on the fucking power play and our tied game became a crushing loss. We’d won both games previously. And my stupid fucking ego killed our streak.

  “Mol, I let him talk shit… get in my head and left my guys short.”

  “Your team was in the box all night. The penalty kill wasn’t the problem. It’s always the third for you guys, your coach tried that new line and—”

  “Lynch talked shit about Poppy, about the camp. He was fucking laughing at us, Mol, and I lost my mind.”

  “Poppy?” Her voice cracked.

  “Yeah. Called her retarded and I—”

  “I hope you broke more than his nose.”

  A sad chuckle rattled in my throat. “He looks worse than I do, that’s for sure.”

  “I can’t believe they didn’t call a penalty on him, too.”

  “I threw the first punch.”

  “They let the fight go on too long.”

  Anger spurred inside my stomach, twisting and turning. “Not fucking long enough.”

  I would have never stopped.

  “Try to remember… this is not all your fault.”

  “You sound like Maddox.”

  “Well your coach knows his team. Yeah, you messed up, but it was a group effort.” She let out a yawn. “Now go to sleep and no more pity party.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are, God, I could hear your man tears hitting the pillow all the way in Manchester. It’s why I called.” There was a smile in her voice and it made my lips twitch, too.

  “Man tears?”

  “Just don’t blame yourself. Any one of those guys would’ve done the same thing.”

  That’s what Bryson had said.

  “I’m gonna go. I’ve got an early day at the gym tomorrow, and I’m sure Coach will make us watch a few game tapes before we get the day off.”

  “You push yourself too hard. Do something fun tomorrow, get your mind off everything.”

  It was then I remembered I was supposed to call Stevie when I’d landed. Fuck. I was so far gone to my piss poor mood I totally forgot. I hadn’t had a chance to text or call her since that one time on my way to Detroit.

  “Yeah, stop Mom-ing me, love you, Molly.”

  “Love you, too. I’ll tell Poppy you asked about her.”

  “Tell her I love her more than pucks and beer.”

  My sister’s soft laugh had an actual smile stretching across my lips.

  “I will.”

  I ended the call and stared at my phone debating whether or not I should send Stevie a quick text. I had a sick feeling growing. I hoped she hadn’t watched that game. I never fought, that wasn’t my thing, and I didn’t want her to think I was some crazy ass hothead.

  Atlas jumped down and snuggled into his oversized dog bed in the corner of the room. I situated the covers and comforter to the side feeling overly warm. I set my phone down on the bedside table and lay back onto the mattress, annoyed at how our winning road trip turned to shit, restless and not in the mood to chat, I resolved to call Stevie in the morning.

  It took me a second to catch my breath as the treadmill slowed to a stop. My muscles burned and stretched as I leaned over and braced my hands on my knees. Nausea rolled in my stomach; the stench of the gym, and a mixture of body odor and sweaty socks, wasn’t helping as I sucked it down with each desperate breath. I could feel Bryson staring at me from his own machine. Most likely judging how much I would let this latest loss affect me, affect them.

  “Why do you torture yourself?” he asked.

  Heaving in precious bits of air, I glanced at him with a grim smile. “I’m not, sprints, Jensen… it’s good cardio.”

  “You look like you’re about to fucking puke.”

  I stood to my full height ignoring the way my head spun. “I think I might.” I laughed but he saw through my bullshit.

  His brows dipped into a severe line. “Too hard, man… you push like that and you’ll wind up on the IR list.”

  “If I end up on the injured list doing fucking sprints, then I don’t deserve to play.”

  I stepped off the treadmill and the ache in my quads intensified.

  “I know you, Melo. You’re punishing yourself. Knock that shit off, get laid, and move the fuck on. Leave all that shit in Columbus and bring it on Monday.” Bryson stepped down in front of me, shoving my shoulder with a smirk. “Come out with us tonight… Karlsson found this strip club and—”

  “Of course, he did.” I chuckled. “I’ve got plans.” I lifted my shirt and wiped the sweat from my face. The air felt less thin as each breath came easier than the last.

  “Yeah? Does it involve your hand and your dick, because I’m pretty sure that’s all the action you’re seeing these days.”

  “Why are you always so interested in my dick? Need a better mental picture when you’re having you time in the shower.”

  His laugh echoed in the empty gym. “Nah, man. I have enough spank material to last me a lifetime.”

  “Jesus, you’re so mature.”

  “Says the guy who still makes fun of the fact that my initials are
B.J.”

  “It’s not my fault your parents hate you.” I shrugged, but my lips started to tic up at the corners.

  “You’re an ass—” His smile fell along with his insult. “Shit.”

  I didn’t have to turn around to know someone had walked into the gym. The door banging shut was indicator enough, but by the look on Bryson’s face, I had a feeling it could only be one person. I really wasn’t in the fucking mood to deal with her brand of shit today.

  Bryson’s eyes met mine and he dipped his head with a rough whisper, “Five minutes. That’s all she gets. Get your ass in the locker room.”

  “Hey, Bryson.” Mia’s sickly sweet voice set my teeth on edge.

  He nodded his chin at her. Not really a warm welcome, but keeping the peace, nonetheless.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” Mia asked me and I allowed my eyes to find hers.

  I’d gotten good at ignoring her. Only tuning in when necessary during skate practice. Business, never personal.

  “I’ve got tape to watch,” I said with as little emotion as possible.

  Bryson and I started for the locker room, but Mia reached out and touched my arm. “Mark.” My name sounded like a reprimand.

  I shrugged off her touch and snapped, “What?”

  Bryson clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be long.”

  Mia and I stood in silence as he walked away. She ran her hand through her blonde hair, her smile feigning an innocence I’d learned not to buy into anymore. My irritation gained speed as my pulse increased.

  “Make it quick.” I nearly barked as I shifted into defense mode.

  Her gaze lingered on the purple crescent forming below my left eye. She boldly raised her hand as if she was about to touch my face and I took a step back.

  “Don’t.”

  She lowered her hand, letting it fall to her side. Her fingers curling into a fist. “Mark, you have to stop fighting over me, it’s been too long and—”

  “It’s not about you.”

  She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. “Really? You felt like breaking Tyler’s nose for fun.”

  “Welcome to hockey.”

  “Don’t be a dick.”

  “Why? Isn’t that what you like?” The words held more anger than sarcasm, and she narrowed her eyes.

  “I know I hurt you and I’m sorry about that. I never wanted to, but things happen, and people change, you need to get over it.”

  “I’m over it.” I made an attempt to leave, but Mia always loved the drama, the attention, and couldn’t leave well enough alone to save her own damn life.

  “The black eye you’re sporting clearly shows how over it you are.”

  “It’s. Not. About. You. Christ, Mia. I know that’s hard for you to fucking understand, but truly…” I laughed without humor. “It’s not. I stopped caring about you a long ass time ago.”

  I hated the sad slant of her head. The way she assessed me as if at any moment I’d fall apart and tell her how much I missed her, how much I needed her. This chick was delusional.

  “If you didn’t care, then why fight Tyler?”

  “Last time I checked, you lost the right to know my business the day you decided to fuck Lynch behind my back.”

  Her mask faltered. I’d gotten to her and I couldn’t help my silent celebration.

  “Don’t look so proud, Mark. That fight cost us the game.”

  “Us?” I balked. “There is no us, Mia. You’re just an employee. My team… they know who the fuck you are. And if you want to know why I served that piece of shit a well-deserved beat down, ask him.”

  There wasn’t anything left to say, and if I stuck around I’d end up saying something I’d regret, but I refused to feel sorry for the shock on her face. For the past two years I’d played nice, and even though I harbored guilt for fighting in Columbus, for giving them the win, she had no damn right to point fingers. None.

  “I’ve got tape to watch.”

  I didn’t wait for a response as I turned, leaving her behind, and headed to the locker room.

  My anger poured down my spine along with the hot water. The pressure of the shower on my neck and back relieved the remaining tension. I’d spent a long time avoiding conflict with Mia, but today, I felt actual goddamn relief. I was done hiding from her. This was my team, my life, and she was just an incidental. I lowered my head and rested my palm against the tile, allowing the steam and heat to envelop me, let the water soak through my hair, run down my face, wash away the shitty road loss and the fucking argument with Mia. I concentrated on each breath and let it all go. All I wanted to do was watch the footage Coach wanted us to see, get the fuck out of here, and call Stevie. I’d texted her this morning before I’d left for the gym, and the last time I’d checked she hadn’t responded.

  I hurried through my shower after Bryson yelled through the locker room at the top of his lungs that they were all “waiting on my sorry ass.” After I dried off and threw on a pair of jeans, I grabbed my phone from my locker. I had a text from my sister, but still nothing from Stevie. I debated texting her again, but decided I probably should give her a call like I was supposed to do last night. The guys could wait a few more minutes.

  The phone rang three times, and when she answered, her voice was a husky whispered hello. Sexy as hell. I smiled the first real smile I’d had since I planted my fist in that asshole’s face.

  “Are you busy?” I asked.

  “I am. Just heading into a meeting.” No longer whispering, she said, “I was just walking back into my office.”

  “I was going to text you last night, but I got in late.”

  “I know. I read your text this morning.” Her tone was distant, nonchalant. Almost like she’d thrown up a wall and wasn’t going to let me past it. “I’ve only got a few minutes.”

  I switched the phone from my left ear to my right as I exhaled a long breath. “I should’ve called.”

  “You had a bad night, I understand.” Her voice was gentle, less clipped, and it gave me hope I was still on her good side.

  I chuckled. “Please tell me you didn’t watch that tragedy of a game.”

  Her laugh was warm, and fuck if I didn’t feel it in my stomach. “You have quite the temper.”

  This was the exact reason I’d hoped she hadn’t watched.

  “I’m not usually so hotheaded. I never fight.”

  “That’s what Trent said.” Her voice was soft, low again, almost a whisper. “He said for you to throw a punch, the guy must’ve really said something bad.”

  “He’s a dick.”

  She laughed and the lump in my throat dissipated. “So, he had it coming?”

  “Yeah… he did.” More than she would ever know. “Have dinner with me tonight?” I asked.

  “I think I could be persuaded.”

  “Ever been to White Tail?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a new place off South Howard and it happens to be my favorite.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “Then I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

  “I can meet you there,” she offered. Her hesitation was resurfacing.

  “I think I’d rather pick you up. You know, the whole chivalry isn’t dead thing, I’m a big advocate.”

  “Seven-thirty?” she asked with a smile in her tone this time.

  “Text me your address.”

  “I will. See you tonight.”

  I said goodbye and let the calm of having our plans put in place settle over me. I messed up in Columbus. I messed up when I let the bullshit in my head distract me from calling Stevie. Seeing her again at the bar, it hadn’t erased all the shit Mia had poisoned me with, but it made it less visible on the surface. My walls were less daunting… scalable… when I looked into Stevie’s eyes, when her scent surrounded me and knocked down my defenses. When all I wanted to do was touch her, there was no room for uncertainty or anxiety. She was fuel and I was the match begging to catch her on
fire. I could deny it, the feelings I had, but what would be the point? I’d let myself wade in the cold of Mia’s shadow long enough. And I craved heat. I wanted skin and lips. The sound of Stevie’s voice, the picture of her full-figure, her curves, and smile, it flashed, branding me. There was no perfect explanation as to why Stevie made me feel the way she did. We had a connection, a chemistry, and that was undeniable.

  “Let’s roll, Melo.” Maddox’s deep voice dragged me from my thoughts.

  “Coming.”

  I pulled on my shirt, slipped my phone into my pocket, and headed into the media room with a smile. Ready to face the shit talk I was sure I’d have to endure for the next sixty minutes.

  If you asked my ex-husband, he’d tell you I was a level-headed, easy-going, never-let-anything-get-to-me, type of woman. In reality, I was the total opposite. With Ben, I was able to hide behind the mundane, find a home in the cozy comfort of ease and predictability. The everyday, the same ol’, same ol’, I hated it. In this moment, though, I’d give anything for it. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since I’d watched that game, but I was still filtering through the images in my head. Trying to reconcile the man I’d only met the two times, with the savage I’d seen on the bar’s television screen. Reconcile that handsome, sweet face to the brute covered in armor and sweat. I’d tried to concentrate on the memory of his sexy voice making plans for dinner, instead of the way he’d violently beat another man into the ice of the rink.

  The guys I worked with said it was normal. “It’s hockey,” they’d said.

  Maybe I wasn’t cut out for hockey.

  Perhaps I’d been slightly delusional, thinking I could handle the tall, hot, tattooed, hockey player who most likely had a long line of groupies waiting and willing to fluff his ego. It shouldn’t have bothered me that he didn’t call Thursday night like he’d said he would. He had a bad night, and he was probably nursing his wounds, and I wasn’t some naïve twenty-something, sitting on my bed, pining for the guy I knew very little about. But it had bothered me. I hadn’t been with anyone other than Ben. I was a thirty-three-year-old with absolutely no idea how to date.