Breakaway (The Rule Book Collection)

by A. M. Johnson

  “This is a lot of food.” My burger was almost too big to fit in my hands. And I had about a half pound of cheese fries, too. At least it would soak up the alcohol.

  “Just wait till you taste it.” Mark lifted his own burger to his mouth.

  Grease dripped unceremoniously from his double cheeseburger onto his plate, and I figured formalities had been forgotten the minute he’d made the U-turn to the rink.

  Mark wasn’t lying. The food was to die for. We both ate in silence, enjoying the reward after our workout, well, my workout, Mark probably didn’t even break a sweat at the rink. We’d made a decent dent in our burgers before we fell into easy conversation again. He’d already hit the basics. Asked me about college and how I’d met Ben. I didn’t like talking about Ben, but he’d opened up about Mia earlier. I’d given him the rundown about how Ben and I had met our senior year in high school and married at nineteen. Young and stupid.

  “What about you? You grew up in New Hampshire, right?” I asked as I downed another chunk of cheese fries.

  He chuckled. “I’m curious how much Google informed you about me.”

  “Not very much. Most of my research consisted of Alec and all of his fangirling.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Did he tell you I grew up in Redding.”

  I nodded my head. “What about your family?”

  “Still lives there. My parents own the same home they moved into after they got married. My sister lives in Manchester with her husband and my niece.”

  “Poppy.” I remembered.

  Her name brought out his smile. “My number one girl.”

  “Is she the jealous type?”

  “Very.” His laugh softened his features, and I wanted to lean across the table and kiss him. “What about you, any siblings?”

  “My family isn’t very complicated. Odd. But not complicated.” I took a bite of my fries and pushed the plate to the edge of the table. “I’m an only child… and my mother...” I cringed. “I have no idea who my dad is, my mom’s kind of a hippy.”

  His lips formed a serious line. “Shit, Stevie. I’m sorry.”

  I laughed. “Don’t be. I didn’t miss out on anything. My mom is a whacko, but she did the best she could raising me on her own. I had a pretty cool childhood. She let me dye my hair crazy colors, bought me old punk records, allowed me to stay out late with Reagan, but I think because she was such a flake I gravitated toward things I knew would anchor me. Steadfast and simple truths. Math and—”

  “Ben.”

  I swallowed. “And Ben.” My eyes fell to the table. Mark’s gaze was too much to bear. It wondered and measured. “I love my mom, but I saw how her free-spirited lifestyle affected her. She went through so many guys, and I never wanted that. That heartbreak. Ben was supposed to be a sure thing.”

  Or I’d wanted him to be.

  “What do you want now?”

  My mouth felt dry as I answered, “I don’t know…” I lifted my eyes to his. “But I’m really excited to have a chance to figure it out.”

  “You know who you are, Stevie. You’ve just been hiding too long to remember.”

  His words were a free fall. A ninety-degree drop. He was so sure, well-worn in his own skin. Mark saw something in me, and I wanted to see it, too.

  Disappointment quelled the flutter in my stomach when Kara brought us the check. Mark threw a couple of twenties on the table and asked if I was ready to go. I wasn’t. Energy surged through my muscles and the expectant tension found its way into my galloping pulse. It stayed that way the whole ride home.

  Mark had turned on music as we drove back to my place, and I lost myself inside the lyrics and bass. It was an effort to drown out the loud thump of my heartbeat, but I’d managed it. He lowered the music and left the car running as he hopped out. I’d almost opened my door, but he’d beat me to it. Mark’s hand found a home in my own as we walked up the drive.

  “Come to my game on Monday,” he said as we stepped onto my porch. “I know the last game was rough, but—”

  “I’ll be there.” I leaned into him, and his inked, powerful arms wrapped around my waist.

  He closed the distance, and I liked how I had to tip my head back to see into his eyes. I’d always felt like I was too much woman for Ben. My body had shadowed his, my five-foot-six height not too much shorter than his five-foot-ten. My full-figured curves had never made me feel anything other than chubby, but Mark, he made them feel sexy.

  His fingers pressed into the flesh of my hips as he leaned me against the pillar of my porch.

  “Thank you for tonight,” I whispered as he dipped his head a little lower.

  “Did you have fun?” he asked with a cocky smile.

  “I did.”

  The warmth of his breath covered my lips, and the soft curve of his mouth enveloped mine. I raised my arms, draping them around his neck. My right hand gently tugged through his hair. The pillar pushed against my spine as he deepened the kiss, his tongue met mine, drawing out a moan.

  He pulled away and his breathing was as frantic as mine.

  “I should go. Before I can’t.”

  I bit my lip. Warring with myself.

  Invite him in or send him on his way.

  He leaned into me again; I felt the hard pressure of his arousal against my stomach. He kissed me once and I nipped his upper lip. My hands fell to his waist and I hooked my fingers through his belt loops. He kissed my jaw, the rough bristles of his beard branded a pathway along the skin to my neck. His fingers tangled in my hair as he brought his mouth to mine again. I rocked against him earning another low groan. We were making out like teenagers on my porch, and all I could think was how I wanted him, needed him to relieve the ache building inside me. A wet heat pooled between my legs as his hands found the curve of my ass and squeezed. My fingers gripped his hair, and our mouths crashed and danced as the kiss became a collision of teeth and skin.

  “Stevie…” His voice was sex. “Am I going home?”

  The humid night air stole his scent as I sucked in a much-needed breath. It cleared my head as I kissed his neck once and then again, before pulling away completely. His hair was a mess, his cheeks blotched with pink, and I wondered how disheveled I looked to him. God, I wanted him to stay, but everything that was worth anything took time, didn’t it?

  “I think that might be a good idea.” I furrowed my brow, my eyes fixed on his trying to discern if he was disappointed. Instead I was met with soft and understanding brown eyes.

  He slid a hand into his pocket, and cradled the back of my head with the other, placing a kiss on my forehead. His lips feathered against my skin. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I reluctantly watched as he pulled out of my driveway and disappeared down the road, taking the sting of his lips with him. I looked through my purse, found my keys, and once I was inside, I leaned against the front door.

  I closed my eyes.

  Brought my fingers to my lips.

  And smiled.

  Okay, maybe I squealed and danced in place.

  Either way…

  In this brief immature display… I wouldn’t let myself feel lost, or numb.

  I’d just focus on how it felt to be sexy, desired, and how it felt to be with him.

  Searing heat tore down my legs, my quads begging me to stop as I rushed over the blue line. I’d seen the hole. The shot. Karlsson was distracted. He took the bait as I faked the pass to my left winger, Rasmussen. Karlsson dropped to his knees ready to stop the puck from the left, totally unaware I was about to best him. My D-man set up the screen, taking the goalie’s sight. I made it look too damn easy as I slid my hand down my stick and scored over his right shoulder with a wrister.

  “Fuck yes!” I roared as the puck hit the back of the net.

  Nothing could stop me today. I was still high from Friday night. Stevie’s taste was a punch of adrenaline every time I thought about it, thought about her. Thought about the way her lips had wrapped around that damn lime.
<
br />   “Goddamnit!” Karlsson yelled and it echoed throughout the rink, reeling me back from my dirty thoughts.

  He smashed his stick down onto the ice and I chuckled at his tantrum. My skates shot a wave of ice over the crease as I came to a sudden stop. “We’ve come at you with over twenty-plus shots, Mike, and this is the only one you’ve let by. Don’t throw a fucking fit.” I smiled and smacked the side of his helmet.

  “I know, but a point’s a fucking point.” I assessed his eyes through his mask. The defeat was already fading.

  As he turned and grabbed his bottle of water off the net, I said, “Yeah, but your save percentage against Dallas is stellar. You’ve got this, man. We’ve fucking got this.”

  He nodded and squeezed the bottle, spraying a stream of water into his mouth through a hole in his mask.

  “Shit, Melo, you gonna stroke his dick, too?” Bryson’s smile was smug as hell as he greeted me with a glove-covered fist bump.

  “I thought that was your job.” Mike’s tone held more humor than it did any real frustration.

  I laughed as I said, “Hey, we could all use a little confidence after Columbus.”

  “Should we run a few more plays?” Mike Karlsson was arguably one of the hardest working goalies in the league. “I want to try to stop your wrist shot again.”

  “It doesn’t count if you know it’s coming.”

  Mike threw his water bottle on top of the net. “Try me.”

  Mike ended up stopping every attempt we’d had on goal. A few of which were mean-as-fuck slap shots Bryson had landed straight to the logo of Mike’s jersey. We all looked really damn good on the ice today, and afterward, in the locker room, the coaching staff had said as much. The loss we’d taken on the road was long gone for most of the team, by most, I mean everyone but me. Mia had been at morning skate, and the silence between us was a loud reminder of how I’d contributed to our team’s loss. But I’d wrapped up that shit show in my head and threw it away before I hit the shower.

  Everyone was pumped, and I had to admit, despite what had happened with Lynch, I was feeling that energy, too. Music blared throughout the locker room, some crazy ass metal shit with a heavy hip-hop beat that paced my heart. My limbs were light, my muscles itched, ready for a win. Game day. Win or lose. It was an addictive form of anxiety, a rush toward devastation or fucking glory. The anticipation, the hopeful unknown. Nothing beat that.

  I could overhear Bryson talking shit to Mike, and I smiled, pulling my shirt over my head. It was their game day ritual. Hockey was a mental game. And the last thing you wanted was for your goalie to lose his shit and become a sieve.

  “Set it up, dick. I bet I can get at least three into the net,” Bryson taunted, but Mike laughed.

  “Three?”

  “Fuck yeah, asshole, maybe even four out of five.”

  Mike shook his head and I laughed.

  “What’s so fucking funny, Melo? You want in on this little bet?”

  I sat down on the bench and leaned over to lace my shoes. “What’re the stakes this time?”

  “Pride, Melo.”

  When I glanced up at Bryson he smirked. Bullshit.

  “Do I even want know?” I asked.

  Mike snickered, and I immediately knew these idiots had bet on something that would have me questioning their morality.

  “Whoever wins gets to pick the loser’s chick for the night.” Mike’s smile got even wider.

  “There is something seriously wrong with both of you.” I stood and couldn’t help but laugh as they looked at each other with shit-eating grins. “One of these days you guys are going to fuck over the wrong girl, and I hope I’m there to take a picture when all that crazy comes back to bite you both in the ass.”

  Bryson waved me off. “Nah. These girls use us as much as we use them.”

  Unfortunately, he was right, and it made me feel that much better I’d left that shit behind ages ago. Stevie’s eyes, her mouth as it pulled into a grin, the way it felt to be pressed against her on the boards. It all came flooding past the weak wall I’d tried to raise for practice today, in an attempt to keep my head straight. I’d spoken to Stevie yesterday and given her the details about her tickets, and where to sit. She’d be sitting a few rows up, behind my team’s bench. Having her here tonight had something stirring inside me. A potent mixture of nerves, anticipation, and pride. Something I’d never really felt before in regards to a chick. She was fun, and didn’t give a fuck about pretenses. She was real, and as Mike and Bryson had reminded me, that shit was hard to find.

  “Well? Melo? You in or not?” Mike asked.

  “Definitely not.”

  Mike’s six-foot-four frame deflated and he ran his hand through his hair. “I thought I’d have some actual competition this time.”

  Bryson coughed out a laugh and shoved Mike in the chest. “I let you win, asshole.”

  The guys were like brothers with how they acted, and it helped they both had dark hair and blue eyes.

  Bryson’s deep laughter cut off abruptly, and I turned in time to see Coach approaching us.

  “You got a minute?” he asked me.

  I grabbed my phone and wallet from the stall and put them in my pocket. “Sure.”

  His forced smile was a red flag. Unease spread in my gut as I followed him to his office. A few of the guys, some of the younger players, went quiet as we walked by. Shit. That was never a good sign. I ran all the plays we’d done this morning in my head, every shot I took. Nothing came immediately to mind. I’d crushed it out there today. So when he actually closed his office door, which he never did, my throat contracted.

  “Have a seat, Melo.”

  “What’s up?”

  He held out his hand, gesturing to the chair, and I reluctantly sat down.

  “Nice work today.” He took a seat behind his desk. This wasn’t about today?

  “I’m not going to pussyfoot around this, Melo. Tonight is fucking important. I got some news today, and I need to know it’s not going to mess with your game.” He exhaled and knocked his fist on the desk lightly, gathering his thoughts. “I need your head with the team.”

  “Fuck, Coach, what’s up?”

  “Mia put in her resignation. Looks like she’s moving to Columbus.”

  A laugh tripped past my lips. Relief expelled from my lungs as I exhaled the past two years of toxic air. Her presence here was a curse. And I’d never really felt the full power of it until now. Mia had been my choice, my mistake, and it had affected our team. That one word, resignation, lifted the corners of my lips and the burden of our relationship off my shoulders.

  “You okay with this?” His furrowed brows relaxed and he leaned back in his chair. His relief mirroring mine.

  “More than okay.”

  He nodded, his usual stoic and stone face gentled and it surprised me when he said, “We should’ve fired her, but—”

  “But she’s a great skate coach.”

  You couldn’t make a decision for a team based on one man’s issues. You had to find balance, and balance was Maddox’s specialty.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s just win tonight.”

  I stood, letting the news sink in fully, letting that feeling ignite my spine. My smile was sure, steadfast. “Is there any other option?”

  Atlas pulled on the leash as we ran up the stairs to my apartment. I should’ve taken the elevator, but I wanted to get as much of his energy out as I could before I left for the arena.

  “Chill, boy.”

  He answered with a booming bark, paws digging at the threshold. I laughed as I opened my front door and removed his leash. Atlas bounded into the living room and grabbed his rope between his teeth. He was the size of a small horse, and when he ran toward me, skidding on the wood floors, he almost took out one of the bar stools in the kitchen. I set my keys down on the countertop and opened the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. I had an hour before I had to be back to the rink.

  Atlas nudged my ass with
his nose and I swatted a playful hand at his muzzle. I turned to grab the rope but he dropped down into a pouncing position. Leaning down, I snagged the side of the rope hanging from his drool-covered lips and tugged. He growled, but I was able to get it free and tossed it across the floor, watching as he barreled toward the damn thing. Instead of rushing back, the click clack of his paws slowed and then disappeared as he made three circles in the oversized dog bed by the couch.

  “You’re the laziest dog I know. One pass, that’s all you got?”

  He ignored me, as usual.

  My phone buzzed, and as I pulled it from my pocket, it alerted again. The screen flashed with two names. Stevie and Bryson. It was no contest which one I’d read first.

  Stevie: Is it five yet?

  I laughed at the angry, red-faced emoji on the screen and Atlas’s ears perked.

  “It’s Stevie,” I said, and his head turned to the side. “We like her.”

  I tapped out a quick response.

  ME: Bad day at work?

  I switched to Bryson’s message and groaned. It was a link to this bullshit gossip website that specialized in sports and fucking lies. I pressed my thumb onto the link, and there it was in big ass bold letters.

  Tampa Bay’s Star Player Gets Lucky

  Who is Mark Carmelo’s new Mystery Woman?

  Scroll down to get the details.

  Holy shit.

  The angle was crap, and you couldn’t, thank fuck, see her face, but that’s mostly because it looked like I was eating it. The picture was fuzzy, someone had probably snagged the shot with their phone while skating by. My heart rate slowed as I stared at the picture. Unless you knew what to look for, most people wouldn’t have been able to tell if it was me or not.

  Bryson: Who’s the girl?

  ME: A chick I’m seeing.

  Bryson: Since when?

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and exhaled.

  ME: Just worry about the game tonight.

  My phone chirped, but this time it was Stevie, and my irritation with Bryson’s nosy ass morphed into a nervous knot in my stomach. How would she react? Better yet, would she even want to deal with all this media bullshit? Even on my best days I loathed the media. They’d already misconstrued, contorted, speculated enough about my life. Stevie was level-headed, mature, she’d understand, at least I sure as hell hoped she would. I came with baggage. My life was hockey. And I loved it. I was always training, traveling, and being with me was like living in a fishbowl. The media was a reality I couldn’t sweep under the rug.