Breakaway (The Rule Book Collection)

by A. M. Johnson

  “Goalie,” he said and drew an X in his makeshift net. He drew another line below it. “This is called the crease and it’s where he hangs out, okay?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Mark’s mouth lifted at the corners, his eyes flashing to mine as he drew an excruciatingly slow line depicting the crease of the other goal. The cool sensation, the gentle pressure of his touch so close to where I wanted him most, the heat crept along the surface of my skin all the way to my cheeks.

  He continued his lesson, scrawling groups of letters onto my flesh. LW, RW C, D, D in mirrored patterns on either side of the dark line he’d drawn horizontally across the middle of my tummy. Once he was finished, he placed a kiss on my belly button and said, “Center ice.”

  He shot me a sweet smile and the excitement in his eyes made it difficult to breathe. I liked his relaxed countenance, and how it bled into everything we’d done tonight. We were natural, and it made the last thirteen years of my life settle like a brick inside my chest. I’d wasted so much time, so much of myself. I blinked a few times, willing the sudden rush of emotion away.

  I leaned onto one elbow as I pointed to the letter C. “You play center.”

  He nodded. Pleased, he said, “Yes…” He pointed to the other letters explaining, “Left wing, right wing, and the center, we’re all forwards, and these guys…” He circled the letter D and I squirmed. His chuckle made me laugh. “You’re ticklish… I’ll have to remember that.” A shuddered breath exhaled from my lungs at the promise. “Right wings are in charge of the right side of the rink and –”

  “The Left wing is in charge of the left… simple enough.”

  “Not always, sometimes I play a lot of defense, too, and sometimes the D-men play offensively and score goals.”

  My brows pulled together. “This hurts my brain.”

  Mark’s head fell forward as he barked out a laugh. “Says the accountant...”

  “Math is easy. Math I get. Penalties, power plays, hat-thingies… I’m going to need a tutor.”

  “Good thing your boyfriend’s a hockey player.”

  Boyfriend. Is that what this was already? I was too green and maybe my confusion was too readily available in my expression because Mark’s smile faltered.

  “You know what I mean.” He recovered his smile, and I chewed the corner of my lip as he stared at my stomach. “The basics, Stevie, get the puck in the net, light the lamp, and do it more than the other guys.” He ran a line from the letter C all the way to the goal crease below my breast.

  I lay back, sinking into the pillow, and averted my eyes to the ceiling. Here I was, lying naked in a bed with a man I’d been pretty damn intimate with, and all I could think was how stupid I was for liking that word. Boyfriend. Wasn’t I supposed to be taking it slow? Figuring out what I wanted, who I was?

  “I freaked you out, didn’t I?”

  I turned my head meeting his gaze.

  “We’re getting to know each other.” I hated the sound of my own voice. Everything that I’d allowed to happen tonight was proof I’d moved beyond the simple boundaries of dating.

  The hard line of Mark’s jaw flexed as he sat up. “If I wanted to get laid, I could. That’s not what I want from you.” I swallowed and he grinned. “Well, that’s not all I want from you.”

  Despite myself, I smiled back. “What do you want from me?”

  He exhaled and rubbed his fingers along the scruff on his chin. His easy smile shifting. “If you’re with me, then you’re with me. I’m gone too much, I’ll probably mess shit up from time to time, but I won’t fuck around, Stevie. I like you, and I don’t want to waste the downtime I have on a woman who’d rather be with someone else. I’ve already played that game.”

  I sat up, hyperaware of my own nakedness. Inside and out. “I’m trying to figure my way into this new life. Hell, Mark, I have boxes I haven’t even unpacked yet.”

  The heat of his fingertips coaxed my chin, turning my gaze to his. He considered me, his lips breaking into a genuine smile. “I’m not trying to rush you into anything. This can be serious or it can be casual, either way, when I’m with you, it’s only you. And I hope you’d give me the same respect.”

  A nervous smile shivered on my lips as I rested my forehead in the perfect crook of his neck. “I don’t know the first thing about what it’s like to date someone like you, or anyone in this decade really, but I know I like you, and I don’t want to waste my downtime with some random either.” I leaned back and he framed my face with his hands. “When you said boyfriend, you’re right… it freaked me out. But it wasn’t because I want to sleep around and sow my wild oats…” Humor glittered inside his irises. “I freaked out because I want you as a boyfriend, probably more than I should. I’m starting over, Mark, I should want to be on my own, fly free, and all that jazz.”

  “And all that jazz?” He raised his right brow.

  I shoved his chest. “Yeah. And. All. That. Jazz.”

  “Start over. Fly free, do whatever you want, Stevie. You don’t have to worry about that shit with me. I’ll never censor you.”

  What he’d said to me the night I’d first met him shimmered at the edges of my memory.

  “If you were married to me, you could do whatever you wanted.”

  I was making things more complicated than they needed to be. We were having fun. I had a hockey rink drawn on my stomach with a Sharpie for crying out loud. It could be serious or it could be casual. I didn’t want to date around, and I really hadn’t had any intentions to date at all. I’d moved back to Tampa with the sole purpose of finding myself again. Mark was a happy accident. And after my divorce from Ben, I owed it to myself to try. My relationship with men didn’t have to define me.

  “So… my boyfriend’s a hockey player.”

  His full lips pulled into those sexy dimples I was starting to worship. “Hot hockey player.”

  He kissed the spot below my ear and my stomach growled. “A hot hockey player who promised me dinner.”

  He rolled off the bed with agility that somehow, even after I’d watched him play tonight, still astounded me. He bent down, grabbing my shirt and underwear, throwing them onto the bed as I admired the chiseled planes of his chest. The ink on his forearms rippled as he pulled on his boxer-briefs.

  “I think I’m enlisting one more rule tonight beyond exclusivity.”

  “Oh?” I asked as I slipped back into my shirt and panties. I’d worry about finding my bra later. “What’s that?”

  “No pants at the dinner table.”

  Wet. Warm… Kibble.

  My eyes, bleary, opened to the gray light leaking through the blinds in my bedroom. Atlas hovered over my face. His hot breath was the last thing I wanted to deal with, I turned to look at the clock, at seven in the morning.

  “Jesus, Atlas.” I shoved his drool-covered mug and laughed when he barely moved an inch. “Wanna go outside?”

  His tail thumped hard onto the mattress, his ears pointing almost to the ceiling. “Can I make coffee first?” His whole body shook and I groaned. “Shit, give me five minutes.”

  I rolled to the edge of my bed, resting my elbows on my knees as I tried to wipe the sleep from my eyes. Atlas nudged my ass and I chuckled, feeling guilty. “Alright, I’m up.” I’d neglected him last night because Stevie had been here.

  Stevie.

  My lips split into a smile I was sure would get me punched in the locker room.

  I stood, stretching my arms over my head. “Come on, let’s go take a piss.”

  After I finished freezing my ass off in the early morning damp air, I ran up the stairs. Atlas’s breathing was labored, his feet clomping as he burned off all his extra morning energy. I had practice in thirty minutes and I hated leaving him again. Sometimes I wondered why I’d even gotten a dog. I was never home, and when I was, I was at the rink. I rubbed the top of his head as I hung his leash next to the door. I didn’t like to admit it because it made me feel weak, but I didn’t like being alone. Never
had.

  My mom used to joke about how I’d always had a girlfriend. I’d fallen right into that pattern again with Mia. And now Stevie. I’d dropped the word boyfriend more casually than I probably should have. Some, my sister in particular, would say it was too soon to make it “official.” But, I didn’t harp on the thought too much as I poured myself a cup of coffee. Stevie wasn’t Mia or a pattern. It was simple. I wanted what I wanted. I liked her.

  “Shit.” I nearly growled as searing hot liquid poured down my throat.

  Atlas whimpered at my distress and I smiled. I did this every morning. You’d think I’d get up earlier, give myself more time. Maybe I rushed with some things. But with Stevie it felt right, and I hadn’t had that in a long time. I set the cup down on the counter, and a memory from last night played in Technicolor inside my head. My face between Stevie’s thighs, right here on this very counter. My lips curled up smug at the corners as I thought about how not-so-quiet she’d been when she came. I could eat her pussy every damn day. My dick came to life at the thought, and I closed my eyes with an internal groan. So I’d rushed things, she seemed to be okay with it, and I sure the hell was. If anything, I was ready for more. More time with her.

  I’d wanted her to stay over, but she’d put on the brakes around one in the morning. Stevie wanted to take things slow, and I was a fucking bulldozer when it came to her. If I would’ve had my way, I would’ve spent the remainder of our evening buried inside her, but I guess there was something to be said for waiting. What made her tick? What made her crazy? Watching her explode with my touch, my lips, I loved it. She was a fucking firecracker. She’d sat too long in the corner gathering dust, and I was the lucky asshole who got to light her up. If I had to wait a little to figure out all her buttons, I could handle that.

  Atlas whined and wagged his tail as I lowered myself down to his level. I trapped his big head between my hands, scratched behind his ears as I said more to myself than him, “Let’s hope I’m right… she’s one of the good ones, yeah?”

  It wasn’t until I was parked outside the Ice Forum that I’d found a second to text her. I was already running late, and I hoped Maddox hadn’t arrived yet. Having a pissed-off coach before a road trip was not ideal. It only made it worse how tired I felt. I’d dropped Stevie off at her car after two a.m., and for a guy who was used to getting at least eight hours of sleep every night, it was safe to say I was dragging ass. Practice had to go well. We were headed out west. A three-game stretch against the Pacific division leaders. Vegas, San Jose, and L.A., we had to be on the top of our game.

  ME: If I get fired it’s your fault.

  I cut the engine and exited my SUV with a shit-eating grin on my face. I pocketed my keys as I slammed the door shut. The Florida morning air was already a few degrees warmer than an hour ago. Moisture clung to my skin as I walked at a clipped pace to the rink doors.

  My phone vibrated in my palm as I stepped inside the Forum. The rink air tickled my heated skin, sending comforting goose bumps down my limbs as I opened the lock screen with a swipe of my thumb.

  Stevie: Can you even get fired? Is that a thing?

  I coughed out a laugh.

  ME: Yes, that’s a thing. But I’d probably get traded instead…

  ME: And you’d miss me.

  Stevie: At least then I’d get more sleep. There isn’t enough coffee in the world today.

  I pictured her eyes, how they most likely were smiling at this very second, her sexy, smart-ass comment filling her cheeks with color.

  ME: I’d rather come than sleep, just saying.

  I’d twisted the “I’d rather hang with you than sleep” comment I’d said to her the other day.

  Stevie: And now I’m thinking about sex, and I haven’t even booted up my computer yet.

  ME: You’re welcome.

  “What’s up, Melo?”

  I raised my eyes from my phone and my teammate, Carl Smith, nodded his chin in my direction.

  “Running late, too?” I asked and slipped my phone into my pocket following alongside him.

  “Yeah, fuck, I’m hungover. Coach is gonna chew my ass. You?”

  “Didn’t sleep great.”

  Smith gave me a knowing smile. “Me neither, bro, me neither.”

  We both snickered like teenage idiots as we walked toward the locker room. He opened the door, and sure as shit, Bryson already had his music blaring. It didn’t matter how hard that guy partied, he was always the first to practice looking bushy-tailed and ready to go. Today was no different as he sat on the bench pulling on his pads. He sung the lyrics, rocking his head to the beat, and I had to laugh. Dude was fucking happy all the time.

  “You’re chipper, as always,” I said, dropping down onto the bench next to him.

  Bryson looked me up and down before he nodded his head. “You look like hell.” The corners of his mouth ticked as he stood and grabbed his skates from one of the wooden cubbies that held our equipment. Every guy had his own stall, name placard attached. It was more of a dressing room than a locker room.

  “I get laid practically every night. Maybe you should try it… pussy is a cure-all, man.”

  I lifted my eyes to the ceiling as I kicked off my shoes. I knew without a doubt he was wrong on that one.

  “I can think of at least one instance you’d be dead wrong.”

  “Your problem, Melo…” He sat down and leaned over to put on his skates. “You get too attached.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Jensen. But I think there’s a rule. No relationship advice before nine in the morning.” I stood and pulled off my shirt.

  “Yeah, and sure as fuck, not in the locker room,” Karlsson said and threw a roll of athletic tape at Bryson’s head. “Chicks are bad luck.”

  Bryson dodged it and it hit the wood of his stall with a hard thwack. “If that would’ve hit me—”

  “What?” Karlsson lifted his eyebrows.

  “You’re an asshole.” Bryson shook his head, smiling as he leaned down again to finish lacing his skates.

  The room erupted into its usual immature bouts of laughter and shit talk as we all geared up. I’d finished lacing my skates when Bryson leaned toward me and said in a low voice, “Stevie… she’s hot.”

  “Yeah, Jensen. I’m aware.” I didn’t like the edge I had in my tone. Bryson was a good guy, my best fucking friend, but those old wounds, they healed too damn slowly.

  “Don’t forget… you still owe me three shots.” He gave me a sly grin before he stood. “Let’s go, ladies,” he hollered and all the guys, including myself, stood and followed our captain to the ice.

  Practice had proved to be a brutal battle and we’d lost.

  Half the guys had smelled like booze and the other half had been asleep. About forty-five minutes in, after a sloppy show of defense by the opposing side, I’d flown down the rink with my knees bent, my blades digging deep into the ice, eating the distance to the goal. I’d been sucking air as the fatigue set in and my right quad had cramped. Like always, in a game, I’d ignored the pain, but my usual speed had wavered enough that Rasmussen had been able to poke check the puck, forcing a turnover as I crossed over the blue line.

  With such little sleep, I’d played like shit, but I hadn’t been the only one in the loser pile. The coaching staff had rode us hard, and after the nets were put away, and the Zamboni had cleared the ice, they’d made us watch reel for another hour. The locker room was quiet after Maddox not-so-subtly told us to pull our shit together, to look in the mirror and see whether or not we’d have wins in our pockets after this trip. Coach was known for his stern candor, but I had to say, I loved the way he rallied us. He was never negative. But he put us in our places. Toned down our ego and reminded us, at the end of the period, we were only human. He reminded us, even though we were gifted men, if we wanted to succeed, we had to fucking work for it. Own the shift.

  He’d said, “You are not the only talented men on that ice, not the only players hungry for a win… wins wi
ll never be handed to you. They will only be earned.”

  Bryson blamed himself, looking like a sad sack, the total opposite of how he’d been this morning, as he’d stripped off his gear. No one lingered, we were eager to get home, put the practice behind us before we boarded the plane tonight.

  I slammed the door to the SUV and stared through the windshield. Hockey was as much of a mental game as it was a physical one. Fear was an infection and heading out west always got our hackles up. Maybe that fear poured a few extra shots last night for some of the guys despite our win. For me, after how I played, I should’ve wanted to distance myself a little from Stevie, put my head on straight. Focus on the plays, the win, but hell if she wasn’t the only person I wanted to talk to. Her blood wasn’t ice and steel-bladed like mine. It was warm and real and it reminded me, just like Coach had said, that I was human.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed her number.

  “Hi.” I could hear the smile in her voice, and the tight knots in my shoulders untwisted.

  “You hungry?” My tone held the weight of every shitty shot I’d taken as I looked at the digital display on the dash. It was almost twelve-thirty.

  “Bad day?”

  “Turns out sleep is kind of important when it comes to being a professional athlete.”

  Her laugh was fuzzy, almost far away, and it made my empty stomach feel full. “So it seems... I’m sorry I kept you awake last night.”

  “Bad practice, but still wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “I’m sorry it didn’t go well.”

  “I have to board a plane in four hours, have lunch with me.”

  She took a second to answer, but when she did, the one word was infused with her sweet smile. “Okay.”

  She gave me the address to her office and I scribbled it onto an old Starbucks receipt I’d found in my center console.