by Claire Adams
As the game continued, we were still two points down. I watched Johnny, crossing my fingers that he wouldn’t lose hope. I wondered if he noticed that the other team was struggling to keep up their defensive game, utterly confused by the change that had come over our team in a matter of only a few minutes. “If they actually pull out a win, I think you should be MVP,” Georgia murmured to me. I elbowed her, laughing and shaking my head. If the team managed to pull out a win, I was going to spend the rest of the weekend screwing Johnny’s brains out — which, incidentally, was also what I was going to do if the team didn’t manage to win.
One of Johnny’s teammates scored a point and they were down by only one as the clock continued to tick down. I watched as Johnny aimed for the other team’s most aggressive player — the one who had sent him sprawling onto the ice facedown. I gasped, but I was secretly pleased when I watched Johnny knock into the guy hard enough to send him into the wall. He tumbled back down onto the ice as Johnny had intercepted the puck. He was flying down the ice, dodging and shoving, darting around the other team’s players in the way that only Johnny seemed to be able to do. The clock was ticking down and I knew I wasn’t the only one clenching my hands in nervous fists. If they could get the score even, they could have a shoot-out — but only if Johnny managed to get the puck in the net. Only if he or one of his teammates got one more goal.
I saw it the moment that Johnny did — I realized that later when we were lying in bed together, talking about the game. The goalie was ready for Johnny. He knew what Johnny was going to do. So Johnny knocked the puck to the right winger; it was just fast enough that the goalie didn’t have time to shift his strategy. The right winger shot and scored, only a few seconds before the buzzer went off to announce the end of regulation time.
My heart was pounding in my chest, and I sat down heavily as adrenaline rushed through me. They had finished the game in a tie. They would have a shoot-out in order to see about breaking the tie. Georgia was explaining the rules to me. Each team had to pick a shooter and could pick either their regular or relief goalie. Each shooter would take their assigned shots, and then the shots would be tallied with the regular points and a winner would be determined. I took a deep breath; there were other good shooters on the team besides Johnny. He didn’t have to be the one to make the shots.
But of course, he was the one they chose. I held my hands tightly in my lap, watching as Johnny took the ice again. My heart was racing. I wanted this so much for him It would be just as upsetting to me for Johnny to be unhappy over this as over anything else. I grabbed at Georgia’s hand and held it tightly.
The other team’s shooter went first, and his ability was immediately impressive. Then I watched as Johnny took up his position on the ice. “Johnny can do that in his sleep,” Georgia told me.
“Shh!” I said, flapping my hand at her. In fact, everyone was silent — even the other team’s side. It was a gesture of respect. I pressed my lips together and watched as Johnny made his way across the ice, gliding smoothly and confidently on his skates. I barely breathed as he advanced towards the other team’s goalie, switching around the puck, moving it to confuse the player. I gripped Georgia’s hand harder as he came to the crease and shot.
The shot went in — the siren announced it and everyone roared in reaction.
We got more worried as the player for the opposing team made his second shot. If it weren’t for the fact that I knew Johnny was the man I loved and that he could wipe the floor with that guy, I’d be impressed. Georgia laughed when I said as much. “No guy is ever going to be able to stack up to Johnny in your mind,” she said. “You might as well just marry the guy and get it over with.” I rolled my eyes.
“That is not what I mean and you know it,” I told her. After a few moments, all of the raucous sound and cheering from the other team began to subside, and Johnny took up his position once more. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, saying a prayer without being entirely sure of who I was praying to. I opened my eyes in time to see Johnny take off again. He was rushing down the ice, even faster than the first time, and I realized that he was trying to psych the other player out, that he was trying to overwhelm the goalie — who might then make the wrong judgment when he went to shoot. “I’m starting to pick this stuff up without even trying,” I told Gigi in a whisper. She snorted and gave me a poke to the ribs.
Everyone held their breath as Johnny once more got into position and shot the puck, but he had not been quite fast enough to overwhelm the goalie, who barely managed to knock the shot aside. There was a groan in the audience.
The third shot by the opposing player went wide and missed, but the crowd was well aware of the remaining chance to score.
I looked at Johnny closely, worried — maybe he was not as recovered as I had thought he was. But I saw him shake it off, saw him look at his coach, and then up at me, with a little smile. He headed back to center ice and I knew that he was going to get the next one. I smiled and gripped Georgia’s hand. Even if I had the intuition — the instinct — that Johnny had it, that didn’t make it any less tense in the audience. I looked around. Nearly everyone on our team’s side of the ice was invested in the game, wanting Johnny to make it. They had forgotten for the moment about whatever stupid rumors they had heard or whatever delight they had taken in the “golden boy” being pulled down off the pedestal.
Johnny went with a different tactic; instead of trying to overwhelm the goalie, he moved more subtly, shifting and feinting, moving the puck around on the ice without even seeming to. Even I was mesmerized, watching him move from the center to the net. By the time Johnny made his shot, the goalie was utterly confused and transfixed by what he had seen. The crowd erupted — cheers on our side, groans on the other side.
“I wish they’d get it over with before you crush my hand,” Georgia said jokingly. I glanced at her; she gestured with her other hand that she was fine, that it was a joke. I eased up anyway.
It was nearly over — one way or the other. As the other player missed, everyone knew Johnny would have to make the last shot count to win. I sat back down, tapping my foot on the floor, wanting nothing more than for everyone to just shut up and let Johnny take his last shot and let us all know what the outcome was going to be. But everyone was more excited than ever, which I could understand — so was I. I took a deep breath and watched as Johnny moved to center ice for the final time.
He was somehow combining his two previous tactics, using both speed and subtlety. I couldn’t even tell where the puck was half the time as Johnny blazed down the ice towards the goalie. I couldn’t believe that the goalie had any clue, either, in spite of trying as hard as he could to watch the movements. There was just too much to see. Finally, Johnny was in the crease and he was shooting the puck — and the goalie had no idea where to grab for it. It hit the net and I sagged against Georgia as the siren announcing a successful shot rang out over the ice.
The roar of the crowd was so loud that I was sure I was going to go deaf. I watched as the winning team streamed out onto the ice, cheering and screaming, happy as they could possibly be at what Johnny had helped them accomplish. I couldn’t blame them for being happy — or for lifting Johnny up on their shoulders and carrying him around as the MVP. Georgia’s comments about my status to that title notwithstanding, Johnny was an important leader on the team, and it was obvious that when he was having an off night, the team suffered; when he was on top of it, the team was, too.
Someone presented the team with the trophy and Johnny and another player hoisted it into the air, displaying it proudly to us all. The other team had tactfully retreated to lick their wounds and sigh about what could have happened if they had just pressed their advantage or at least kept their lead. I smiled and laughed, watching the team cavorting around, obviously drunk with pleasure at their success. Someone put a microphone in Johnny’s hands and asked him about the game — what he thought, who he credited with the win, the kinds of things that always g
et asked for athletes when they succeed. “It was a rough game, especially in the first two periods, but I have a lot of people to thank for this win,” Johnny said, grinning around at everyone. “Of course, I have to thank my team. Without the team, none of us is anything. We certainly couldn’t pull it off one-handed.” I was starting to think of just how much I wanted Johnny to myself again. Maybe I can convince him to hang around and take his shower late, so we’ll be all alone…I was thinking when he met my gaze. “I also have to thank the love of my life, the woman who has shown that she will go through anything with me, that she loves me and is there for me, my girlfriend Becky.”
The crowd predictably went wild, but as Johnny and I held each other’s gazes, neither of us was even remotely thinking about the crowd. We were thinking about each other and about what was to come, now that we had finally put the ghosts of the past to rest.
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Broken Box Set
The Complete Broken Romance Series
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
BROKEN #1
Chapter One
Natalie
“I don't think I can have another shot, Julie,” I yelled over the music.
All around me the thump, thump, thump of the bass was felt right in my bones. Why must they play the music so obscenely loud? Was it so that you forgot that you were in a normal world? You stayed because you didn't realize there was anything else out there? I suppose it appealed to the people who came there to dance. I wasn’t one of them. As I peered over, I judged them for their carefree nature as they sweated all over each other on the dance floor. A bar, especially a dance bar, was an illogical place to go to have a conversation, but they had cheap drinks, and there was enough eye candy to keep Julie happy. Julie needed her entertainment as well. My friend just giggled as she ordered us another round. There was no point in arguing with her. I was feeling dizzy, but I allowed it, as I only really came there to forget. Forgetting was easy when it came to drinking. If it wasn't for hard liquor, I would not be able to function as a human being, and that was fairly important. All I needed at that moment was to forget that I was who I was. Because at that moment in my life, I didn't like whom I was.
Partying had become a regular occurrence for me these past few months. I was never much of a drinker, but times were tough, and a girl had to do what a girl had to do. Thank God I had a partner in crime in which to do my deeds with. I had only even known Julie for a couple of months, and she had seen me as the party girl, and only that. She had no idea that I was a good girl only a few months ago. The old me would never have spent so much time in a bar. But there I was, and the reason for that was because my whole life, my whole world in fact, had spun out of control recently, and I hadn't begun to pick up the pieces from that. Life, in fact, scared me at the moment. I had never expected to be in the position that I was. I had thought things would have turned out much better. I always had a plan; everything was in order in my life, until it all started to fall apart, of course. It was funny how life often snuck up on you like that. Not only had things not gone as planned, but it gave me an entirely different horizon that I didn't look forward to meeting.
Unbeknownst to me, the man I had loved most in the whole world had carried on an affair with my best friend for months before I found out about it. Months! Months! God, the very idea baffled me. How did I not know? Was I just blinded by my love for him? Finding them out―it was not something that anyone should ever have to experience. The betrayal of a best friend. You almost expect it from a man, but not a girl you grew up with from the time you were nine years old. Men were always the ones whom you feared would stray. It never occurred to me to not trust a beloved best friend. She and I had been through thick and thin; we had shared many scraped knees, broken hearts, and provided one another with a shoulder to cry on when needed. And all it took was for her to become attracted to my man. A man I thought I would marry one day. Shouldn't that have been sacred―something no other should think of touching?
There truly was no amount of alcohol that could erase the image of catching them having sex. He had her bent over the couch, doing the unthinkable. I had walked in just as she had been screaming out his name. I could have killed them both right then and there. The shock had been incredible, and I felt ill every time I thought about it. Walking in early from class, excited to surprise him with pizza and beer, it had all dropped to the floor as I rushed in and saw him having sex with her on the couch. Right there, right where we often watched movies and cuddled, he had done the unspeakable with one of my oldest friends. I may have even been able to forgive it had it only been a one-time occurrence, but that wasn't the case at all. They were in love, and just didn't have the heart or the balls to tell me about it. They had been involved for months, right under my nose. I often wondered when it had first begun. Had he and I been going through problems at the time? What made him look at her in a different light? I thought about it a lot―too much, in fact. I wondered who had initiated it; which one of them crossed the line first? I couldn't bear to think that it was she who made the first move. The thought was just too evil, how could she betray me in such a way? Take away the only thing that really mattered to me. How could I not have seen? How do you miss something so significant?
There must have been lingering looks between them when they were around each other, text messages to his phone, and every time he wasn't with me, had he been with her? Had he been responding to her messages while he was with me? Surely he would have been. He received many texts in my presence. Who knows how many had arrived from her phone? There was nothing in the world that could make a girl feel more stupid than to realize I had been made a fool of for months. Did they often laugh about me? Joke about how I had no idea about what they were doing? Did they talk about me? Discuss how they would have to eventually tell me the truth? I could bet money on the fact that it was he who decided to avoid coming clean. Women were different, she would have wanted to lay claim to him as soon as possible. She must have been bugging him for quite some time to come clean, or at the very least, break up with me so that they could begin their own love story. Love Story. One that used to be mine. It was thoughts like that which could cause me to be in a bar on a regular basis.
After walking in on the two of them, I could do nothing but run out of the room crying; I didn't even have it in me to confront them. I should have, I should have clawed her eyes out, and left his body unidentifiable. I had heard my best friend call out my name as I left the apartment, as if the girl could possibly have anything to say to me at that point to ease the pain I was in. Though I wouldn't lie, the curiosity did kill me now, after the fact. I wondered what she intended to say. Sorry? You snooze you lose? I love him? He doesn't want to be with you?
I did regret, however, the lack of hysterics I showed toward them. Thinking back on it, I should have allowed them to try to explain the disgusting show they had put on for me. To see what kind of excuses they would give me, what kind of fine, veiled apologies. In the end, however, it wouldn't have mattered. As far as I knew, they were still together; isn't love grand? I had hoped it would be a fling. That he would come back begging for another chance, so that I would have the opportunity to slap his face.
So insert booze, and I suddenly forgot how pathetic I must have been not to know that the two people I had trusted the most had been lying and running around on me behind my back. Maybe another shot was a good idea, the more I thought about it.
Julie and I sat at the bar in one of the more popular places in
the area, and downed large amounts of alcohol. The bar was certainly a happenin' place if you were into picking up. I wasn't one to notice, however. I usually stared sullenly into my glass for most of the night. Poor Julie, she must think I'm an alcoholic.
When the shots arrived, Julie handed me one and raised it to toast. “What should we toast to?”
I snorted, “I know! Let's toast to becoming cat people, and watching old reruns of I Love Lucy together.”
“Screw that. Are you crazy? Natalie, you are gorgeous. Your ex was an idiot, and what he did was unconscionable, but you will find someone else―someone much better. Just wait and see.”
“I don't want anyone else. I loved him, and look how well that turned out. How could I possibly trust anyone ever again? I know what you're thinking, I'm being negative. But sometimes it's a good thing, really.”
“I don't think you will see any motivational posters saying that.”
I laughed despite myself. “I guess not.”
We downed the shots, and I cringed for the tenth time that night. I hated thinking about my past. It had just been so awful. When did it ever get easier, when did the pain lessen? When would I stop seeing that image of the two of them together? It was bad enough that I lost the man I loved, but losing my best friend at the same time had crushed me. I had never felt so alone in all my life. Three years I had been with him, and it all was thrown away, for nothing. What a waste, I thought. Three years of loving and caring for him, and I still had no idea why he did it. Why had I not been enough for him? I loved him, and had thought we had a really good sex life. What made him want her more than me? These were the questions that plagued me relentlessly until I lost the ability to sleep, lying awake just waiting for morning to come.
At first, I had tried to be productive about the breakup, being motivational, positive thinking at all times, mostly working on my homework and drawing whenever the mood struck me. I thought I could get lost in my art and forget my broken heart. Unfortunately, things never quite worked out that way. Instead, here I was, dangling off a bar stool with a girl who did not know how to stop ordering tequila.