Breakaway

by Avon Gale

  His mom patted his hand. “I’m glad you were polite. Every mother wants to hear that. Someone should tell your roommate,” she said darkly. Then she smiled at him again. “She seems like a very nice girl, Lane.”

  They had dinner, and while Lane was talking about the schedule and his coach and the skills he’d been working on, Zoe came back and collapsed in the seat next to him. As promised, she was carrying a milkshake. It had three straws in it.

  “Where’s your straw? Don’t say you can’t have any when you’re working, because you always steal some of mine,” Lane teased her, and she hit him upside the head. “Ow. Stop it. Head injuries are serious, you know.”

  “Don’t tease me about chocolate.” Zoe stuck her tongue out at him. “And don’t forget I give you those milkshakes for free, Laney. Did y’all like your dinner?”

  His parents enthused over their dinner, which was nice of them, considering it took forever, his mom’s burger was overdone to the point of being unrecognizable, and his dad’s was still making soft, mooing sounds.

  “Do you live close by, Zoe?” His mom asked, sipping the milkshake.

  “Not too far.”

  “She has a wicked house on the ocean,” Lane pointed out.

  “Uh... that sounds way fancier than it is. It’s a rental. It’s the size of a shoebox, and I can’t live there after December.”

  “But it’s on the ocean,” Lane said again.

  “I don’t know why you like the ocean so much, since you’re afraid to go in there.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Lane protested. “I’m concerned.”

  Zoe gave him an unimpressed look. “I should probably finish my sidework. Y’all enjoy the milkshake. That’s on me. I’ll be at Lane’s game tomorrow, so y’all can tell me embarrassing stories about him.”

  “Do you go to all the games?” his dad asked and beamed at Lane.

  “If I’m not working, yeah. I’d never seen a hockey game until Lane gave me tickets to one of his. It’s exciting. He had to explain it to me using the salt shakers and stuff on the table before I went, but I pretty much know what’s going on now.”

  “We’ll be happy to help you figure it out, dear,” his mom told Zoe. “We’re experts.”

  “I bet. Okay. Well, have fun, y’all. Bye, Lane.”

  “Bye, Zoe.” He watched her go with a fond smile. She had clearly charmed his parents, which was great. They asked a lot of questions about her, which vaguely embarrassed Lane. He never realized before how badly they wanted him to have friends.

  His parents dropped him off at his apartment, and his mother leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Your father and I are so happy you’re enjoying it here and that you have Zoe,” she said. He just nodded, told them he’d see them the next day, and hurried upstairs to bed.

  They had a game the next day, so Ryan wasn’t entertaining. They played a few rounds of NHL 14, and Lane played as the Leafs—though it occurred to him that maybe he should play as the Lightning, considering that was the team who’d drafted him.

  That night in bed, Lane thought about Jared and the night they’d spent together while he palmed his cock through his pajamas. Sometimes he thought about how everything played out in perfect order, and sometimes he thought about it more specifically and lingered on certain moments. The night before, he’d flipped over, pulled his pajama pants down, and gotten off rubbing against his mattress and thinking about how good Jared felt on top of him.

  Tonight he was just letting his mind wander, thinking about a hazy, vague future encounter in Savannah, and the one in his hotel room. He kicked his covers off and stroked himself hard and fast, thinking about how Jared had put his mouth on him and how that was maybe the best thing Lane had ever felt in his life. He wanted that again.

  He thought about calling Jared right then and saying, “I’m thinking about how you sucked me off, and can you do that again, please, when I’m in Savannah?” And he thought about how Jared had teased him and almost not let him come in his mouth like he wanted to. Lane arched up off the bed and came hard. It felt good but it wasn’t what he wanted, and he didn’t know if he was allowed to have what he wanted or not.

  After a few minutes spent catching his breath, he cleaned himself up and made sure his alarm was set, telling himself that he didn’t have time to worry about Savannah right then. He needed to focus on the game and be ready to bring his best to the ice. His parents were already so happy with him. If he could just score a goal or two, and if the Sea Storm could win, they would have the perfect visit. His parents would be proud of him for living up to their belief in his talent. They’d sit next to the first best friend he’d ever made—and one who had nothing to do with hockey. Maybe he had enough money to take them and Zoe back for another burger. Or maybe they’d have to go somewhere cheaper. Still, it would be perfect.

  He was almost asleep when the simple, obvious thing he’d been missing all night slammed into him with the force of a freight train. His parents weren’t happy because he’d made a friend. His parents were happy because they thought Zoe was his girlfriend.

  All those smiles, those looks they’d been exchanging. It was because they thought finding him kissing Derek was nothing more than teenage experimentation.

  Lane punched his pillow in frustration. It wasn’t their son’s professional hockey career that made them happy, it was his apparently not being gay. Lane had hated the look of disappointment in his mother’s eyes, but suddenly he hated the happy one a whole lot more. Because he was gay, and that had absolutely nothing to do with how he played hockey.

  Lane sat up and shoved the covers off, yanked his sock drawer open, and found the note from Jared. He took his phone, found the “Add a Contact” button, and typed in Jared’s information. Then he typed a message that said hey it’s lane can we do that again next week thanks and sent it before he could think better of it.

  He sat there on his bed, his feet on the floor, burning with some new anger that he didn’t know how to deal with. He was grateful to his parents for believing in him. All he wanted to do was thank them, show them how he’d lived up to their expectations and proved himself worthy of all of it—the money, the lost weekends, the constant travel and fatigue.

  And all they cared about was who he took to bed after a game. Goddammit. Goddamm it. Did it really matter that much to them? Did one stupid thing mean more than all the years of practice and sweat and blood?

  Apparently it did.

  Lane lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He had tears of anger in his eyes and he couldn’t do anything about it but fume. He tried to take a few deep breaths to calm down, but nothing worked. Finally he got up and took a shower, and he let some of those tears go because they mixed in with the water, and the sound of the spray drowned out the one quiet sob he allowed himself. Then he got out, brushed his teeth, and headed back to bed.

  He was going to sleep. He was playing hockey the next day for the Sea Storm—for his teammates—and that required his A game. So that’s what Lane was going to bring. His parents would be there, but it wasn’t going to be for them. Not this time.

  He saw the flash on his phone, indicating he had a new message. It was from Jared, and all it said was hell yeah—j.

  Lane put the note back in his drawer, made sure his alarm was on and his phone was plugged into the charger, and went to sleep.

  The Sea Storm won both their games that weekend. On Sunday, Lane Courtnall scored the first hat trick of his professional career and was named the game’s first star.

  That meant he got to fire a T-shirt cannon into the crowd. He wanted to aim it at Zoe, but that seemed unfair because he knew her. So he silently promised to buy her a shirt, and aimed the cannon at some kids who were waving their arms around frantically.

  When he left the arena, there were fans hanging around taking pictures with some of the other Storm players. Lane took a few pictures and signed some autographs, even though signing made him feel vaguely embarrassed.


  His parents and Zoe were waiting for him by his parents’ rental car. The glamorous chariot for the game’s first star. Lane was perfectly happy about his performance in both games. He was happy his team won, happy it was sunny, and happy Zoe had seen him get a hat trick.

  Happy he was going to get laid in a week.

  Happy his parents were going home.

  “Oh man, Lane, that was great.” Zoe threw her arms around him and gave him an exuberant hug. “You got a cap trick.”

  “Hat trick,” he corrected, hugging her back. “Yup. I did.” He could feel his parents watching, and the anger hit him harder than he expected, because they were probably happier he was hugging a girl than because of the game he’d just played.

  “Next time you better shoot that T-shirt thingy at me, though,” she said, punching him as he pulled away. “What’s the use of having a friend on the team if I can’t get any free swag?”

  Lane hadn’t said a word to her about his parents, or how they clearly thought he and Zoe were dating. He saw his mother and father watching him with the obvious question in their eyes—“Doesn’t she mean boyfriend?” or “Aren’t you two dating?”

  Lane didn’t say a word. If you want to know, you can ask me. He wasn’t going to lie if they asked him about it.

  But they didn’t ask, and Lane didn’t say anything. He watched them go and wondered what they would take away from the trip—what they would say to his family and friends back home. If they’d talk about Lane’s hat trick and the excellent hockey he was playing, or how he was, for the first time ever, really part of a team. Or if all they’d take away from was that he had a girlfriend.

  He stopped calling them after games and practices. If they wanted to know what his stats were, they could look them up on the Sea Storm website. If they wanted to know about his personal life, they could ask. They’d nurtured him, sure. But it was Lane’s talent, Lane’s hard work that had gotten him where he was.

  Zoe was just finishing her bar shift at Cruisers. She’d been promoted to bartender, but it wasn’t all that much better than waiting tables. “It’s better hours and more money, but I’m really tired of wiping water spots out of glasses. And also, what’s up with people who order drinks like a ‘Ronald Palmer’? What the hell is that?”

  “I don’t know. All I drink is beer and sometimes whiskey.”

  Zoe snorted, slinging a towel across her shoulder. “All you drink are milkshakes and Dr Pepper, Lane. Come on.”

  “I meant alcoholic stuff,” he protested. “Also I drink water. And sometimes Gatorade. I had some coconut water the other day because our goalie told me it was good. But it wasn’t.”

  Zoe sighed. “You’re bad at stories sometimes.”

  “I know. Can I have a Dr Pepper refill?” He pushed his glass at her and smiled. “I got you a T-shirt, by the way. Because I felt bad I shot that cannon at a kid instead of you.”

  The man next to Lane gave him a weird look. Lane cleared his throat. “It was a T-shirt cannon,” he explained. That didn’t appear to get him any leeway. “At a hockey game.”

  “Mike, this is Lane Courtnall. He’s a center for the Jacksonville Sea Storm. Which is a hockey team. That thing they play on ice, with a puck.” Zoe gave Lane his Dr Pepper. “Lane, this is Mike Barrie. He owns Cruisers.”

  “Oh, hey. Really?” Lane held his hand out to shake. “We come here a lot, the team. You have good burgers. Unless you’re really busy, and then sometimes whoever makes them isn’t paying attention and they’re not that great. But the milkshakes are always good. And Zoe is definitely the best waitress here, so she’ll probably be the best bartender in a week or two. Once she figures out what all the drinks are. Do you know what a ‘Robert Palmer’ is?”

  “Sometimes I think you’re not a real person,” Zoe said, glaring at him.

  Lane shrugged and looked around as if the answer to why she’d think that was hidden in the mostly-empty bar area. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and they had the day off, so he was hanging out, avoiding his apartment. “Was I not supposed to say that, about the burgers? Sorry. It’s just that I’m used to people being critical all the time. Is that not how restaurants work?”

  “Where are you from?” Mike asked bluntly, but he looked kind of amused.

  “Canada,” Lane answered, and the guy said “ah,” downed the rest of his drink, and stood up.

  “It’s good to meet you. Hey, if you get me a signed pennant or whatever hockey teams have, I’ll put it up on the wall. I didn’t know a whole sports team came in here. Are you guys any good?”

  “We’re first in our division right now,” Lane told him proudly.

  “Great,” Mike said, clearly having no idea what division he meant or what it was a division of. “You need any sponsors?”

  “Uh, probably? You should call the office, though. I just play hockey.” Lane took a pen and wrote a number on one of the coasters. “Here. This is the main office. I know that because if you look up Jacksonville Sea Storm in the phone book, this is the number you get, and if you call in the summer, you’ll just keep getting an answering machine and have to show up with your stuff and some cash and live at the Econo Lodge.”

  Mike pocketed the coaster and then backed slowly away from Lane. “Does he get hit in the head often? I hear that happens.”

  “Nope. He’s a flashy puck guy. People try and hit him in the head, but then other guys stop them.” Zoe beamed. “I’m fixin’ to be an expert about hockey, Mike. Watch out.”

  “I’m fixin’ to find me a bartender who knows what a ‘Robert Palmer’ is,” Mike answered, but he was smiling. “Later, Zoe. Nice to meet you, Lane.”

  “You too. And I really do like your milkshakes.” Lane watched him go, then turned back to Zoe. “He seems nice.”

  “Really? He’s okay. Smarmy guy. Sort of a sleaze.”

  “You called him by his first name, though.” Lane couldn’t imagine doing that to his bosses, who were all coaches.

  “He makes you. It’s a suggestion of false intimacy, and I hate it,” she told him bluntly. Lane just nodded like he understood that and wondered if it were too early for a milkshake, because suddenly he wanted one.

  “My parents thought we were dating,” he said, apropos of nothing, twirling his straw in his glass. He couldn’t look at Zoe. “Did you pick up on that, because I didn’t.”

  He looked up finally, when Zoe was quiet for so long that he thought maybe he should repeat himself. “I said—”

  “Yeah. I heard you,” she muttered, snatching his glass and filling it back up with the nifty soda dispenser, the one with all the buttons on it. Lane wanted to use that thing but he was concerned he’d get her fired if she let him.

  “I guess maybe I did... a little? I mean, I can see why they’d think that. We hang out. We shared a milkshake straw. You told them about the ocean view from my house,” she said, giggling. Her expression turned serious when he didn’t crack a smile. “They don’t know, though. Right? About... you know.” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh, they know,” Lane said, stabbing the glass with the straw. It was very unsatisfying.

  “What? Really?” Zoe leaned forward, her voice quiet. “You said you didn’t tell anyone.”

  “I didn’t,” Lane said flatly. He looked around, saw they were mostly alone, and said quietly, “I’ve had exactly one other best friend, before you. His name was Derek, and I had a crush on him. I was sixteen, and his family moved in next to mine. I was home from my major junior team, and we hung out and played street hockey and video games and shit. And one day we were in my room. The door was closed, and we were on my bed, and I just... got on top of him and kissed him.”

  “Hot.” She smiled, but it was clear she understood this story wouldn’t end well.

  “More like awkward and weird. But okay. I guess it was hot for two minutes, until my mom opened the door and saw us.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah.” Lane still didn’t like to think about that, but
now it made him mad instead of guilty. Or mostly it made him mad. Feelings were confusing.

  “And then what? Your parents cried, told you that you were a disgrace to their name, and asked how they’d ever show their faces at church on Sunday?” She coughed. “Or something like that, maybe?”

  Lane was kind of terrible at understanding subtext, but even he got that that must have been what her parents’ reaction was. “She closed the door.”

  “Oh. And then you came downstairs, and they were sitting on the couch, holding hands, looking at old home movies of you, and crying?”

  Lane blinked at her. “Huh? Was that before or after the yelling and the church thing?”

  “That second one wasn’t mine, it was Erin’s. Look. Sometimes your stories need a little help, Lane.” Her smile was kind, and her eyes were warm. “Also, I’m over here trying not to cry a little that you said I was your best friend.”

  “Oh. Bad crying, or ‘we just won the Stanley Cup’ crying?” He eyed her suspiciously. “I won’t call you that, if it’s bad crying. I don’t know anything about girls. Remember? And I definitely don’t know about them when they’re crying.”

  “It was in a good way, but don’t worry. Now I just want to punch you. But are you saying your parents just... never said anything?” She made a face. “That’s kind of fucked up. But if they knew, why’d they think we were dating?”

  “They want to think that. They didn’t ask me, and I was too mad to say anything when I figured it out.” He looked down at the bar, flushing. “And I... I don’t know. I should have said something. Are you mad that I didn’t? I’m kind of mad at myself.”

  “Of course I’m not mad,” she said, reaching out and patting him on the hand. “They seemed really happy you were doing so well. If they think we’re more than friends, then that’s their problem, not yours.”

  “That’s the thing,” Lane told her. He took her hand in his, and it astounded him how easy it was to touch her in affection, when he had always been bad with that kind of thing. Maybe because he was around guys a lot of the time, and he wanted to touch them with a lot more than just affection, but that couldn’t be the only reason. He didn’t want to sleep with every guy he met.