Breakaway

by Avon Gale

  “And I was so concerned, thinking it was me, and that I hadn’t tried hard enough and what could I do. Then he told me, ‘It’s not you, Shore. It’s just that I have feelings for you, and this has never happened to me before.’” Jared’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. With that beard, it made him look even more fierce. For a moment he looked like the guy Lane met that first night in the bar, marred by tension and old anger. “He convinced me that it was the first time he’d had these feelings for a man, that he didn’t know what to do, but he couldn’t jeopardize both our careers.”

  “I don’t—” Lane shook his head. He felt completely helpless, and there was nothing he could do to make it better and to make it go away. “Fuck, J.”

  “I like it when you call me that,” Jared said so quietly Lane almost missed it. “Anyway, obviously I was an idiot, and I bought it.”

  “You weren’t an idiot,” Lane yelled, standing up. His breathing was all messed up, and he spilled his beer. “You were—you trusted him, and he abused you. Coaches are supposed to be safe,” he muttered, sitting down again, thinking about Coach Spencer letting Lane flounder around for his own good, his “I know what you’re trying to do, Courtnall” and wondering how long his coach had known he was gay.

  “I know. And of course, I wasn’t the first person he’d done it to either. But I didn’t know that at first. I told him not to worry. Hell, I even said ‘I’ve done this before,’ when the most I’d ever done was a terrible blowjob with a friend of mine’s older brother. But when he kissed me, it seemed like he meant it. And I went to bed with him. But I want you to understand, Lane. It wasn’t because I thought I had to. I wanted to. I wanted him, and maybe he made me want him for the wrong reasons, but I wasn’t unwilling.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You have a goddamn responsibility when you’re a coach. And besides, you said he knew what he was doing and just what to say to get what he wanted. Fuck that guy. Seriously.”

  “He fucked me instead,” Jared responded flatly. “I let him. I begged him. I told him it was all right—that I loved him. When I was a sophomore, a few weeks into training camp, I caught him in the locker room with some new kid, telling him the same goddamn thing. Verbatim, Lane. Fucking verbatim. And I walked out and went home to my little apartment and realized I had no friends, no one to talk to, because I’d isolated myself. I had no friends on the team because he wouldn’t let me. I had no friends off of the team because I spent all my free time with him. But I had the key to his office. So I went in and looked through his files. This new freshman, I don’t even remember his name, but his story was almost identical to mine. Peewee hockey, no real interest from development leagues, ranked at about a four out of seven on some scale I didn’t understand. Then I saw my file, and I was ranked the same. Four.

  “He chose me, Lane. He chose me before I’d ever gotten there, just like he did to whatever the kid was after me and the one after him. And the worst part is, he knew how to get all of us, and he knew we’d leave when he was done with us. And it wouldn’t hurt his team. We were no big loss. You can be sure he was nothing more than a coach to the kids who had promise. The fives and the sixes and the sevens. The fours, now, we were just his fresh piece of ass.”

  Lane calmly took his beer bottle and threw it—hard—across the room. Not at Jared, but he wanted it to break. Instead, it bounced harmlessly off a chair, fell on the carpet, and rolled sadly to the corner.

  Jared picked it up, took it into the kitchen, rinsed it, and put it in the recycle container. “A couple of nights later, I went to find him. I confronted him, saying, ‘I thought you loved me,’ asking him why he’d done it. And do you know what he said?”

  Lane didn’t want to know. But he shook his head, stood up, and moved closer to Jared. He was going to find this guy and report him. Something. Get him away from coaching. It made him sick to think about someone doing that to Jared. To anyone. Sick. “What?”

  Jared’s chin went up a notch, like he was going to throw a punch. The sneer and the fierce pride in his voice, his expression, his body language—Jared Shore was a fighter through and through, and Lane was so proud of him. “He told me that I was being silly, that he’d just told me all of that stuff so that I’d play better. A coaching tactic. He wanted me to get drafted. I needed someone to believe in me, and he had. He’s sorry it went too far. He should have never let me take it any further. I should go home and get some sleep, because if I kept playing poorly, he’d kick me off the team, and there went my chances of being drafted. If I couldn’t play for him, I wouldn’t play for anyone.”

  “Please,” Lane said, voice faintly trembling with rage. “Please tell me you punched him in the nuts and pummeled his face with your fist. Really hard. So that something broke.”

  Jared looked back at him and smiled a little. “Bloodthirsty, Lane. Geez. No. I packed my shit in a bag and left. I drove to Cincinnati, Ohio and stayed with a friend who lived there and played for the Cyclones. Alex,” he said, referring to his friend. Lane wondered if there was some kind of card that was appropriate to send Alex as a thank-you for that. He’d have to ask Zoe, maybe. Girls knew about that stuff.

  “So Alex put in a good word for me, and I went to the Cyclones tryouts. And even though it meant I was ineligible for the draft, when they offered me a contract, I took it. It was for one year, and I was a fourth-line center with a chip on my shoulder and a temper. And I used my fists more than my skates, because hockey was suddenly all about anger for me.

  “A few years after that, I was playing in Toledo, and I saw him after a game—Whittaker. He was there with one of his players, talking to our coach. I looked right at him. He looked right at me. And he pretended not to know who I was.”

  Lane stared flatly at Jared. “I’ve never been this angry in my whole life. Can I break something? It would help if I could break something.”

  “That doesn’t work. Believe me. I broke a lot of somethings, including other guy’s noses. And I carried that anger with me to every city and every town I went to. I had a pretty good season one year and had that tryout with the Flyers. That was the proudest moment of my life, even though I didn’t make it. They invited me because they’re.... Well, you know. The Bullies of Broad Street.”

  “They invited you because you’re awesome and a good player, and apparently you can play forward and goalie,” Lane snapped. “I still want to break something.”

  “I know. And it means a lot to me that you feel that way. But you don’t have to, because, Lane? It doesn’t matter. I won. Everything I’ve achieved in my career—that win last night—is because I did it. And I’m glad he thought I was a four, Lane. It meant that eventually, I could make myself a seven. And I did.”

  “Yeah,” Lane said, his voice a bit husky with emotion and pride. “You sure as hell did, J.”

  “And you’re way hotter than he ever was. Obviously I only go after the young’uns if they’re a ten.”

  Lane made a face at him. “That’s kind of creepy, when you put it that way.”

  “I know. I told you I was bad at this stuff.” Jared shrugged. “My consolation is you are way worse at it. And that you’re insatiable.”

  “What happened to him?” Lane asked, wondering if he could tell Ethan Kennedy about Andrew Whittaker and have Kennedy beat him up.

  “I have no idea. I know he’s not coaching at Ferris anymore, because I watch college hockey on television when I can catch it, and they’ve got someone else there now. I don’t know if he’s coaching anywhere, but I don’t really care. I just hope someone found out what he was doing and he got his ass fired, so he’s not pulling the same shit with anyone else. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s over and done with. He’s a pathetic piece of shit, and I’m a champion with a hot boyfriend who’s going to play in the National Hockey League.”

  Jared smiled, and the lingering anger was gone from his eyes. His pale eyes reminded Lane of iced-over ponds back home in Canada, of skating breathless and joyful under a cold wi
nter sky. “A hot boyfriend, by the way, who reminded me that I once loved this game for myself, not just because I wanted to prove everyone else wrong. I just love playing hockey. And for the first time since I walked off my team in college, I remembered that. So thanks. Because you did that for me, Lane. You’re the hot boyfriend. In case you didn’t pick up on that, ’cause sometimes you’re slow with this stuff.”

  “I got it,” Lane muttered, and he wondered if anyone had ever said anything like that to him before. He marveled that he—Lane Courtnall, awkward Canadian draft pick and socially inept forward for the Jacksonville Sea Storm—had done something like that for someone. “I had a lot of people tell me I was good at hockey, Jared. But this is the best I’ve played. Ever. Including last night, when some veteran forward made the highlight reels and ended the first season of my pro career. Because let me tell you, it doesn’t really mean anything if a bunch of people believe in you, if you don’t believe in yourself. I was afraid too. Because I was ashamed of who I was and so worried about what someone might find out about me. And so, if I made you love hockey again, then that’s good, and we’re even. ’Cause you... you taught me how to fight. For myself.” Lane smiled at him. “So thanks.”

  Jared was quiet for a moment, then he made a sound like a choked sob and a laugh. “Jesus, Lane. Are you always going to have to one-up me?”

  “Winning, Nothing Else,” Lane mocked, but his voice wasn’t all that steady either. Maybe this was why girls were always having feelings. If you did it more than once a year, it was probably easier to have them.

  “I’m pretty sure we both won,” Jared said. And then, just as he went to kiss him, Lane saw his mouth curve up in an evil, evil grin. “Although we both know who won last night’s game, and it wasn’t you.”

  Before Lane could bite Jared on the mouth for that, he said, “Now let’s go fuck. I haven’t wanted anyone to do it since Andrew. So it’s been a while. But I bet you’ll be good at it. We’ll probably have to do it twice, Rocket, because I’d like to enjoy it for longer than your usual five minutes.”

  “Jared?” Lane disentangled himself from Jared, who wasn’t as tall as he was but was suddenly, inexplicably all limbs. “Thanks for telling me that. The story. Not just the thing about me fucking you twice, which by the way, I’m totally fine with. I’m proud of you. And I think you’re going to win the Kelly Cup. And I’m going to drink Dr Pepper out of it. Because champagne gives me a headache.”

  “Oh, champagne gives you a headache, does it? I didn’t know you drank that much of it to know that, Jay-Z.” Jared yanked him closer and kissed him roughly, then pushed him toward the hallway. “You can drink whatever you want out of the Kelly Cup when I win it. And, for the record, I don’t like champagne, but when you win the Stanley Cup, I want to eat Lucky Charms out of it.”

  “Do you know where that thing’s been?”

  “Lane,” Jared said, exasperated, but he was smiling.

  “It’s just that I’ve watched specials on television. That’s all.” Lane followed him into the bedroom. He was nervous, but it seemed like it was important to Jared and meaningful. And that meant it had to be perfect.

  The first part—where they got naked and made out on Lane’s bed—that part he was fine with. But when Jared murmured, “Come on. Fuck me. I want it,” Lane had to get his brain reassembled. It had to be good. It didn’t matter that he’d never done it before, it had to be good, and Jared had to get off first, and—

  “Lane?”

  Lane blinked and realized he was staring off into space, grim-faced, like he was on the bench during a game. “Yeah?”

  “You’re trying to treat this like a hockey play.” Jared leaned up and kissed him. “Don’t. You know what to do.”

  “Right. No. I don’t. Some of us don’t try and play goalies when we’re forwards,” he said hotly, reaching for the lube while Jared started laughing. He used a little too much, so he slicked up Jared’s cock with the excess, just to make him stop laughing.

  It worked, and Lane shifted and teased Jared by rubbing his fingers over him without actually pressing them inside. He couldn’t do that for very long, though, because the noises Jared made were hot, and the way Jared kicked Lane with his heel was clearly a sign to hurry. That was fine. Lane wasn’t exactly the poster child for taking his time in bed, so maybe he should stop trying. He did say he’d do it twice, after all.

  He was a little enthralled at how Jared reacted to having Lane’s fingers inside of him, but when Jared gasped something like “For fuck’s sake, Lane,” he was happy to oblige by hurrying up. He kissed Jared when he shifted on top of him, and he was shaking from the effort of holding back. It had been a long time for Jared, and Lane didn’t want to come immediately and ruin everything.

  “Stop worrying,” Jared said, smacking him lightly on the face, when Lane cautiously pressed himself against Jared and pushed very slightly and with little-to-no pressure.

  Lane was trying to concentrate, so the smacking had to stop. He grabbed Jared’s hands and laced their fingers together, keeping them next to Jared’s head. “I’m concentrating. Don’t do that.”

  Jared was breathing too fast, but he didn’t say anything, and Lane was momentarily worried that he was scared. But somehow he knew it wasn’t about Lane fucking him. It was about what it meant, and Lane could understand why that was frightening. “Hey. Jared? It’s okay.” He kissed him and pushed his hips a little harder.

  “You’re the one who’s worrying, not—ah—not me.” Jared grasped at his fingers like he was trying not to drown. Lane kissed him, biting at his lip, pushing harder. “Jesus, Lane. Now he slows down.” Jared tried to pull his hands free. His legs shifted, and Lane remembered when it was him—how he was trying to say things, and he ducked his head to hide a smile.

  “Jared.” Lane kissed his neck, and he could feel Jared’s heart slamming hard against his chest. “Let me. Okay?”

  “Oh, fuck you,” Jared muttered, but he went still and relaxed his killer death grip on Lane’s fingers.

  “I’m trying,” Lane said very seriously. “Shhh.” He bit Jared’s shoulder and pushed forward. Maybe it was because Jared was distracted by how hard Lane was biting him, but whatever it was, it worked. Lane’s head went back and he moaned. It was probably the loudest noise he’d ever made in his life that wasn’t related to hockey in some way. But it felt so good. He had no idea it would be like this, and maybe Jared might want to do this more than twice.

  That thought brought back some of the anger from earlier. Not at Jared, but at the person who took things from Jared that he had no right to take—hockey and love and trust and Jared panting and pushing up beneath him, fingers tight around Lane’s. Andrew never deserved this from Jared in the first place. Lane wished he could say all of that, but he couldn’t. He was terrible with words anyway, and it would probably end up sounding like a death threat or some kind of joke.

  But he was a lot better with other things—physical things—because that’s how Lane had been expressing his emotions since he was old enough to strap on a pair of skates. So he moved carefully, watching Jared’s expressions and his eyes, trying to make it good for him. He could say all of that stuff in the only way he knew how.

  He also didn’t want it to be over. It felt amazing, and he rocked his hips down and grinned at Jared’s sudden gasp, the way he twisted and pushed up like he wanted more. “Oh good. You like this. Me too.” Lane moved a little faster, harder, and then they were moving together and perfectly in rhythm, back and forth. It was the same give-and-take as hockey, and no wonder they were good together on the ice. They were good together, period.

  It went perfectly for a few minutes. But then it got messy and hard and fast, and they were kissing, and Lane somehow managed to keep himself balanced above Jared and to get a hand on him at the same time. He really, really wanted Jared to get off first. But he started to convince himself that it didn’t matter, as long as Jared got off, which he was definitely going to do
. Unless the ceiling fell in. And maybe even then. Who knew. Stress and adrenaline did weird things to people. So maybe....

  Lane felt Jared tense underneath him and bite out something like “harder,” and he stopped thinking about the sky falling and instead fucked Jared harder. Jared came a half second before Lane did. But whatever. That totally counted.

  They lay there for a long time afterward, quiet, until the sun started to set and Lane’s room fell slowly into darkness.

  In the sixth game of the ECHL Kelly-Cup Finals, the Savannah Renegades beat the Colorado Bison to win their first championship in front of their home crowd in Savannah.

  Jared Shore scored three goals in the series, had two assists, and was the first person to whom the Renegade’s captain, Darcy Leblanc, passed the Cup on the ice. Jared was also awarded the trophy for most valuable player in the playoffs and seemed to be the only person who was at all surprised by that.

  Lane, Zoe, and Jared’s friend Alex stood up in the stands and screamed until they were hoarse.

  For the entire summer, Lane’s cell phone background was a picture of Jared eating Lucky Charms out of the Kelly Cup.

  Jared’s was, of course, that shot of his that blocked Lane’s would-be goal. According to Jared, it was going to stay that way until he had a picture of Lane drinking Dr Pepper out of Lord Stanley’s Cup to replace it with. He liked to call it incentive.

  It was midafternoon on a sunny, sweltering July day when Jared got a call from his agent.

  He was in the middle of throwing some things in a bag to go see Lane for the next few days, so he texted him that he’d be a little late and went off to meet with the Renegades’ management.

  He’d never had that meeting in July before. Perks of being an MVP, Jared thought, heading toward the arena. He’d fixed the air-conditioning in his truck, thank God, though the interior was still hotter than the sun and the black steering wheel almost burned off his fingerprints.