by Avon Gale
Jared took a deep breath. “I met with the Renegades’ GM and my agent today.”
“And you got a contract extension. Right?”
“Yeah. They offered me three years, good money, and—” this part still made Jared laugh, “—a two-way contract. An option, not a guarantee.”
Lane just nodded, like that wasn’t surprising. “Sure. You were a team leader, you have playoff experience, you’re a champion, you’re apparently a late-blooming goaltending prodigy....”
“Late-blooming?” Jared pulled his hair again. “Are you ever going to get over that?”
“No,” Lane answered immediately. “But I don’t get why you’re laughing.”
“Because, Lane. Why would they want me in the AHL?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Lane shrugged. “I don’t think this is as serious as you think it is. I mean, this seems like an easy, obvious life decision.”
“Why wouldn’t they? Why wouldn’t they? Lane, I’m thirty-two.”
“Yeah. You’re really into saying that. Your age, I mean. It’s weird, ’cause no one else seems to care as much as you do.” Lane looked briefly excited. “Hey. That’d be cool if we were both in the AHL, ’cause I bet we could fuck in better hotels.”
Jared just stared down at him, momentarily at a loss for words. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Lane blinked. And then he turned two shades of red and tried to pretend he wasn’t blushing. He hit Jared in the shoulder. Hard. “Stop. Ew. Why are you having feelings?”
“Because I have to tell you something.”
“You’re telling me. You’re going to be in Savannah for three years. You could be a Checker, which is a dumb name, but not as dumb as a Crunch. Is that a candy bar? I don’t even know that. And what else? More money. That’s cool, and...?”
“An opportunity to coach when I retire. Or some kind of position in the organization.”
“Hey.” Lane did grin at that. “That’s awesome, J. You’d be good at that. Old and wise, like you are. Us whippersnappers might learn something.”
“Pipe down, pipsqueak.” Jared smiled back. “Okay. Ready?”
“Yup.” Lane cocked his head. “For what?”
Jared leaned down and kissed him. “I turned it down.”
Lane pushed him back, hard, his eyes wide. “Why? That’s everything you wanted. Did you request a trade or something?”
Was he serious? “Who do you think I am, dude? Request a trade. No, idiot.” He hit Lane in the head again. God, he felt good. This felt good, and right... and what he was afraid of, he couldn’t even remember. “I retired, Lane.”
It was kind of great to watch Lane gape like a fish. It was a lot like that look on his face when Jared stopped his goal, in fact.
“Uh. What? Why? You can’t.” He leapt to his feet with more grace than a six-foot-three hockey player should possess and faced Jared with an expression of angst twisting his features. “You love hockey.”
“I can still love hockey, Lane.”
“But....”
Jared waited, but Lane was just staring at him. “Yeah?”
“You were awesome this year. A champion and an MVP. You won all your fights. Sometimes I forget how badass my boyfriend is,” Lane said with a sudden grin. He still seemed like he was surprised he could use the word boyfriend. “But you can’t just.... Wait, does that mean you’re taking the coaching job?”
At any other point in time, Jared might have thought Lane was trying to talk Jared out of going with him. But he wasn’t. He was just making sure it was all right to be happy and that the thing he wanted wasn’t going to be taken away from him. He and Lane had more in common than just stunning good looks and hockey prowess. “Not that one, but they’ll give me a reference. I really like the idea, though. Do you think I’ll be good at it?”
“Yeah.” Lane stopped, head tilting. He looked like a cocker spaniel with a six-pack. “You’re good at everything, J.”
That was so funny. Why wasn’t Jared laughing? He should be laughing. “I’m not... What?”
“Yes, you are.” Lane held up one hand and started ticking things off on his fingers. “You’re good at sex, hockey, driving, fighting, kissing, video games, opening beer bottles that need a bottle opener without a bottle opener, punching—”
“Lane, stop,” Jared said a little desperately. Normally Jared would have wondered who wasn’t good at driving, but then he’d gotten in a car with Lane. “Fighting and punching are the same thing.”
“Fighting and punching are not the same thing.” Lane’s stare was heavy. “Anyway you’re also good at drop passes, shootout goals, mopping the floor, smiling—”
“Smiling? You’re reaching, Courtnall. You’re also biased because you love me.” Jared blinked. “When have you ever seen me use a mop?”
“My twenty-first birthday,” Lane said with a wince. He kept going. “Also you’re good at being a boyfriend, shaving, growing a beard to shave—”
“Lane—”
“Pretending you know the words to songs when I’m pretty sure you’ve never heard them before, Christmas presents—”
“Lane.”
He stopped. “Yeah?”
Jared opened his mouth, then closed it. “I am pretty good at drop passes, aren’t I?”
“Yup. And you’re good at... I wish I could explain it, but I want to be a hockey player like you, J.” Lane looked so earnest it was impossible to think he wasn’t serious. Jared’s entire worldview tilted upside down, flipped over, and then back again.
“What are you talking about? You do remember that you were drafted by the NHL. Right? And who they are?”
Lane smiled, and it was sweet and crooked. He was still standing in running pants with no shirt, and by all rights, should have been the focal point of an ad about the dangers of leaving your drink unattended at a bar. “Jared, you know why I keep talking about that stupid save of yours?”
“Because it sent your ass home and mine to the championship?” He couldn’t help it. Lane would have a million career milestones, and Jared would celebrate every single one while reminding Lane that he didn’t get this one. That’s what hockey love was like.
“I’m over that,” Lane informed him, chin tilting, veering dangerously toward douche bag territory again. Then of course, he ruined the whole thing by saying, “Because I realized I would have never done that. I wouldn’t have even thought about it. I’m too....” Lane made a gesture and dropped his hands to his sides. Jared could see he was frustrated. “I’m too institutionalized, maybe?”
“Do you know what that means? Honestly I don’t think you do, because it sounds like you were in prison and suddenly I’m thinking about you with a bunch of guys in prison.” Jared gave a slow smile. “I like this thought. But that was what we call desperation. It wasn’t like I thought it out. I just did it.”
“I don’t have that yet. That hockey sense that you do,” Lane said simply, and Jared stopped arguing and thought about it.
“That’s years of playing the game, Lane. You’ll get there. And I still think you would have done it. You have great instincts. Trust me. By the time you’re my age, you’ll have a few championship rings in your ears and won’t be able to hear me remind you about that whole blocked-shot thing.” Jared smiled at him. “That was my news.”
“But what are you going to do?” Lane appeared mystified. “You can’t just open beer bottles without a bottle opener and smile all the time.”
“I can so. Because Lane, I’m going to be retired.” Jared leaned back on the couch, his ankles crossed, hands behind his head, grinning. “I’m going to let my NHL-star boyfriend make all the money and keep me supplied with hockey tickets and threesomes with hot guys or Victoria’s Secret models, because you totally have a thing for watching me with chicks. And I’m going to coach obviously. And talk about ‘back in my day,’ and make you watch that save and my Kelly Cup champions DVD all the time. And suck me off.” Jared’s eyes lit
up. “Maybe at the same time.”
“Pushing your luck, Shore,” Lane growled, and Jared was surprised to see he still looked upset. “You just can’t, Jared.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Not for me.”
“Lane,” Jared started. He stood up and moved closer. “I didn’t do this for you. Well, I mean, I did but I didn’t.”
“No,” Lane said, sounding vaguely panicked. “You can’t give up hockey for me. Someone took it away from you, and you just got it back—”
“Shh,” Jared interrupted. He placed a hand gently over Lane’s mouth. “I had my career. And maybe I started it because of what someone did to me—took from me—but you know what? I ended it exactly how I wanted to. As a badass, like you said.”
Lane surprised him by covering his face with his hands. “You mean it. You’re giving up all of that to follow me to Syracuse. Syracuse, of all places? Have you been there? It’s awful.”
“You’ve been there, what, twice? But I’m not giving anything up, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Jared grabbed Lane’s hands and pulled them away so Lane would look at him. “This is my reward. I get a hot twenty-one year old future hockey star who likes me to sleep with girls so he can watch. What part of that exactly is the part where you think I’m giving anything up?”
“But you gave up hockey.” Lane looked torn, his eyes searching Jared’s. “I can’t ever be worth that.”
“Lane, you idiot,” Jared pulled him in and kissed him. “You already are. And don’t ever say that you’re not.”
“Okay.” Lane leaned forward, his hands on Jared’s shoulders. “No one’s ever done anything like this. Not for me.”
“And they still haven’t, because I did it for me. I keep telling you.” Jared drew him closer again. “Maybe I did it a little bit for you.”
“Jared,” Lane said, but he didn’t seem to be able to say anything else.
“It’s okay, Lane. I’ll accept payment in blowjobs, tickets, threesomes, and coming all over your abs.” Jared kissed him, and Lane kissed him back more enthusiastically.
But it was Lane, so he stopped in the midst of enjoying something to make sure it was okay that he did, in fact, enjoy it. “You’re really serious. You’re done with hockey, and you’re going to move with me, wherever I go. Even if it’s Syracuse.”
“Even if it’s Syracuse.” Jared sighed, resting his forehead on Lane’s. “And I’m not done with hockey. I’m just done playing on a professional-level team.”
“I’ll miss watching you fight,” Lane said, starting to go tense for reasons other than unhappiness. “I really liked that.”
“I have a whole section on hockeyfights.com you can watch.” Jared kissed him again. “And I’m not amputating my legs at the knees. I can still skate.”
“You couldn’t keep up with me when you weren’t retired, old man.” Lane started working at Jared’s jeans. “On the ice or off it.”
Jared groaned, but there was a moan in there too. “If you want your dick sucked anytime soon, go back to telling me how great I am at things.”
“You’re great at things, Jared.” Lane nipped at his ear. “And hey. Now that you’re retired and can sleep even more than you did before, you should be able to keep up better and fuck me more often.”
“They say the secret to retirement is having hobbies,” Jared agreed and kissed him.
He forgot all about the present he’d bought for Lane, and Lane’s agent called the next morning, before Jared could give it to him.
It turned out that Lane did know how to tie a Windsor knot. “I’ve seen pictures on the NHL website. Guys wear suits, so I learned how.” He was very careful about tying it, his long fingers dexterously working the fabric in a way that made Jared really hot.
Jared insisted that Lane take his truck to his meeting, since he had air-conditioning. And then he went back to sleep and dreamed about snow and a fireplace they could actually use, and Lane naked beneath him, in front of it.
There was also something in there about supermodels, he was pretty sure.
Chapter 10
When he first got an agent, Lane was sort of afraid of him.
His name was Curtis Simpson, and Lane was convinced that if he said something stupid, he’d get dropped and end up playing hockey on a team with a ridiculous name in the middle of nowhere, in the hinterlands of the hockey-appreciating world and....
Hey. Wait a minute.
He’d talked to Simpson a few times during the season, and he always felt like he was supposed to have something important to share with him but didn’t know what it was.
He felt that way talking to a lot of people actually.
Curtis had always been nice to him, but he didn’t look at Lane when he talked and he also laughed in the middle of words, which was weird. Lane was expecting Curtis to be on the phone, so when he walked into the office where he was meeting Coach Spencer, he was actually surprised to see him standing there.
Lane was glad he’d taken Jared’s truck and wasn’t covered in sweat. “Oh. Hi. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Curtis shook his hand and said, “Yes. Well, it’s an exciting day, Lane! Of course I want to be here to share it with you.”
He only laughed once in there, during the word “share.” Lane didn’t realize that getting his client onto an AHL team in Syracuse was that big of a deal, but maybe it was a slow month.
Lane didn’t notice the other man in the room until Curtis introduced him to Lane. Joshua Cook, whoever he was, had a nice smile and was wearing jeans with a sports coat. Lane envied him immediately, and he wasn’t sure if they said who the guy was, but he figured he was someone with the Crunch, maybe.
Good. Maybe he could tell Lane what a Crunch was.
Coach Spencer gestured to a chair. “Lane, I want to tell you that I’ve enjoyed having you on the team this year. I had some reservations about you, probably because you didn’t know how to keep your mouth shut, and then couldn’t seem to open it again.”
Lane flashed a grin at him. “I’ve heard that from other people. But thanks for making me figure it out. I guess hockey is more than just pucks and things.”
Spence gave Curtis a sympathetic look. “Please tell me you’ve got some clients who will give better sound bites than this one?”
Curtis cleared his throat. “They’re all hockey players. So probably not.” He laughed, and at least this time, it wasn’t smooshed in the middle of a word.
“Anyway Lane, I’d love to have you on the team another year, but even someone as oblivious as you can probably tell that you’re not coming back this season.”
He’d sort of figured, but it was still bittersweet to hear it. Also he had no idea what to say. “Thank you” sounded mean, but “I wish I’d be there” was maybe not good for his career. So he floundered around and, in the end, just coughed.
No one expects me to be good at talking. He could cough, though.
He missed what the Coach said and had to say, “I’m sorry, what?” Because it sounded a lot like—
“I said, you’ve been traded, Lane.”
“But you can’t trade me,” Lane informed him. “Tampa has my rights, so I thought...?”
“Yes, Lane,” Coach Spence said, sighing. “They do. And they traded you. That’s why your agent is here and Mr. Cook.”
“The guys from Tampa wanted you to know, Lane, it wasn’t that they didn’t appreciate what a good season you had. They did and they were impressed. But they need a bit more depth in other areas, and they were hopeful that you’d get to see actual playing time in the majors if you were given the opportunity.”
“They need a fucking goalie,” Coach Spencer muttered.
Lane was glad to hear that. It was nice to know he wasn’t being traded because he was a failure. This was part of it, and he knew that. His first trade.
“We’ve written up a contract for you,” Cook said, taking Lane’s attention. “And we hope you’ll be pleased. Curtis here has lo
oked it over and thinks you’ll be happy. But of course, we want to know what you think. We’re excited about the potential of having you with us. And let me say, Lane, I was down here for the last game of the conference finals, doing some scouting. I know that game didn’t go like you wanted, but I was really impressed with how you handled yourself and your team after that loss. It showed you had a lot of character, and that’s why I suggested we take a look at you and see if the Bolts might be willing to trade.”
Wait, someone had wanted him and made a trade for him? Wow. That was crazy. And if he was hearing them right, he’d impressed them by... losing?
Who said Lane didn’t have any hockey sense? He was so impressed with himself, he wasn’t really paying attention to the contract except to glance down at it when they handed it to him.
It was nice, the paper was crisp and clean—white with a bright blue maple leaf on it. And they were saying something about when he should go to training camp. Lane looked up to make sure he was paying attention. It would probably be good not to admit he didn’t know where the hell he’d been traded to and ask if they’d repeat it for him.
Wait.
Lane looked down at the papers he was holding. White, crisp with a blue maple—no.
There was no way. The paper was shaking, which was really weird. Lane would worry about that in a minute because no. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. “Wait, you’re saying I’ve been traded to—” He tried, but the words wouldn’t come out, so he just made a noise and waved the paper.
“To the Maple Leafs,” Josh Cook said, smiling. “It’s great when I can tell local boys they get to play for the hometown team. You’re not one of those Wings fans that pop up in Ontario every now and then, are you?”
Lane shook his head. He couldn’t speak. He just looked down at the paper and saw his name, the Leafs logo and On behalf of the Maple Leaf organization, we would like to invite you to attend this year’s training camp....
“I can assure you with about 99 percent certainty that you’ll be with the Marlies to start the season. But if you read that contract, you’ll see it’s a two-way deal, and I’ve been told that it’s all right to tell you, Lane, that it’s likely you’re going to see some ice time for a game or two this season.”