Breakaway (21 page)

The Renegades and the Sea Storm were going to the conference finals, which was amazing and awesome and meant that the winner would play for the Kelly Cup in the championship. Jared wanted that more than he’d wanted anything in his entire professional career, and that was something else he’d figured out about himself. He’d been afraid of it—the emotional highs and lows of completely immersing himself in the competition of his sport—and if he regretted anything, it was that it took him so long to do it. It was his Stanley Cup. No. It was his Kelly Cup. He wasn’t ashamed to play in this league and fight for its prize. He just wanted to
win
.

He and Lane decided they couldn’t see each other during their playoff series, for a variety of reasons, including that their respective teammates would
kill them
. They kept that promise for all of two games. But then they ran into each other after the game, found a hidden spot in the arena where they could make out, and then Lane sucked him off, and Jared gave him a hand job.

The series was tied 2-2 after the first four games. When the Storm made it three games to two, the Renegades had a chance to avenge their end-of-season loss and keep the Storm from advancing to the finals on Renegade’s home ice in Savannah. The game was high-spirited, but the teams were too focused for there to be much extracurricular activity.

The Renegades won the game and sent the series back to Jacksonville for the most electrifying and terrifying of all playoff games—a game seven.

Jared checked his stats on the database website because he knew he’d played in a few game sevens in his career, but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever won one. And he almost wished he hadn’t checked, because he’d lost every single one he’d ever played in.
Lesson learned. Never read your stats. Got it.

The overwhelming majority of game sevens were won by the home team. This one would be played in Jacksonville, but Jared didn’t care. They were going to win, and he knew it. He would make sure of it. Jared was a fighter, and as he’d learned the past season, that didn’t always mean using your fists.

Lane scored a goal two minutes into the game and assisted on another not twenty seconds later. Tempers flared at the end of the first period, with the rowdy Renegades earning a penalty. They watched in frustration as the Storm netted another goal, to earn them a 3-0 lead when the buzzer sounded to end the period.

Jared, who wasn’t one for making speeches, stood up after the first intermission and made up a bunch of statistics that he “read last night” on the hockey database website. He told them that was the most dangerous lead in hockey and the easiest deficit for a team to come back from, because the other team sat back and coasted on their lead. He told them that he’d played for more teams than he could count, several who didn’t exist anymore, and they were the best team he’d ever been on, and he wasn’t ready for their season to be over.

By the end of the second period, the Renegades had tied the game at three goals each. Jared’s second intermission speech was simply, “I told you so. Let’s go win.”

The third period started off with a goal by Leblanc, causing jubilation on the bench for the Renegades—for all of two seconds—until Lane tied the game again at four.

Riley made a breathtaking save at one end, and at the other, Vladimir Zubarev stopped a shot that was so dead-on, the Sea Storm players were already celebrating at the bench. It was a game that highlighted the best things about their sport—the passion and athleticism, the quickness, the rapid momentum switches, and the zeal felt by every single fan, player, and coach in the building. When the clock ended and the game was—of course—tied, Lane skated by him and gave him that cocky grin of his, and
then he winked
.

Jared just smiled at him.
I don’t think so, Courtnall. I don’t fucking think so.

He and Lane ended up across from each other on the face-off line, which made Jared wonder if someone had told both coaches that he and Lane were sleeping together.

“Gonna add this to your ‘game sevens you’ve played and lost’ stats, old man,” Lane chirped, eyes like ice.

“You keep being a brat, and I’ll shut that trap of yours with a puck,” Jared shot back, meeting his gaze. He was trying to make that sound mean, but it just came out
gleeful
. Ah, well. Hockey players were a strange breed.

They passed each other on the way to their respective benches. Lane gave him his “this is so much fun” grin that he sometimes gave Jared in bed, and Jared grinned back at him. At the next shift, they went back to trash talking. It was
great
.

“I thought you two had a thing,” Aaron said when they sat back down on the bench after their shift. Jared had never said anything to him about that, so someone else must have.

“Right now the only thing I have is a trip to the Cup finals, and he’s in my way.” Jared shrugged, breathing hard. He squirted water into his mouth from his water bottle.

Jared gave everything he had during overtime, and then some. Since it was a playoff game, there’d be no shootout. The game would progress until someone scored a goal. That would be the team going to the finals, and—goddamn it—it was going to be Jared’s team.

Fifteen minutes into the first overtime period, Jared found himself racing alongside Lane toward the goal, and Lane had a look on his face that Jared knew way too well—the one that always ended in a goal light or an orgasm. As Lane pulled back to shoot, Jared saw the Renegades’ goalie screened by one of the Sea Storm’s defensemen. And he knew, he
knew
Zub didn’t have a chance in hell at saving that puck.

When Lane sent the puck toward a practically empty net and a certain, game-winning goal… Jared cheerfully threw himself in front of the puck and caught it in his glove.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and Lane looked at him in utter shock, clearly not understanding why the goal light hadn’t gone off. Jared opened his glove, dropped the puck, and skated by him, saying, “Know what that’s called, kid? Winning. Nothing else.
Saint Patrick sure had it right.” He laughed as Lane shouted every name in the book at him on his way to the bench.

Jared was practically mobbed by his teammates as he returned to their bench.
You’ll be showing that one to your grandkids. Or Zoe’s. Someone’s kids, anyway. And you’re going to remember, every single time you watch it, that it was me that stopped your shot. And you can turn around and yell at me, because I’m going to be there with you. Even if you don’t know it yet.

Two minutes later, Darcy Leblanc stole the puck and went racing like a madman down the ice. Jared heard his teammates holding their breath, heard the entire
building
hold its breath, but he knew what was going to happen before the goal light went off and the Renegades scrambled over their bench to celebrate their win.

In the handshake line after the game, Lane shook his hand and hugged him briefly, like he did all of the other players. “Nice stop, Patrick Roy,” he said, and Jared knew how disappointed he was. He’d lost plenty of times in his life, but that only made it feel even better when he finally won.

Jared didn’t say what he thought to Lane.
One day you’ll win the Stanley Cup in a game seven. Probably in sudden death overtime, because you will never, ever make anything in my life easy, and I’ll probably have a heart attack watching the game.

“This was the conference championships, not the Kelly Cup finals,” the Renegades coach said to his team, but he smiled widely and waved his hand. “But it’s okay if you want to go party like you just won it, because I sure as fuck am.”

Jared showered and changed, got his gear packed, and left the building to go meet his team to celebrate. There wouldn’t be any members of the Sea Storm partying with them this time, which Jared understood. He’d text Lane later, and they’d figure out a time to meet before the finals started. The finals that Jared would be playing in.
Holy fuck.

“Hey,” he heard a voice say, and saw Lane waiting in the shadows. He looked exactly how Jared would if it had been his team that lost—disappointed and still a little angry, but with the satisfied air of an athlete who’d just competed and played hard. He’d lost, but that was part of it. And someone who was going to be an NHL star someday should probably figure it out sooner rather than later.

“Hey,” Jared said, smiling a little. “Good game.”

“For your next Christmas present, I’m not buying you any more books about goalies. You just get ideas.” Lane hit him on the shoulder. “That was from Zoe. She told me to boo you. She said to me, ‘Lane, you never told me that being a sports fan could hurt so bad.’”

Jared smiled. “Tell her I’m not at all sorry, but I get it.”

Lane nodded. “I can’t believe you stopped that shot. Do you know how many cockblock jokes I’ve
already
had to hear?”

Jared laughed. They were going to be fine. “Still not sorry.”

“Yeah, well. You shouldn’t be.” Lane moved in and kissed him, then rested his forehead against Jared’s. “Tomorrow I’ll be proud of you. Tomorrow I’ll get a goddamn Shore jersey and wear it to your games.”

“No. You won’t,” Jared told him. Lane smelled clean and showered, and Jared’s adrenaline was through the roof. He wanted to take Lane somewhere and fuck him senseless.

“No,” Lane agreed. He wasn’t smiling, but Jared had a feeling he was as close as he was going to get. “Go on and celebrate, dickhead. I’ll go clean out my goddamn locker.”

“So dramatic.” Jared kissed him again. “Hey, Lane?”

“It’s too soon for whatever you’re going to say, Shore.”

“No,” Jared said, serious for a moment. “It isn’t. It’s past time actually. But I love you, and tomorrow, do you think you can find us a place we can be alone for a few hours?”

“If you think you’re getting laid after that glove stop, you are so wrong,” Lane said, all heated and intense, even though they both knew he didn’t mean it. “Yeah. That’s fine. I should be less furious with myself by then.” Lane looked momentarily startled. “With you, I mean. Less furious with
you
.”

“Being a good player and a good captain means more than winning, you know. It means knowing how to lose. And it means letting your team see you’re upset you lost. Because trust me, Lane, this is a different sport entirely when you don’t let yourself get excited about winning.”

“Can you spare me the veteran hockey player wisdom?” Lane leaned in again.

“Sure. But let me tell you something, pipsqueak.” At Lane’s angry glare, Jared kissed him again. “You weren’t on my team, and you weren’t my captain, but you taught me how to love this game again. You showed me it was okay to think more of myself than I did and believe I could do more than throw my fists around. You gave me back something I didn’t even realize that I’d lost.”

“You’re saying it’s my fault you made a sick glove save on me?”

“It was pretty sick. Wasn’t it?” Jared agreed, unable to help himself. But he smiled at Lane and kissed him. “Remember how you said you’d wait to hear my story? I want to tell you, because I’m ready now. I thought I was before, but I think I needed this to really be
ready
.”

“Fuck you,” Lane muttered, but he nodded, and Jared saw a little hint of a smile. “Go celebrate your win with your bunch of thug teammates. Also, tell Aaron it’ll be a cold day in hell before my pretty boy mouth sucks his dick. I might give him a hand job, though. If he was drunk and you were into it. He looks kinda like a werewolf.”

“Will do.” Jared stopped and watched as Lane squared his shoulders like a defeated general. “But I’d stay, you know. If you wanted me to.”

Lane looked like he was considering it, but then he shook his head. “Go have fun, Shore. That’s what I’d be doing, if it were me. I’d have a lot of fun. I’d maybe have three, four Dr Peppers.” Lane had forsworn alcohol after his birthday, upon discovering that hangovers were awful.

The joke meant they would be fine, though he hadn’t really thought they would be anything else. A game wasn’t going to tear them apart. Jared kissed him one more time and then said, “I’m going to tell you this story, and you know what you’re going to do after that?”

“Cry?” Lane looked at him askance. “It’s that kind of story. Isn’t it.”

“It used to be, but I don’t think it is anymore.” Jared leaned in and pitched his voice low, right against Lane’s ear. “You’re going to fuck me.”

With that, he went to join his team, to celebrate and get drunk and watch that save of his over and over and celebrate being the hero.

BY TWO
the next afternoon, Lane was mostly over the Sea Storm’s loss the night before.

A few of his teammates texted him apologies for saying things about Jared, both before and after the game. Lane just sent back
believe me i don’t mind i’m using some of them later
, and he went for a nice, long run on the beach. Then he asked Ryan if he could have the apartment for a few hours.

“Sure. I’m going to Zoe’s anyway. Her house is so
clean
.” Ryan’s eyes were wide. Of all of Lane’s teammates, Ryan had gotten over the loss the fastest. By ten that morning he was wondering if they could get tickets to the finals.

Later Lane stopped by Riley’s to check on his friend and make sure he was all right, even though the loss wasn’t really Riley’s fault.

“I couldn’t get there fast enough to throw myself in front of the puck like Jared did,” Lane told him. Riley seemed all right. A little quiet, but not too upset. Then again, considering Ethan Kennedy was Riley’s roommate, even Ryan seemed quiet by comparison.

Lane hadn’t cared for Ethan at all when he first showed up. He thought he would probably be the one to have a very vocal problem with Lane being gay. As it turned out, Lane had completely misjudged the cheerful, tattooed Ethan. Not only did Ethan have no problem with it whatsoever, he promised to pummel anyone who did.

If any of his teammates had a problem with Lane’s sexuality, they weren’t saying anything about it. But they did have a habit of stopping and mumbling
sorry
at Lane and going uncomfortably quiet if they used the phrase “cocksucker.” Lane’s captain legacy would be that he made his whole team as awkward as he was. But it was Ethan Kennedy who put a stop to all that by sauntering up to Lane in the locker room after practice and saying, “So, I hear we can’t say cocksucker around you because you suck cock. That’s dumb. Not that you suck cock, ’cause blowjobs are cool and shit. But that’s an important word in my on-ice vocabulary, Courts.”