Breakaway (8 page)

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.

Well, mostly he didn’t. But he’d been kind of hard up for it, for a while.

“Lane…? That’s what thing?”

Oh. Right. “They weren’t happy things were going well for me. I mean, they were. But Zoe, I know my parents. They were happier meeting you than watching me score a hat trick and win a game. Or when I could take them to dinner for the first time and pay with money I’d earned
playing hockey
.”

“Well, I
am
pretty great,” she told him, deadpan. “But are you sure you’re not just…. I mean, I sat by them at the game, Lane.”

He smiled at her, but it didn’t feel like a smile at all. “Did they ask you a million questions, or watch me play?”

“Well, they…. I mean, they
watched
you obviously, but….” She sighed. “They were pretty curious. I just thought they were kind of awkward. You had to get it from somewhere.”

That made him laugh. “Yeah. Well, trust me. It wasn’t that. You know, I used to feel really bad about it. That I was… that I was gay,” he said. It was always easier, every time, as long as he was saying it to someone safe. “Like somehow that meant all the sacrifices and stuff they made for me, that it wasn’t worth it because I failed.”

“Failed? What exactly did you fail by being gay, Lane? Being straight? What the hell does that have to do with hockey?” Zoe started banging things around behind the bar. “You were drafted by the
NHL
. Isn’t that, like, the pinnacle of success if you’re a Canadian boy?”

“Pretty much. It’s that or join the Mounties.” He cleared his throat. “I was kidding about the Mounties.”

She still looked mad, and it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t at him. “So they can fuck off, then. I don’t think they made you sign a contract that said, ‘I, Lane Courtnall, promise to be straight if you nurture my God-given talent to be good with a stick.’”

Lane started giggling, mostly because he felt weird and embarrassed about what she was saying—but something else too. “Being good with a stick is the problem. Remember?”

She smacked her hand down on the bar. “No. It isn’t,” she snapped. “It’s how you
are
. So you’re good with a stick, and you’re
good with a stick
. So
what
? It makes me so goddamn angry, because my parents pulled this bullshit with me too. Like everything I’d ever done failed to erase my
sin
of loving a girl. They used to tell me they’d kick me out if I dyed my hair, got any piercings, or—God forbid—any tattoos. I told them I had a girlfriend my freshman year in college, and you know what? That’s why I got all these tattoos. Because it didn’t matter. I’d found the one sin that was worse, and somehow my body and who I chose to share it with was
offensive
to them. So why not mark it up?”

“And they’re hot,” he said, reaching down for the soda gun. He pressed a button and watched some clear, carbonated soda spray out.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He looked up at her. “Looking for the button that turns on your closed captioning, because your accent is really thick when you’re mad.”

Zoe’s green eyes were flashing in anger. She was all flushed, and her mouth was drawn into a straight line. Then her lips twitched, and she snorted and then started giggling. “Lane? I know we’ve known each other for basically less time than my dye job lasts, but you know what? You’re my best friend, too.”

“Even if I like guys?”

“Even if you’re as queer as a two dollar bill,” she assured him, still giggling. She was trying to get the soda gun away from him, but Lane was actually enjoying putting all of the different sodas into his glass, so he kept it from her. “Give me that back.”