Breakaway (The Rule Book Collection) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Playlist

  About the Author

  Other Books by A.M. Johnson

  Copyright © 2017 by A.M. Johnson

  Except the original material written by the author, all songs, and song titles contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders. The author concedes to the trademarked status and trademark owners of the products and franchises mentioned in this fiction novel and recognizes that they have been used without permission. The use and publication of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Editing and Formatting by Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting

  Proofreading by Payne Proofing

  Cover Design is Bex Harper Designs

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Playlist

  About the Author

  Other Books by A.M. Johnson

  To those who dream… find what gives you passion, light that match and ignite your soul.

  For Kathleen

  Head Coach Extraordinaire.

  “Risk something, or forever sit with your dreams.”

  Herb Brooks

  Breakaway

  (Ice hockey)

  Definition: When an offensive player has no defensive players between himself and the goalie, therefore, giving him a chance to skate and shoot the puck at will. Usually, a lapse in the opposing team’s defense.

  The familiar sounds of the game, the whistle, the roaring crowd, the jeers, they should’ve been enough to haul my ass out of this bar. But I kept my nose down and my eyes on the half-empty pint of beer as the commentators tore us apart from the safety of the big screen television hanging to the left of where I sat. Their perfect run-down of our epic fuck-up was almost verbatim, as if Coach sent them a script of how he chewed us out in the locker room while we watched tonight’s game tape. Home game. Opening night. We’d had our asses handed to us. Four to one. At least I made that goal. At least I had that.

  The rich flavor of the beer did nothing to cover the bitter taste of this loss on my tongue. I should’ve gone home. It was what I had planned on doing. We were leaving in two days for a stretch of road games, and I needed to regroup—the whole team needed to regroup—but despite Coach’s threats, the guys had gone to Channelside, as usual. Partying in numbers generally took the edge off. Girls and booze, anything to drown their sorrows after the disaster we couldn’t even really call a game. The thought of going home, alone, lying in my bed, staring at the damn ceiling, trying to figure out how everything had gone to shit tonight was depressing. Though I’d rather suffer in silence, torture myself until I ran every play, every mistake through my head at least five hundred times, I preferred to do it at Mavericks. The small, also my favorite, sports bar on the other side of town. It was closer to where I lived and was always filled with these private college kids too drunk or hopped up on football to give a fuck about hockey. About the fucking letdown of an opener we’d served up.

  I drained my beer and stood, dropping a twenty on the bar. Danny gave me a sad smile as I shoved my wallet into my back pocket.

  “Don’t beat yourself up too much, Melo. You were the only one who showed up to play tonight.”

  I tried to hide the irritation in my voice but failed miserably. “Nah, man. They just found better holes.”

  “Your D-men… were they sleeping?” Danny’s chuckle reminded me how much he loved to talk shit, especially after we’d lost. He was a Dallas fan. Maybe he should move his ass back to Dallas.

  “Don’t poke the bear. Not tonight.” I gave him a half-hearted smirk.

  He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “It’s the new guy on your line, you guys played like you’re fighting against each other. He hogged the puck like he had something to prove.”

  I exhaled a long breath. Everything that happens on the ice stays in the locker room. It was my rule. It was the only way I’d ever been able to co-exist. NHL star and real life. They couldn’t blend, and Danny was screwing that up. Even if he was right, I didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Maybe you can get a job with those idiots since you have so much to say.” I nodded my chin to the television blaring ESPN. “Turn that shit off and put some music on. It’s midnight, people want to party, not listen to old dudes talk about how they could’ve done it better back in the day.”

  “No way!” The excited voice had my shoulders sagging. “Mark. Mark Carmelo? Holy shit, bro, it’s—”

  “Keep it down,” Danny barked in a harsh whisper and the kid paled.

  I chuckled to myself. The kid—he was probably twenty-one or twenty-two—not much younger than me. I was twenty-six, but I felt like I was going on thirty-six. My bones ached more than they should. My whole body did.

  “Oh my God, I’m sorry, man, but… it’s you.”

  “It’s me.” I held out my hand and he took it eagerly.

  My smile was sincere as I watched his eyes light with that fire I loved. Our fans were fucking spectacular. I was lucky. Blessed to be able to do what I do. My father st
rapped skates to my feet the minute I could walk. Hockey, cider, and Monday night football were what my dad had touted as his “religious practices.” Growing up in the small town of Redding, just a car ride away from Manchester, New Hampshire, hockey was the culture. My father played and his father played and his father’s father played, basically, my blood was made of ice and fury, and the moment my blades hit the rink, I felt the call.

  “You were second round draft pick, didn’t even get to graduate from The University of Maine before they scooped you up. Best center the college had seen in years. First of your family to play for the NHL.” The kid rattled off my life like it was a homework assignment, his eyes going wide. “Fuck, dude, you must get laid constantly.”

  A real laugh erupted past my lips. It lifted the weight, the feeling I’d been harboring since I’d left the locker room. I loved hockey. That ice in my veins, it was what I lived for. I loved that unique cold smell of the arena, that shiver that trickled down my spine as I made my way down the chute, scented with sweat and anticipation, to the rink. I loved this damn kid and his enthusiasm for the game. It was why I’d stopped partying with my teammates. It was why I’d had to find my way out of the clouds and back to the ice.

  Hockey was my dream and I was living it.

  “I’m saving myself for marriage.” I joked and dropped the kid’s hand with a laugh.

  Danny’s raised brows did little to stifle my laugh. I was who I was, and I didn’t hide it. I wasn’t into plastic chicks who only wanted me because of my NHL contract. They could pretend all damn day they loved the game, loved my talent, loved the “man,” but in the end, I saw right through it. Their eyes only held hunger. They were hungry, thirsty for my money, my apartment, and my dick, regardless of who I was, or what I had to offer. I figured that out pretty fast my rookie year and swore off puck bunnies for life. My teammates used to let me get away with it when I was with Mia, but we’d split two years ago, and the fact I was single and not eating up all that attention, all that pussy being thrown at me, had the rumor mill churning. I never paid it any mind. The media, and their theories, didn’t matter one fucking bit to me once I stepped off the ice. After how they treated me when Mia and I split… if it wasn’t for my coach and the PR department breathing down my neck, I’d never do another interview ever again.

  The fan’s name was Kyle, and after I signed his wallet, and every stray piece of paper he could find in his pocket, he finally let me be. Danny’s scowl and threat that he’d kick him out if he didn’t lay off might’ve helped. I was grateful his friends had kept to themselves in the back of the bar. It was then, as I turned to watch him leave, that I saw her.

  “Holy fuck,” I whispered to myself.

  Apparently not quietly enough because Danny chimed in, “What?”

  I ignored him and took a few tentative steps away from the bar to get a better look. She was surrounded by guys in stiff white button-downs and loosened ties. Her long, thick, chocolate-colored hair fell around her heart-shaped face and framed her full, rose-colored cheeks.

  It was definitely her. Right?

  My eyes remembered those bashful lips, those pert and pink fucking lips I’d wanted to consume the first night I’d met her, as they parted in a smile. It was barbaric, but I was jealous of the guy who’d just made her laugh. She was all shy smiles and looked almost the same as when I’d met her around this same time last year. Except for the dark-rimmed glasses and silky office-ready shirt, she looked exactly the same. It was sick how my body reacted, how my legs dared to move me even closer, how my heart thundered just as fast as it would’ve on the ice when I was about to score.

  Holy God, it was her.

  My feet wouldn’t stop moving, no matter how hard I tried to find the will to make them. Danny’s confused questions became white noise as I neared the table. Her head was down, her eyes, those funny-colored brown eyes with that burst of blue around the pupil, were focused, intent as her fingers trailed over the screen of her phone. It was irrational, but the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention, the memory of what her hand felt like in mine, the way she’d smelled like fruit-scented soap and summer, all of it came rushing back, and the need to taste her made my mouth water. I didn’t get the chance last time, and as if a year had never passed, I felt her skin, the heat of her cheek just like it had scorched my palm and never healed.

  She was right there, sitting at a table with three men, one of them could be her husband, and yet, each step I took came quicker than the last.

  “Stevie?” Her name dripped from my mouth in a hungry question.

  It was an out-of-body experience. Her name on my lips felt both foreign and familiar at the same time. Why was she in town? Had things changed since the last time I’d seen her? I swallowed past the fear and the narrowing of my throat. When her eyes met mine and widened, sparking with the flame I’d remembered so clearly, a big, victorious smile spread across my face.

  You’d think I’d just scored on a breakaway.

  “M-Mark?” She fumbled and her left hand raised to her full lips in shock.

  The movement guided my gaze to her hand. Her left finger was bare of the diamond that used to adorn it. She could’ve taken it off for the night. Maybe it didn’t fit, or was being cleaned. I could’ve told myself this shit all night, and it wouldn’t have stopped the progression of my steps, or the drum in my heart and how it consumed me with every beat. The adrenaline spiked in my chest, like it did in the rink when that lamp lit, when I skated faster, harder, and changed the game for the night with a winning goal. She had my heart sprinting, my muscles celebrating, and the other guys at the table, they were insignificant. There was nothing stopping me this time, no one defending, no obstacles between me and her. When her shock faded and her eyes fell to my mouth, I knew I had an open shot.

  One Year Earlier

  “Can you have liquor after drinking wine? Or should you have liquor first?” I asked.

  “Liquor before beer—”

  “I know the saying, Reagan, but I don’t think you can count wine as beer.”

  She smiled and raised her shot of Jack as she cheered, “You’ll be hungover regardless. So who cares?”

  She tipped the glass to her lips, and I watched in awe as the dark amber liquid disappeared in less than one second flat. My laugh, the wine, the heavy bass of the bar, made me smile. “I’m glad I came.”

  She set the shot glass down and leaned across the table with a serious gleam lighting her dark green eyes. “It’s been three years, punk, I don’t care that Ben thinks he’s too busy to come home and visit, I expected more from you.”

  The guilt Reagan was too good at brandishing sliced through my armor. I’d tried to keep everything wrapped up tight since I’d landed less than twenty-four hours ago, but being back home, seeing Reagan with her pink hair, living life, breathing, with a pulse I envied—her little barb shattered through my weak exterior and tears filled my eyes.

  “Ben… Ben and I… I’m so lonely, Ray.”

  Her smile evaporated. “I can tell.”

  “You can?” I held her all-knowing stare.

  “He was never the one.”

  My breath came quick and fast as I tried, unsuccessfully, to dislodge the boulder in my throat. “He’s been good to me.”

  “He’s lucky to have you,” she said with a familiar edge as she raised her hand, waving to the server. She held up two fingers and the server nodded. “What’s going on?”

  I felt so selfish even thinking about leaving Ben. He made good money. He didn’t hit me. He didn’t cheat. He helped clean the house, and really, most women I knew told me their husbands didn’t even put the seat down after they peed. Ben always did. He was neat and orderly…and utterly lifeless. Reagan had always thought he was controlling, but I’d felt so removed for so long, I hadn’t been able to see it.

  “I feel like I’m losing who I am… who I was. Who we used to be.”

  “You married the captain of the chess team, Stev
ie. What did you expect?”

  “That was high school.” I rolled my eyes and took a deep sip of my Cabernet.

  “Yeah, I know, and you’ve never been with anyone but him.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  She pursed her lips. “Then what’s the problem? Why are you here? And more importantly, why isn’t Ben?”

  “He had a really—”

  “Important thing, yeah, you said that already.”

  The server dropped two shot glasses of whiskey at our table with a smile and hurried to the back with an almost full tray of booze. There were about twenty guys in the other room being rowdy as hell. The music, combined with the banter coming from the tables around us was loud enough on its own, but those guys must’ve been celebrating something with the amount of alcohol I’d watched the servers haul back there tonight.

  “Be straight with me, Stevie. You two have been married for what, thirteen years? You used to be attached at the hip, why wouldn’t he come home with you? You guys haven’t visited since—”

  “Gary’s funeral.”

  Reagan’s eyes glassed over, and she brought the fresh shot of whiskey to her lips, but not before pushing the other one in front of me. “To Gary,” she said in a strained voice, and we both gulped down the fire water.

  Gary was a high school friend of ours who passed away three years ago in a motorcycle crash. No wife. No kids. He’d preferred things that way, but I still felt terrible for his parents. He’d been their only child. Gary’s name sucked the wind out of me and pulled my life into perspective. I had a husband who loved me. Well, used to love me. Well, loved who he thought I could’ve been. But, I had my health. I was breathing. I had a nice house in Richmond, Virginia. A great job as a CPA. Even if it was for Ben’s company, and maybe I was more like his assistant, I was still my own person. I did my own thing.

  My own thing.

  I didn’t really know what that was anymore.

  I eyed Reagan’s pink hair and twirled a boring brown wave of my own through my fingers, evading her original question.