Page 6 of Trouble in Love
“Yes, sir.” My Boy Scout salute switched to a middle finger the second his back was turned. The gesture was not appreciated by Coach Brown, who used his giant, calloused hand to slap the back of my head.
“Real mature, dickwad.”
“What?” I whined, proving his point.
“The GM isn’t happy, Luca, and Chris is right. I’ve covered you as much as I can. This is it. One more screw-up, and you’re done.”
Panic had my stomach lurching. I’d wanted to play for New York since I first picked up a skate. The prospect of a trade was sickening. “Look, I get that I’ve fucked up. But guys have done worse and had it swept under the rug for generations. Why am I getting raked over the coals?”
“Simple. You beat up your own teammate, and then there’s that pretty dimpled face of yours. Girls—” He paused, wincing slightly, “oh, and guys, since you’re into that—wanna fuck you, and hockey moms and dads want their little Johnny or Jenny togrow up and play like you. Because of that, sponsors want you and your pretty face to sell their crappy sweats. You might get paid millions, but you have a price to pay, too.”
Someone was making a little too much sense. “You sound like that Dr. Phil A-hole.”
“Yeah. Well, you sound like my twelve-year-old daughter.” The man I respected more than my father—which wasn’t hard—then turned and headed to the door. “We have no issue with your sexuality, Luca. But still, take Chris’s advice. Go to rehab, hell, take a damn vacation. Either way, get your ass out of the city and your head out of your ass.” He then gave me his trademark, I don’t wanna see your face anymore, hit the road whistle through his teeth, and stomped away, pausing when I called after him.
“Coach. Why have you gone to bat for me so much? I know I can play a bit, but–”
“I’d say you can play more than a bit, Luca. But your talent has nothing to do with it. You remind me of me, kid. And I think I’m fucking fantastic.”
“It was so good to see you again, and like I said, Coach, call me if you need anything. Anything at all.” Ana’s saccharine tone switched the second he was out of earshot. “Well,” she said, slamming the door, “you’re not bleeding, and no one called the police. That’s a good thing.” Anabela wrapped her arms around my shoulders. I melted into her embrace. No one could ground me like she did. Not even Clara.
“They want me to go to rehab, Ana.” Tensing, she pulled away and paced between the bed and the small wardrobe filled with crap she and Ma had brought in for me.
“Well, they can go fuck themselves because they are the ones who got you into this in the first place.”
“They,” I mocked, “are just trying to look after me. I’ve damaged their reputation as much as my own.”
“Boo-frickin-hoo. Please spare me the sob story. Let me get out my tiny violin.” Despite the misery I felt, a laugh burst from my throat. “Apart from Coach, they wouldn’t know a good idea if it jumped up and bit them on their ass. If I thought you needed rehab, you’d be there. And let’s not forget, they were the ones who had the stupid hide-the-bi idea and brought Clara, the soul destroyer, into your life. Are you sure it’s wise to trust their opinion?”
That was the problem. I did.
Putting Clara, and the sponsorships I could give a shit about aside, losing the camaraderie of my team was my biggest fear. I loved hockey. It was my life, even though light-hearted homophobic slurs were tossed around the locker room like candy. Dick sucker was the go-to insult. Whether I was into girls as much as guys, the latter would be what I was known for, and the thought of guys shunning me, thinking I was checking them out in the showers, made me sick.
They promised the whole circus would prevent that from happening. But here I was, giant clown shoes and all.
Ana’s eyes softened as she placed one of her always chilly hands over mine, forcing me to cease the absentminded tapping of my thigh. “Please don’t worry, Luca. I’m sure everything will be fine. I’m just so pissed off. It’s all good for them to protect their reputation and threaten you with corn shucking for the farm team, but we both know they’ll be more than happy to take their cut when you’re back kicking ass... and that is what’s going to happen. You will be back. You will play again, and the boys will still love you. Rory will make sure of it.”
Doubt was rife, but I clung to the glimmer of hope Ana’s faith inspired and scratched at the itchy scab forming over the stitches behind my ear. “Any other insights you’d like to share?”
“Yes,” she nodded, a cheeky grin spreading as she jutted her chin. “Doreen is a weirdo, Chris is an ass, and coach Malcolm McHotty should be sleeping with me.”
I tossed my head back and laughed, then winced when pain shot from my fresh wound down the back of my neck. “Hey, quit it with the funny stuff. I’m supposed to be pathetically depressed, remember? Also, what about Danny?”
“Who?”
“Ahh, Danny, your boyfriend?”
The same blush that so often graced my cheeks colored Ana’s as she bit the tip of her index finger. “Oops. Uhh… we had different needs, so I broke it off.”
“Did that need involve you sleeping with other people?”
“Yes. People like your coach. And his brother was pretty cute from memory, too. Now, let’s stop talking about me and my need for multiple orgasms and start planning. Rehab is out. You’re going on a VAY–HAB, baby.”
Luca
Four weeks later.
The all-too familiar flash of the paparazzi lit the way as I marched through JFK, head down, Ana’s arm protectively linking around mine as I grumbled. “I can’t believe they followed us inside, but I really can’t believe I let you talk me into going to Australia with my ex–whatever he is, and his future baby daddy. This is beyond desperate.”
