Breakaway

2. Pope

Chapter 2

Pope

“Pope!”

I pause just before taking my turn in the passing drill, moving to the side so Kirkland can take next. Today is a lighter practice, so Assistant Coach Jeffries is running it while Coach does whatever the hell he does when he’s not handing our asses to us on the ice. I search Coach out, finding him standing to the left with his elbows resting on top of the boards.

I quickly skate over to him. “Yeah, Coach?”

My heart thuds a song of chaos with every second he takes to answer. Is he cutting me? Can he even do that? Did I get pulled up? Did he notice—

“You’re stiff,” he grunts. Fuck. He noticed. “What’s wrong?”

We aren’t supposed to lie to Coach. Ever. It’s his number one rule. But telling half the truth isn’t lying, right? “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Sleep is vital for your recovery,” he chides. “You can’t play at this level and not sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, pretending like it’s that easy, even though it hasn’t been in over a decade. If I could sleep, I fucking would. But my brain is on strike and I can’t argue with it. It’s made picket signs. It’s dug a line in the sand. It’s created a fucking social media hashtag for support. I just have to wait for the insomnia to pass. At least it’s not the alternative, when my brain gets addicted to sleep and I feel like I’m drowning in exhaustion. Beggars can’t be choosers.

“Is sleeping an issue for you? You have to tell us if it is. We can’t help you if you’re not honest with us,” Coach says, his eyebrows bunched with concern. “Do you need help?”

Do you need help?

It’s such a loaded question. A slippery fucking slope. The doctor might just give me some melatonin or maybe a sleeping pill. Or he might ask questions. Dangerous questions.

“I’m good, sir. It was my fault that I didn’t sleep. I’ll make better choices in the future. I’m sorry.”

He eyes me, probably doing a scan with his bullshit detector. Good thing I’ve had years of practice. “Well, you’re gonna pull something skating like you are. Go hit the AT room.”

“I can finish practice, Coach.”

“No. You need to go and loosen up. I can’t have you injured.”

I grind my teeth together until the urge to argue passes. “Yes, sir.”

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the new AT. I don’t think you’ve had the chance yet, right?”

“Right.” I shift to the opening in the boards, exiting the ice with a straight face to avoid showing any anxiety—or worse, pouting.

I don’t really want to meet the AT. Or talk to the AT. In fact, when he was introduced to all of us yesterday, I didn’t even risk looking in his direction. I was damn lucky the last AT made it pretty clear he didn’t actually give a fuck about any of us. I’m not so lucky with this one. The guys are already raving about how cool and friendly the guy is, and friendly means caring. Friendly means being concerned and asking questions. Out of everyone in this building, everyone on this team, everyone on the staff, this new AT is the most likely to figure out my secret.

Suffice to say, I want absolutely nothing to do with him.

Coach waits for me outside the main room as I hurry inside to strip out of my gear. My gitch is drenched, my body having had to fight extra hard today. I decide to give myself a one-minute shower and switch to clean compressions and a cut-off. Then I pull my cap on backward, grab my phone and earbuds, and snag a Gatorade from the drink cart. Coach nods in approval when I appear before pushing off the wall and heading to the AT room.

Just before we enter, Coach gives me a smile that I can’t place. It sets me on edge. Why is he being so nice? Does he know? Can he see right through me? Am I about to walk into an ambush?

I smile back, nervously adjusting my cap the moment he looks away.

The AT room is empty of players since everyone is either on the ice or in the weight room, but there’s a single person in the far corner. He’s facing a shelving unit with a clipboard in his hands.

“Hayden,” Coach says, his voice a boom across the open space.

The man doesn’t startle, just placing the clipboard on the shelf he seemed to be investigating before turning to face us. Dressed in dark gray chinos and a waffle knit cream polo with an expensive watch on his wrist, he looks completely out of place. If he’s aware of that, his face doesn’t show it. His expression is relaxed, his smile confident and extraordinarily white when framed by all his brown skin.

“My apologies,” the man— Hayden, apparently —says in a startlingly deep voice. “I didn’t notice you there.”

“No problem. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“This is Ethan Pope, our first line center.” Coach steps out of the way, fully revealing me to the man across from us. “Pope got a bad night’s sleep.”

For the first time, the man’s eyes fall on me. His expression remains neutral, but his gaze turns calculating. I fight the urge to fidget. There’s something about him—maybe how dangerously dark his eyes are, or his impeccable appearance, or the fact that he has the best chance in this whole arena to figure out my secret—that makes my heart race.

I don’t like it.

I don’t like it at all.

“Let me guess,” he begins, his voice almost deeper somehow now that he’s addressing me. Or is that just my paranoia? “Sore muscles today? Playing stiff?”

I refuse to be impressed, giving him nothing but a nod.

“Let’s fix that.” He glances at Coach. “I’ve got him from here.”

“Thank you,” Coach says with a wink. “I need his ass at its best. Keep it that way for me this season and you’ll be my new favorite person.”

Hayden rolls his eyes. It’s slightly unnerving to see, considering the way the rest of the staff and the players treat Coach with absolute respect. The last AT definitely didn’t smile or joke or roll his eyes. Then again, that asshole was… well, an asshole.

“I already am your favorite person,” Hayden says with surprising confidence.

“Yeah, yeah.” Coach turns to me, the playfulness from a moment ago now lost in his expression. “Do as he says, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

With a nod and a clap to my shoulder, Coach leaves us. Hayden doesn’t immediately give me direction. Instead, he openly ogles me, most likely assessing my health from appearance alone. I curl my hands into fists at my sides and breathe through the surge of anxiety in my chest. He can’t tell, I remind myself. There’s no possible way he can tell.

“So,” Hayden finally says, breaking the tension. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

My stomach drops. How’d he figure it out? Did I give myself away when I was distracted? Did Coach—

“I’m starting you out in an ice bath.”

Oh .

Not as bad as what I feared, but still not great. I grunt in acknowledgement, already removing my hat so I can take off my cut-off. He chuckles, apparently finding my displeasure amusing. Someone once told me that a requirement to be an athletic trainer is being a sadist. I hadn’t believed them then, but maybe Hayden will be who convinces me.

“I’ll make you some hot tea,” he offers, seeming to soften regarding my plight. Okay, maybe he’s not so bad. “Then after the ice, I’ll have you stretch while you sip on tart cherry juice.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I hate that stuff.”

“Funny. I don’t recall asking.” He points to the nearest ice bath. “In.”

I allow myself to glare at his back, unimpressed that his cruelty has returned.

“Get moving, Pope,” he says over his shoulder, already making me the tea I didn’t ask for. “I’ll set the timer once you’re neck deep.”

Okay, this asshole is officially on my shitlist.

I start my playlist dedicated to ice baths before sliding my earbuds in and setting my phone and shirt in a cubby. The bath he pointed out for me to use is the one nearest to him. I take the farthest one instead, just to be a shithead. One thing I’ve learned as a depressed, anxious mess of a human being is that the petty little things are sometimes what make life worth living.

Ice baths are a mind-over-matter thing. With the first song of my playlist already getting my blood pumping, I step into the tub. The water is so cold it’s nearly hot. I grit my teeth and push further in, refusing to give Hayden the satisfaction of seeing me react. If other players were in here, we’d all be hooting and groaning and whining like babies, but with just me and him, it feels too vulnerable.

I feel too vulnerable.

I underline and highlight the mental note in my head to avoid this man in the future, wanting to make damn sure I don’t forget.

One of my earbuds is pulled free. I jolt, worried it fell in the water, but then the other disappears and I realize they’ve been taken out.

“Hey,” I growl. “Put those back.”

“No.” He sets them to the side and offers me the mug currently steaming in his hands. I want very badly to refuse, but my teeth are already chattering from the cold.

I take the damn tea.

He nods, looking pleased but not surprised that I obeyed. Then he tilts his head, narrows his eyes, and asks, “Why didn’t you sleep?”

My stomach swoops. I turn away from him, bringing the hot tea to my lips. It’s well-made, with a hint of lemon if I’m not mistaken. It burns my tongue, but it’s a noble sacrifice as the liquid floods my body with some much needed warmth.

He doesn’t drop the subject. “Why didn’t you sleep last night, Pope? Is something in pain? Are you feeling alright? Is it a personal problem?”

“Personal problems are kind of personal, wouldn’t you say?” I snap.

Which is my mistake.

“So, it is a personal problem.” He doesn’t wait for me to argue or agree. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

I turn back to glare at him. I guess it doesn’t matter that he took away my music. He has my blood pumping just fine on his own. “With all due respect, I’m not telling you anything. You’re a stranger.”

“Not anymore. Now? Now, I’m your best fucking friend, Pope. This body of yours is what will get you pulled up to the big show. It’s my job to take care of it. But you have to let me .”

It sounds so fucking easy when he says it like that.

There’s nothing easy about it.

“We’re a team now,” he says, not letting it drop. He’s speaking so softly that I can’t stop myself from looking at him again. His brown eyes are big and dark and earnest as fuck. “You and me, Pope. Just us. Let me help you.”

My throat feels achy and on fire when I say, “You’ll tell Coach.”

“Is there something to tell him?” he asks, his eyebrows pinching together with worry just like Coach’s.

That worry has me immediately shutting down. It doesn’t help that he didn’t deny it, either. If I tell him a single thing, he’ll tell Coach. I know he will. “No. I’m fine.”

“Mm.” It’s clear he doesn’t believe me. I’m usually much better at lying than this, but he’s somehow managed to tangle me up. It makes me hate him even more. “The first game is coming up. Are you nervous?”

I latch onto the excuse, relieved to have one. I maintain my reluctance though to make sure he doesn’t catch on that I’m lying. “I don’t know. I mean… I guess. Maybe.”

“First line center. You must be very good.”

It surprises me for a moment—he doesn’t seem to know who I am. Maybe he doesn’t watch sports news much? Or he just hasn’t placed the name yet? Or he knows and is just a great actor?

I guess it doesn’t matter, as long as he doesn’t try to make me talk about the scandal like everyone else. “Doesn’t mean I’m not nervous.”

“Of course not. If anything, being good adds more pressure.” I dip my chin in agreement before sipping more of my tea. It’s starting to not be enough. I’m fucking freezing my balls off in here. “Were you kept awake by anxious thoughts? Maybe playing out scenarios of the game? Or was it more of an overall anxiety and restlessness?”

Neither. I just wasn’t fucking tired. It’s called insomnia. Don’t worry, in a few days, I’ll level out. And then hypersomnia will rear its ugly head. I’m a kaleidoscope of symptoms from a disorder I’ll never let you discover.

“The game,” I say instead—for obvious reasons. “And thinking about ways to stand out. To get noticed. And then thinking about how even if I do get noticed and get pulled up, they can shrug me off and shove me back down whenever they want. It’s pretty fucking nerve-wracking.”

Great, and now I’m actually experiencing the anxiety I made up.

“Do you need something to help you sleep?” he asks. “I could ask the team doctor for a prescription for you. It’ll only be a few pills for the nights when you truly can’t shut that anxiety down.”

“It’s not anxiety ,” I say a little too defensively. Because anxiety is just so fucking close to the truth. Too close. “It was just a bad night. I’m fine.”

He seems to consider me before slowly nodding. “Alright. Well, it’s time to get out. I’ll grab that juice—don’t complain, I don’t want to hear it. Switch out of those soaked compressions, then hit the mats to start some stretching. I’ll help you in a minute.”

Relieved for more than one reason, I finally obey without complaint. Everything is easier after that—even if the cherry juice is fucking disgusting. He doesn’t push for any more personal information, only asking about sore muscles and previous injuries and where I’m prone to issues. By the end of the session, I’ve almost forgotten that he’s the enemy.

I’m reminded when he snags my elbow just before I leave the room, his gaze back to calculating. “And no skating tonight.”

Something heavy settles in my gut. I don’t mean to panic, but I do regardless. I’m not even aware until I’ve yanked out of his hold and taken a step away from him. How the fuck does he know about my night skating? Has he been watching me? Why?

“Just for tonight,” he presses, a furrow developing between his eyebrows. “I’m not saying you can’t do it anymore. I’m just saying take the night off. Your body will thank you for it tomorrow.”

I manage a, “ Fine ,” through gritted teeth.

The knowing way he looks at me makes my skin crawl.

I leave before he can ask me questions. Before he can calculate any more. Before he can share what he thinks he knows.

The enemy, I remind myself, making a personal promise to not forget it again.