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33.

Burn Out

Callan

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A trickle of sweat rolls down my temple. My arms tremble, straining to move the iron an inch higher to crank out one more rep.

“Fuck yeah!” I roar, summoning a burst of strength to move the bar higher. I explode through the rep and let the iron crash on the gym floor with a clank.

Heads around the gym turn and look, spooked by my outburst. I don't care. I'm done caring what other people think of me.

I was just getting started during that Coyotes series. Next up is the Ducks – a feistier opponent than the Coyotes, who were way too timid for my taste. The Ducks aren't afraid of a little dirty play. They wanna fight back.

But with the chip I've got on my shoulder, that's a mistake. I'm just daring someone to play my game and I'm crushing anyone dumb enough to skate near me. The more they hit me, the more pissed off I get. Anytime I get the puck in the offensive zone, I know I've got a chance. I'm shooting from everywhere on the ice and lighting the lamp like never before.

We vanquish the Ducks in 5 games. Next up, Round 3, San Jose.

It's kind of funny, in a morbid way, what's happening. My career is already over and dead, but nobody else knows it. Nobody but me. They're watching a ghost out there – the ghost of my career – clinging desperately to what's already been lost.

And the thing is, the fans and everyone else?, they love it. The sports shows, the talk radio, the internet forums ... I'm the talk of the league right now. I'm also not talking at all. Everyone wants to interview me, but I've made it painfully clear: Callan Jones is done talking.

The media pundits say I've reached the next stage of my career. That I've finally matured.

The fans say I'm just starting to hit my potential. That I'm only gonna get better.

My teammates, well, they don't know what the hell is up with me. But they love it anyway.

Some people say I'm gonna burn myself out playing like this. That the human body can't handle giving 110% every shift. That I'll wear myself down and eventually break if I keep hitting like I do.

Thing is? I don't care. I don't care because I don't know how much time I've got left. And I wanna make the most of it.

So this is how I spend my free time now. The trainers would kill me if they knew I was lifting after a game. We're only supposed to do it on their schedule so we don't burn ourselves out.

But that assumes you'll be with the team long enough to get burnt out, right?

Time is the one thing I don't have anymore. So no more goofing off with the team ... no more lazy off days spent relaxing and watching movies ... no more wishing things were different. I don't know how much longer I've got in this league, and I wanna make the most of it.

Because it looks like Jason was serious about his threat.

I grab my gym bag and head out. It's midnight, and I need to get back home. I check my text messages while I walk. Once again, Jason's sent me more than a few:

“Hey Callan! Just a reminder, there's still time to change your mind!”

And, “But you better act fast ...”

And, “Check out my new blog!”

I click on the link. He's set up a blog on the internet. He's only made a few posts. My heart stops while I read them. He's not releasing my name yet – just teasers and promises of a wild and sexy story with a popular but closeted pro athlete. He promises to spill it all if his demands aren't met.

Pft. Go ahead. Make my day.

There's no use running from it anymore. I'm just waiting for the bomb to explode.

Meanwhile, we face off against San Jose. The first-ranked Sharks are a lot more formidable of a team than the Ducks or Coyotes were. And the stakes are that much higher, since the winner of this series fights for the Stanley Cup. We trade wins, the home team winning each game, until the series is knotted at 3 a piece.

We'll go to San Jose for Game 7.

***

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AFTER BLOWING ME OFF, Vance sure seems suddenly concerned about me. But what the hell does he care? He wants to focus on hockey ... well, that's exactly what I've been doing. He doesn't want to get caught in the cross-fire of my disastrous personal life ... well, alright! Stay away from me, then!

Knock knock knock.

I know it's him out there. Ever since the series against the Coyotes, he stops by after every game and knocks on my door. He knows when I get back from the gym. He must hear me. Then he comes by and knocks.

Knock knock knock.

“Ugh,” I grumble. I've been able to avoid him surprisingly well. Even on the road. I stay out late, only coming back to the hotel room when I know it's past his bed time. Then I quietly sneak in and go to bed. I'll be up before he's awake.

But tonight, the night before we travel to San Jose for Game 7, he's banging on my door forever out there.

Would it be crazy to call security on him?

Ha. Yeah. That would be crazy. But probably pretty funny.

With a sigh, I stand up and answer the door. No use avoiding him when I've gotta sit next to him on a plane for three hours tomorrow.

Christ Callan! There you are!” he gasps when I answer.

“Yep,” I say as if it's no big deal. “What's up?”

“I've been trying to catch you for weeks, but you—” Vance takes a cautious peek up and down the hall. He leans forward, poking his head into my room, and lowers his voice. “But you keep avoiding me!”

I shrug. “I'm not avoiding you now, am I?”

He grunts. “Are you gonna let me in or what?”

I turn away from the door. “Fine. C'mon in.”

“Why the hell do you look like you've just gone to the gym, Cal?” Vance asks suspiciously.

“Because, uh,” I stall. I'm still wearing my gym outfit. I wipe at my brow with the hem of my shirt. “Because I just worked out, duh.”

“Are you insane? Aren't you worried about your recovery time?”

I shrug. “Not really. I'm young, remember? Just gatherin' my rosebuds.”

“You're gonna injure yourself, dude.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. What difference does it make?”

We take a seat at the dining table in my room. We stare at each other over it.

“So?” I ask. “You wanted to talk to me or not?”

“Yeah. I wanna know what the hell's been up with you lately.”

“What, you mean my hot streak? I'm just focusing on hockey. Like you said.”

Vance chuckles and shakes his head.

I gaze out the window. “I don't see what's so funny.”

“I dunno how to even talk to you anymore, Cal. It's obvious something deeper is going on and you won't tell me what it is.”

“You're the one who said you didn't wanna be near the scene of the crime, remember? So I cut you out of the loop. Pretty simple, Vance. I'd think a guy as smart as you, Mr. Psychology, would've been able to figure that out.”

He looks hurt. My heart throbs with a touch of grief when I see the way he recoils from my words. Damn.

“Hey ... c'mon, Cal! I was confused, alright?”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“If you're mad about Britt—”

“I'm not.”

“Well, I just wanted to say, if you were, nothing happened between us, alright.”

“What difference does it make?”

His jaw works back and forth. He's losing patience because he's not getting anywhere with me.

“I didn't ... I didn't mean to hurt you, alright? I felt like the only way to feel normal after what we did was to do something 'manly.' But I couldn't even go through with it. I just felt like an asshole fraud.”

My nostrils flare. “Something manly, like have sex with a woman, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says matter-of-factly. “Can you blame me?”

After I take a few moments to think about it, I shake my head reluctantly. “No. Guess not.”

“And now you're all pissed off at me, which sucks, and it's even worse because you're playing great hockey so I feel like I can't even talk to you about it.”

I throw my head back and laugh. “Look, Vance. It's cute that you're all worried about what you did to my feelings. But honestly, this isn't even about you, alright?”

He folds his arms incredulously. “It's not?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want it to be?”

“I dunno. Maybe? Heh.”

“You straight guys are the worst,” I laugh. “Really. I mean that.”

He gets a sneaky grin. “How so?”

“First of all, you always act the same after you first hook up with a guy.”

He tries to hide his growing smile, but it's all too obvious. He puts his hands on the table and rocks back and forth. “Tell me about it. How do we act?”

“First of all, the day after. You wake up, unable to believe what you've done.”

Vance nods. “True.”

“Then you develop an asshole streak to make yourself feel better about how 'manly' you are. Usually, that means being a complete and utter douche to the guy you hooked up with ... whether you act like an outright cock, or you take the coward's route of avoidance, and pretend like you can't even see him standing in front of you ...”

“Hey, I've been worried about you this whole time! You're the one who's been avoiding me.”

“Okay – yeah, true enough. But I said usually. The other type of assholery is turning to womanizing. To prove what a straight man you are, and how much you love tits and pussies. Which, ahem ... leads us back to ...”

“Britt,” Vance grins. “I knew you were mad.”

“I'm so not mad, dude. You can fuck whoever you goddamn well please, Vance.”

“I knew it! You are mad!” Vance stands up and paces around. “But I told you I didn't hook up with her.”

Frankly, I find that hard to believe. “You didn't do anything with her? Really?”

“I swear. I mean I did months ago, but not since then.”

A breath of air escapes me and a wave of vulnerability sweeps over me.

“Oh. Uh, okay, so maybe you're not like the other straight guys I hooked up with,” I mutter. I don't know why it matters, though, or why he's trying to convince me.

“Yeah, maybe not.” He pauses. “So you gonna tell me what's going on with you or not?”

I tap my chin. “Ah hell. You basically already know. It's not some big secret to you.”

“The Jets trade rumors?”

“It's not just trade rumors anymore.”

I tell him about my run-in with the real estate agent, Jason. And how Jason is the same guy that Burky caught me with.

The information makes Vance furious. “He's extorting you for a date? The fuck is that?”

“He was,” I correct him. “He's since informed me that he is 'no longer interested in a date.' He will, however, accept a million dollars from me as hush money.”

Vance laughs out loud. “Figures. You aren't gonna pay him, are you?”

“Hell no. I'm done running, Ty.”

“Good.”

“But it's only a matter of time until word gets out.”

“What can he really say? Who is gonna believe him?”

I break out my tablet, load up YouTube, and pull up Jason's page. While it's loading, Vance stands close to me, his shoulder against mine, staring at my tablet screen. His scent fills my nostrils, overwhelms my senses. And I realize I've been staring at the already-loaded YouTube page for way too long.

Damn that smell, I think. It's like a fucking drug and it keeps me from thinking straight.

“Just watch. Everyday he spills more information that leads back to me. Look, each video has more views and comments than the last ... he's in the thousands now ...”

I show him Jason's most recent video. He talks into a webcam and describes the 'mystery' athlete's appearance. My hair color, my eye color, height and weight. Points out my birthmarks. Talks about the size and shape of my cock.

“This guy?” Vance asks. “You slept with this spiteful toad?”

I roll my eyes. “It's not like I planned to marry him ...”

“Yeah! Sounds like that was your fatal flaw.”

“You're tellin' me.”

We scroll through the comment section. The commenters are having a field day with lobbing the names of random athletes who fit the description.

One comment at the bottom reads, “Could it be CALLAN JONES????”

“It's just a matter of time until everyone figures it out,” I sigh.

“Fuck that guy, man.”

“No thanks. Once was bad enough.”

Vance chuckles. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Look. Jonesy. I've got your back, alright? No matter what happens.”

“Yeah, right,” I laugh. “What could you even do?”

“I dunno,” he says. “But I mean it.”

“Well, I appreciate the thought.”

Vance peeks at his wrist watch. “Alright. It's late. We should get to bed. I'll see you on the plane.”

“Later, Tyler,” I say.

“G'night.”