The Locker Room Read online

  Readers rave about AMY LANE

  Keeping Promise Rock

  “I was swept up in the amazing love story…” —Night Owl Reviews

  Making Promises

  “…f abulous flawed characters, a strong plot, action, angst, and love—all combined with an emotive writing style that makes the reader feel every joy, heartbreak, and hurt that her characters feel.”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  Talker

  “… a brilliantly written story about two men with a great deal of baggage but also an extraordinary love.”

  —Literary Nymphs

  “If youre looking for a sw eet and compelling love story with unforgettable heroes, I highly recommend reading this book.” —Dark Diva Reviews

  Truth in the Dark

  “… a wonderfully creative story with a new and original twist on the Beauty and the Beast fairy tale.”

  —The Romance Studio

  Guarding the Vampires Ghost

  “If anything this novella is too short. Its well written, emotional, romantic, heart warming, and breaks your heart at the same time.” —Whipped Cream Erotic Romance Reviews

  NOVELS BY AMY LANE Keeping Promise Rock Making Promises The Locker Room

  N

  OVELLAS Bewitched by Bellas Brother Christmas with Danny Fit

  Guarding the Vampires Ghost Hammer & Air

  If I Must

  Lithas Constant Whim Talker

  Talkers Redemption Truth in the Dark

  Copyright Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  4760 Preston Road

  Suite 244-149

  Frisco, TX 75034

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Locker Room

  Copyright © 2011 by Amy Lane

  Cover Art by Dan Skinner/Cerberus Inc. [email protected] Cover Design by Mara McKennen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  ISBN: 978-1-61372-011-0 Printed in the United States of America First Edition

  April 2011

  eBook edition available

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-012-7 Dedication

  This one is to Mate—Ill always be his true blue fan.

  Prologue Playing the Moment

  Arco Arena, Sacramento, California. Home of the Kings.

  XANDER KARCEK pounded down the glossy wood of the court, thigh

  muscles straining, huge biceps pumping, and sweat dripping into his eyes from his black bangs. The ball sang against the boards in front of him and popped back into the palm of his wide-fingered hand as he dribbled furiously, strides ahead of the enemy, in perfect position to score.

  He didnt.

  Instead, he popped the ball behind him with the next dribble, and Christian Edwards caught it one-handed and continued the dribble down the center of the court.He didnt have to look behind him to know Chris was right on his heels—he never had to look behind him. Chris would be there.Chris didnt know how to fail. And this way, when the opposition came up behind Xander, arms spread, legs wide, ready to block the shot, Xander was there with surprisingly wide shoulders for a guy who stood six feet, nine inches tall in his size eighteen bare feet.

  And Chris, the center, leapt into the air, twisted his body, and made the shot with a chest-high dunk, and the fifteen thousand fierce voices, echoing around their bodies until the sound was so thick you could cut it with the slice of a sweating hand, exploded into shrieks of unholy, furious joy, singing Chriss praises.

  Just the way it should be. The whole world should sing Chriss praises.

  Xander and Chris passed each other as Chris recovered his running stride from the dunk, and as they got into position to intercept the other team, they faced the opposite direction. Thats when their arms swung down from the elbows in a smooth low five, and they snarled at each other in triumph.

  God, they loved this fucking game. Xander would live for it, Chris would die for it, and together, they would never stop creating spectacular feats of magic on the court. It was who they were, dammit, and not a soul on the planet could take it from them.

  Oh, please, God.Dont let anyone take this from them. Please.

  Chriss hand slapped Xander lightly on the hip, and Xanders eyes slid down, a moment of softness in this hard-edged, bright-lit world, the hot and shiny sunshine center of the magnifying glass.

  Xander had learned a long time ago that it was so easy for the world to take things away.Chris had been Xanders only reason to believe that sometimes, God gave them back.

  Home Cooking

  Fifteen Years Earlier It was cold, and the light was fading, but Xander was damned if he was going home. His mother would be home, with her crack-smoking boyfriend du jour, and theyd been inhaling and fighting and exhaling and fucking, and the apartment would stink and there would be no food, and if either one of them heard Xander hanging around, someone would try to kick the crap out of him.

  Xander was tall —six-foot, one inch, even at fourteen—but sometimes he could swear the bones at his wrists were wider than his biceps, and it didnt help that there was never any food in the house, and he didnt feel like smoking crack to stop the hunger, like his mother kept telling him to do.

  So, it was late, and cold, but out here at the basketball court in the community park, there was just him, and a street lamp, and his smoking breath.It didnt matter that he didnt have a sweatshirt, or that he hadnt eaten since yesterday morning. All that mattered was that the ball—his only possession, stolen from Walmart in a moment of desperation—felt right in the palm of his hand, and that he could pound it rhythmically across the cracked blacktop and hear the regular jangle-swish as it blew through the chains of the basket.

  But it was hard to focus when you were that hungry, and when a voice tried to get his attention, Xander had to squint and concentrate on where it came from.

  “Oh, come on! Arent you going to throw it to me?”

  Xander was so surprised that he did.

  The boy was shorter than him by a good six inches, but was still his

  age. His hair was dark blond and wavy, and he wore trendy jeans and a blue sweatshirt with a print on the front. His eyes were so brown that from across the court, they looked black. He had a pointed chin with a cleft in it, and a pouty mouth, and a smile of such cheerful goodwill that Xander almost felt like he owed it to the kid to give him the ball. Who could resist that bouncy humor, or that amazing happiness, even as the sky darkened to twilight?

  The kid caught the ball easily, and dribbled with a natural grace toward the basket. He shot and missed, and then shot and scored, and then looked up with a grin on his wide, smiling mouth.“Well, arent we going to play?”

  Why not?

  Xanders hunger was forgotten, and he started to guard the basket.

  The kid was good. Not as good as Xander, maybe because he hadnt been forced to use a basketball hoop in a parks vacant lot as refuge from too many things to count, but he was quick and agile and he kept up a steady stream of banter that eluded Xander as they played.

  “What, you think I didnt see that? That was a feint, I got it… no! You blew right by me!Thats okay, Ill
getcha… no no no no no, he shoots, it swishes, hescores!”

  Xander was up on him by five shots out of twenty, and having the time of his life, when there was a sudden smell of food and a voice across the court.

  “Chris? Chris, honey, Im so sorry Im late!” Chris (apparently) slowed down as he was approaching the basket and turned toward the voice, and Xander took that opportunity to steal the ball and score.Chris turned to him with a sheepish grin and an “Oh! Man, thats no fair!” and Xander blushed.

  “Sorry,” he said softly. The smell of food hit him again, and his vision went a little black. He missed catching the ball on the dribble and tried to keep his knees steady as he turned to say goodbye to the boy who had been, for an hour at least, his friend, his family, and his entertainment, all in one.

  But the boy wasnt going. “Hey, Mom! Can that kid come home and eat with us? Hes an amazing player, Mom, youve got to see him shoot!”

  Xander blushed to the roots of his straight, dark hair, and looked at his companion with a little bit of awe.He sounded like… like… like a little kid, the kind who expected someone to answer him when he spoke, and in Xanders neighborhood, you didnt talk to a parent like that, because it never happened. Ever.

  “I dont know, Christian—its late. Maybe someone expects him home?” The woman had phrased the question like she was expecting Xander to answer, and Xander fumbled for a moment. He was never good at words, mostly because he was never expected to use them.

  “No one cares,” he said, and then he felt stupid. There had to be a better way to say that, but he couldnt think. And then, in the middle of the almost shocked silence, his stomach grumbled. Loudly.

  The woman looked at him with a half smile on her face, like she understood what it was like to be young and growing, and then something in his own expression made hers change.

  “Hes welcome, Chris.But we need a name first, okay?”

  “Xander,” he mumbled, so desperate for whatever that smell was that he probably would have done any matter of terrible, illegal, disgusting things, just to have a bite. The sweat and adrenaline and joy of the game had faded, and all that was left was pewter-gray nausea and dancing spots in his vision that came from being young, growing, and literally starving to death.

  “Xander,” the woman said softly, “Im Christians mom, Andi. Cmon with us, and well feed you, okay?”

  Xander nodded, and lured by the smell of chicken and byChriss triumphant smile, tucked his basketball under his arm and followed the two of them as they walked home.

  The suburb where Xander lived was a curious mix of older houses and apartment buildings, the kind where you moved in without having to give first and last months rent. Xander lived in an apartment house about a block away from the high school, which was mainly why he went to school—it was close, and he got a free lunch, because he had filled out the paperwork and forged his mothers signature at the beginning of the year.

  Chris lived in one of the older houses, the kind with the two stories and the big yard with, from the sound of it, a dog in the back. As Xander followed Chris and Andi through the door (and even now, Xander was getting the habit of ducking a little at doorways) Xander saw that the inside of the house was even better than the outside.

  It was cluttered—there were books all over the coffee table and end table and whole shelves for them in the living room—and the couches were worn and a little threadbare on the arms. There was a girl who looked just like Christian lying on her stomach with her feet in the air, poring over a history book, and a grown man doing the dishes over by the kitchen, which opened into the living room on the far side of the house from the entryway.

  “Jeez, Andi, I thought we were eating out because it was quicker than cooking!” the man called, and Chriss mom walked up to the guy— he was about Xanders height, with brown hair and glasses and a small, “pretty” face—and kissed him on the cheek with only a little reach. In the light, she had blond, curly hair, and slightly wide hips and a blowzy chest under jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and she laughed at her husband (Xander assumed) and set the food down on the (crowded) kitchen table so she could give him a hug.

  “You would not believe the line at the KFC, seriously. Just miserable. And Chris went to the park while I was there, and we brought home a stray.”

  Xander felt himself the victim of a cheerful once-over.

  “Holy God. Feeding you must be a fulltime job.”

  Xander smiled greenly and wondered if the light really was that dim or if it was the whole “havent eaten” thing. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Id like it to be.”

  That earned him a laugh, and his next smile had a little more strength behind it.Then Chris said, “Cmon, lets clear off the table, Xander, and we can eat.”

  “Never mind that,” Chriss (Step-dad?Mothers boyfriend? What was the guy?) said.“Well eat in the living room. Its getting late, and we need to wrap dinner up and get to homework.”

  “Aces.” Chris grimaced, all sarcasm. “Way to suck the joy out of dinner, Dad.”

  “Just doing my part,” said Chriss “Dad,” and Xander tried not to boggle.Hed thought those were an urban legend.

  It didnt take long before Xander was seated quietly, balancing a plate of chicken with fixins on his lap, and listening to the family banter back and forth.By the time dinner was over, hed learned that Penny, Chriss sister, was in all of the advanced classes, Chris was struggling with Algebra, Andi was a lawyer from the teachers union,who couldnt talk about her work but made a lot of eye rolls when certain subjects from school were brought up, and Jed was Chriss father, and he taught Junior High math in another district.

  He could sit there and listen to them talk for hours.

  He didnt say anything himself, of course, but he did look up gratefully when Andi put two more pieces of chicken on his plate after he finished off the two he started with. When those were gone, he found that Jed had given him the last of the potatoes and gravy, and he ate that gratefully too. And then, like there always is, he found that there was a price for the good, because he was the center of attention when Jed asked him how he was doing in school.

  He actually felt the sweat break out under his loose T-shirt collar.

  “I sleep a lot,” he mumbled. Well, school was clean, it was safe, no loud noises, no one having sex or getting high—how was he not supposed to sleep?

  “You cant sleep through your classes!” Chris said, with so much suppressed passion that Xander blushed more and wished for a quick death under the beat-up, comfortable couch.“If you sleep through your classes, how are you goingto try out for the team?”

  “The team?” Xander said blankly.

  “Yeah! The basketball team! They start playing in a month. You can still try out, but you have to get your grades up!”

  Xander looked at him helplessly.“You think I could make the team?” Oh God. He loved basketball—he did. He would sneak into the local sports bars or restaurants, just to watch the games on television. He would walk three miles and hover in the shadows of the Arco Arena on game day, just to watch Vlade Divac and Peja Stojakovic walk in the back for practice. But staying awake for class? Christ….

  He looked at Chriss face then, expectant, anticipating, excited.

  No, not Christ. Christian.Hed do it for Christian.

  “Ill talk to my teachers,” he said through a dry mouth, although he wasnt sure if he remembered their names. “Ill talk to them tomorrow. Maybe I can fix it.” Maybe I can move mountains, change the color of the sky and tilt the center of the world, just to play basketball, just to see you look at me like I can do anything, just so I dont let you down.

  Eventually dinner was over, and hed helped clean up, and even he could see that this nice family would be wrapping it up. Eventually he told his first lie, one about going home to sleep, and he left. Before he went, tucking his basketball under his arm securely, he told Chris that hed meet him at the cross street so they could walk to school together.

  He did go h
ome. His mother and whoever were both sprawled on the couch, stoned and out of it, and he had time to look at her through eyes that had just seen a functional little family, and he felt a surge of anger. Goddammit, all hed ever asked for was some food and a little attention, but even before the drugs, that hadnt really been in the cards, had it?But he didnt stay long, not this time. Instead, he took a quick shower and changed his clothes, then got a blanket and a pillow and snuck out to the stairwell behind the laundry room. The dryer usually ran all night, and this way, he could stay warm.

  LATER on, he figured out that his teachers had been rooting for him all along. They had let him sleep because he needed it, and when he asked for his work, they gave it to him. His English teacher gave him notebooks for free, and had a bucket of pens for the taking. His math teacher let him clean desks during lunch for extra credit. His French teacher told him that there were usually leftovers from the Asian club meetings after lunch, and made sure to have some wrapped in foil for him after he got his free lunch at the kiosk. His basketball coach tutored him in history, because that was the subject he taught when he wasnt coaching.

  Chris gave him an “old” backpack—the same “old” backpack that Xander would forever remember him having as they walked to school that first day afterhed dined on KFC and mashed potatoes.

  That started a tradition of the two of them walking to school. It gave them time to talk about their classes, about basketball tryouts (both of them were shoo-ins from the start), about pretty much anything they wanted to talk about, and the tradition continued until they were sophomores, the next year.

  Theyd spent the summer practicing, because they loved it, and getting Xander a job, because he needed one, and he was tired of not eating. His plan was to spend his late evenings loading boxes at Walmart, pretending he was sixteen, his early mornings doing homework, sitting on the bus bench waiting for Chris, his days in school, and his afternoons in basketball practice, where he felt he belonged.