Like real People Do Read online

  A NineStar Press Publication

  www.ninestarpress.com

  Like Real People Do

  ISBN: 978-1-64890-524-7

  © 2022 E.L. Massey

  Cover Art © 2022 JICK (@jickdraws)

  Edited by Elizabetta McKay

  Published in August 2022 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

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

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at [email protected].

  Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-525-4

  CONTENT WARNING:

  This book contains sexual content, which may only be suitable for mature readers. Depictions and discussion of epileptic seizures and social anxiety disorder.

  Like Real People Do

  The Breakaway Series, Book One

  E.L. Massey

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  To the fan fiction writers: Past, present, and future.

  Chapter One

  THERE ARE ADMITTEDLY worse things in the world than having to walk two blocks on a Wednesday morning in July.

  Eli knows from experience there are worse things in the world.

  Like being diagnosed with epilepsy at sixteen.

  Like having heat-induced seizures and living in Texas.

  Objectively, he knows there are worse things, but right at this moment, he can’t think of many because it’s 6:00 a.m., and he isn’t allowed to have caffeine because they’ve changed his medication again, and he’s had to park in the visitor’s garage because the only two handicap spaces at the north entrance of the Houston Hell Hounds official practice facility had been occupied by one parallel-parked Land Rover decidedly lacking handicap tags.

  “Motherfucking hockey players,” Eli says to the empty sidewalk.

  So now he’s running late because it’d taken him an extra ten minutes to find the visitors’ lot, and he’d still needed to stop and let his dog pee before they entered the complex. Because being the disabled kid whose service dog pees in the rink on the first day of practice will guarantee he never has a collegiate social life to speak of. Not that he holds out particularly high hopes for that anyway.

  The security guard at the door barely glances at his newly printed student ID before waving him to the left with a tired, “Rink Three, end of the hallway on your right.”

  She looks like she could use some coffee too.

  “Right. Thanks.” Eli shifts his backpack, sparing a last hateful glance at the Land Rover outside.

  “Hey, do you happen to know whose car that is out front? License plate AP23?”

  She lifts one eyebrow. “You mean Alexander Price?”

  Because of course. Of course it was Alexander Price. Eli tries to avoid too much familiarity with the hockey world, but there are some things you just know if you spend enough time around ice, and one of those things is the name of the youngest current captain in the NHL, who is apparently just as much of a douche off the ice as tabloids would suggest.

  Eli takes a steadying breath. “You know where I could find him?”

  The security guard considers Eli’s expression, then the dog at his feet, then the ill-parked vehicle outside.

  “I take it you don’t want an autograph?”

  “No.”

  She gives him an apologetic smile. “I don’t think I can have his car towed, but I can file a complaint if you’d like.”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  He starts to move forward again before pausing. “Do you know if Jeff Cooper is back from IR?” he asks. He doesn’t make a habit of following hockey, but when he’s potentially in the same building as a gold-medal-winning, world-junior-figure-skater-turned-NHL-player, he’d like to know.

  “Yeah. As of this week, he’s cleared to skate no-contact in practices.” She grins. “He also parks in the players’ lot like he’s supposed to.”

  Eli would expect nothing less.

  “They’re in practice for another hour and a half,” she adds. “But sometimes Cooper does the meet and greet afterward.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, Rink Two.” She nods to the right hallway. “Price will be there, too, but he almost never comes out afterward.”

  “Shocking.”

  The doors open behind him and an entirely too-awake girl wearing a hijab that matches her leggings waves at them both and hands over her student ID.

  “Morning,” she says, careful not to run over Hawk’s tail with her rolling skate bag. “Your dog is beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” Eli says. “Are you a freshman too?”

  Which is a stupid question because he knows the rest of the figure skating team isn’t supposed to start practice for another week. Obviously, she’s there for freshman orientation just like he is.

  “Yeah!” she says, apparently immune to his idiocy. “I’m Morgan. Just moved in last night. Thank god for coffee, right? I’m so nervous I didn’t sleep at all.”

  “Right,” he agrees wryly. “I’m Eli.”

  She gets her ID back from the security guard, and they start down the left hallway together.

  “It’s so cool the Hell Hounds share their facilities with the university,” she says. “Did you know their practices are open to the public? I think I might go try to get an autograph or two later if we have time.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I might join you.”

  PRACTICE IS GOOD. It’s not a real practice since it’s the first day, but Eli meets the coach and trainers, learns all the other freshmen’s names, promptly forgets them, signs a bunch of paperwork, and spends a few minutes going over his medical information with the team doctor. Hawk keeps an unobtrusive down/stay on the first row of bleachers and watches, bored, as they warm up, do some drills, and then call it a day. No one asks about the dog or the scars, and Eli doesn’t volunteer any information. It’s strange to have that option. He’s used to everyone knowing everything about him. The accident. The diagnosis. The dog. Hell, half of his hometown donated money to the GoFundMe for his initial treatment and got weekly updates on his recovery. He can’t decide if it’s a relief or a new form of stress to be surrounded by people who don’t already know his story. Everyone knowing your business is annoying, but it also means no one asks questions.

  After practice, Eli
accompanies Morgan and another girl, who he’s pretty sure is also named Morgan, to catch the last few minutes of the Hell Hounds’ practice.

  There are surprisingly few people in the stands: a haggard looking mother with a pair of toddler boys, a small group of college-aged girls who are probably also students, and a pair of old men.

  Eli sits with the Morgans on the bleachers closest to the ice behind the far goal and crosses his arms. Hawk is a solid press of warmth against his leg; the Morgans are talking quietly about some Russian player who was traded to the team the previous year; and, surrounded by a soft buzz of conversation and the noise of sticks on ice, he suddenly remembers how tired he is.

  He jerks when the buzzer goes off and players start to leave the rink. Once the ice is cleared and the Zamboni comes out, Eli follows the Morgans into the hallway outside where, according to the other spectators, the players will emerge to…he doesn’t know. Bask in the adoration of their fans? Sign hats? Take awkward selfies?

  The players start to trickle out fifteen minutes later, and the Morgans try and fail to contain their excitement over the appearance of a man who doesn’t look much older than them but is probably a solid foot taller. They take several pictures apiece with him, and he handles it with grace, laughing softly at their enthusiasm, his accent lilting and indistinct. Russian, Eli thinks, and then startles because Jeff Cooper has just exited the locker room.

  Eli does what any other self-respecting teenage fan would in this situation and promptly loses his cool entirely.

  “Hey!” he says, too loudly. “Jeff Cooper!”

  Cooper adjusts his course and walks over. “Hi,” he says, and Jesus, the man is even prettier in person.

  “Hi,” Eli parrots.

  “Your dog is beautiful,” Cooper says.

  “You’re beautiful,” Eli answers because, hey, go big or go home, right?

  One of the Morgans makes a choking noise behind him.

  Cooper grins. “You know I’m married, right?”

  “And to all appearances tragically heterosexual, yes.”

  “Tragically,” Cooper agrees solemnly.

  “Don’t worry; I’m not actually hitting on you. Though it is on my bucket list to go on a date with a hockey player if you’re interested.” Eli wiggles his eyebrows.

  Cooper’s grin widens. “Are you trying to play the pity card right now?”

  “That depends. Is it working? I mean, you do Make-A-Wish shit, right?” Eli gestures to Hawk, trying to look as feeble as possible. “Think of it as philanthropy.”

  Cooper outright laughs, and Eli is about to ask for a picture and let the guy go, but before he has a chance to say anything else, the Morgans let out an aborted in-tandem shriek, and behind Cooper, a voice yells, “HEY COOPS, are you—oh my god, a dog.”

  Eli glances up to find none other than Alexander Price leaning around the locker room door. He trips over himself to join them, graceless in a way that’s strange after seeing him on the ice.

  “What’s a dog doing here?” Price asks, beaming at Hawk and completely ignoring the minor tumult his appearance has caused. “Coops, why aren’t you petting him; look at this beautiful—”

  Cooper throws out an arm, blocking Price from going down to his knees. “Reading comprehension, Alex.”

  It takes him a minute.

  “Oh. Service dog. My bad, bro,” Price says to Hawk. “Didn’t mean to distract you. Er—” He glances up at Eli. “—him? Shit. I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to talk to him, am I? I read something about this, but I can’t remember.”

  “No, you’re not supposed to talk to her. But you’re self-correcting, at least. Which is better than most folks,” Eli allows.

  “I really am sorry,” Price says, and the earnestness is disconcerting. “That must get super annoying.”

  “Very,” Eli agrees.

  Price is biting his lip now, looking genuinely upset in a way that almost makes Eli forget that he’s a massive illegally parked douchebag.

  Cooper drops one arm around Price’s shoulders, pulling him in as if he has a secret to share, and says, “This one is trying to guilt me into going on a date with him.” He nods conspiratorially toward Eli. “Apparently it’s on his bucket list to go on a date with a hockey player.”

  “I think ‘guilt’ is a strong word,” Eli says.

  A tentative grin returns to Price’s face. “Playing the pity card? Really?”

  Eli shrugs. “Hey, chronic medical conditions come with a lot of suck; I might as well embrace the occasional perks.”

  “You realize Coops is married, right?” Price says. “And like—all about monogamy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Also tragically heterosexual,” Cooper adds.

  “That too,” Eli agrees.

  Price laughs, startled and real in a way that’s enough to make Eli take another look at him. Price considers Eli as well, his mouth still tipped up at one side, eyebrows furrowed.

  “I’m not married,” he says.

  Eli squints at the non sequitur. “Okay?

  “So does it have to be Coops, or will any hockey player do? Because I’m a hockey player. And I like food.”

  Eli is probably gaping unattractively at him.

  The Morgans are completely silent.

  “I don’t—you want to take me on a date?”

  “Sure, why not? I mean—I’d hate for you to drop dead tomorrow without fulfilling your bucket-list wish.”

  “Jesus, Alex,” Cooper mutters.

  “You,” Eli says. “Alexander Price. Want to take me on a pity date.”

  “I—yes?”

  Cooper makes a long-suffering noise. “All right, I’m going to let you kids figure this out. I’ll see you later, Pricey.”

  “Yeah,” Price says distractedly. “See you tonight.”

  Eli and Price stare at each other for a moment, and Eli realizes the magazines and billboards must airbrush Price’s freckles out, which is a shame because they’re pretty damn cute. Especially when he wrinkles his nose at the awkward silence between them.

  “You’re serious,” Eli says finally.

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because you’re Alexander fucking Price?”

  Price runs a hand through his damp hair, which does nothing to dissuade the cowlick right above his left eyebrow.

  “Why does everyone say my name like that?”

  “Sorry, I just— It was a joke. I wasn’t actually expecting to— You’re really serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know I’m gay, right?”

  Price glances down at the rainbow patch on Hawk’s vest, then back up to the off-the-shoulder shirt Eli’s wearing. “Yeah, I kinda figured.”

  “And that…doesn’t bother you?”

  “What the fuck—don’t look at me like I’m going to steal your lunch money. I’m not a homophobe.”

  Which… Eli thinks there are some Tweets that would contradict that, but he decides not to bring them up.

  “Do you trust Coops?” Price asks, bouncing from the balls of his feet to his heels. There’s a little line between his eyebrows, and he looks upset again.

  “Cooper? Uh, I guess?”

  “COOPS,” Price yells. “TELL HIM I’M NOT A HOMOPHOBE!”

  Eli covers his face with his hands.

  Cooper appears in the doorway of the locker room again, looking fond, but exasperated. “Pricey isn’t a homophobe.” He raises his voice so everyone who is now watching can hear. “Just an idiot. I promise. Can I go home now?”

  Eli waves him away with one hand, the other still covering his face.

  Price laughs, more self-deprecating than anything else. “Ok, I admittedly didn’t think that through. I hope you’re okay with getting turned into a GIF because that’s definitely ending up online.”

  “Oh god,” Eli mutters.

  “So. Lunch? I’m kinda starving.”

  “You want to go now?”

  “Yes? Unless—I m
ean we could go some other time if you don’t— Does it need to be a fancy dinner?”

  “No! No, lunch now is fine. It’s fine.”

  “Great. Do you have everything you need?”

  “No.” Eli jabs his thumb in the general direction of the other rink. “I left my stuff in the locker room.”

  “I’ll grab my bag and meet you there. Rink Three, right?”

  “Right,” Eli says faintly.

  Price flashes him a grin and disappears around the corner, at which point the Morgans converge upon him.

  “That was Alexander Price,” Morgan #1 says. “Alexander Price is taking you to lunch.”

  “What the hell,” Morgan #2 says. “How is this your life?”

  “I don’t even know,” Eli says.

  PRICE MEETS HIM outside the locker room fifteen minutes later wearing mirrored sunglasses, a snapback, and a backpack that, combined, probably cost more than Eli’s skates.

  “Gotta say I’m a little insulted you thought I’d be a dick about the gay thing, but Coops got immediate trust,” Price says, walking back toward the facility entrance. “I mean, Coops and I are in the same You Can Play video.”

  Eli resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, yeah, but you’re the captain. I figured you had to. Everybody knows Cooper has a charity fund just for LGBTQ youth and was, like, completely extra for pride night last year.”

  “Okay, yeah, that’s valid. But still. I’m a little hurt.”

  Eli can tell it’s meant to be joking, but the words come out a little too honest.

  “I’m not a dick,” Price continues. “And if you— The thing on Twitter was a misunderstanding.” He makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat. “The point is, I’m not a dick,” he repeats like it’s important Eli believe him. “I promise.”

  “Right.” Eli says, and then, because he’s petty, “So the Land Rover parked across both handicap spaces outside…”

  Price stops in the middle of the hallway. “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry. I was running late, and no one ever parks there this early, which— That’s not an excuse. I still shouldn’t have done it. All right, I’m definitely a dick.” He starts walking again, shoulders hunched. “I am. I’m such a dick.”

  “Just not a homophobic dick?” Eli says gently.