The Crease

Chapter 1

Maximus “Max” Latham

There comes a point in your life when you reach a certain level of success, and you think you’re untouchable. Money talks. A beloved celebrity face is forgiven. Scandal is just another PR op that will elevate your appeal.

But the biggest thing is being untouchable. Not above the law but thriving so prosperously that every little thing you do only makes your fans adore you that much more.

So what if a dick pic leaks? Let them see what I have, because I’m certainly not ashamed. I can handle talk about my cock all day long. I’ll even gladly show them how well I know how to use it.

I don’t even care if they bring up my family. What can they possibly dig up? Four of my brothers are professional athletes like me in four different sports. Even my oldest brother at thirty-two is still going strong in the NFL, winning a championship just last season with New England.

Bring up all the madness I’ve caused throughout my life. It never interfered with what’s important—the game.

Except I’ve kind of crossed a lot of lines since being drafted into the pros and especially this last year, I’ve tried very hard to rein it in. It honestly shouldn’t be that difficult. It’s not like I need chaos.

But I do.

Boredom leads me to do stupid, reckless things. I’ve become adept at learning how to find the safest places to do them without getting caught. Somewhere I can be the storm I am without any threat of professional consequences.

Team management doesn’t necessarily agree that seeing my face plastered all over the internet in compromising positions is a good look for the team. I’ve been traded because of this. Multiple times. But I really like Philadelphia. Not just the city, but my team. When I was given a warning at the beginning of last season, I listened. I took that shit to heart.

This last year I’ve been a fucking angel. I’ve stayed out of the headlines unless it’s hockey related. Those headlines have earned me a ton of pats on the back. Praise from my coaches and management. The pride I feel when I see my name in those articles makes me almost smug.

But that smugness falls quickly because who cares? It’s just me alone in my house. The silence can be deafening. The solitude is piercing.

Those are the moments that lead me to do the stupid things I do. To actually feel as good as the articles alone should make me feel. But they’re not enough. I need an extra boost. An injection of adrenaline.

Which is okay. I’ve found places that are anonymous. I’ve learned how to give myself the appearance of recklessness without putting my career on the line.

So why the fuck am I staring at a video of me on a St. Andrew’s Cross being fucked and covered in cum? How does this even exist? I made sure that everywhere I’ve gone is always anonymous. No chance of my presence getting leaked. That was rule number one.

But here it is. Plastered all over the fucking internet.

The sense of dread that washes over me as I stare, almost unseeing, is almost suffocating. My neck aches from the tension in my shoulders, the way they’re lifted as if I’m waiting for a blow. But I can’t seem to make them relax. I’m sweating, my hands trembling.

This can’t be happening. I did everything right. I checked and double checked this place. This shouldn’t be happening right now. I did my research. 

My mouth suddenly feels both dry and watering. I swallow, trying to clear away whatever excess is there, so I don’t choke. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Chills race down my body, leaving me feeling cold, despite the way my palms sweat.

My phone rings and I nearly jump. My agent’s name flashes across my screen, momentarily erasing the video. I answer, my chest feeling tight. I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?

“I didn’t do it,” I say as I answer the phone. “I swear, Rigo, it wasn’t me.”

“That’s not you in the video?” he asks, his voice calm. There’s no difference to his tone now than when we’re talking about something particularly good in my life.

All I want to do is hide. Hide from this. Hide from Rigo’s disappointment and the news I know is about to come.

“Yes,” I say. “But I swear to you, it shouldn’t exist!”

“Why do you think that?” he asks.

“Because I wouldn’t have gone there if phones were allowed. I’ve been there before, and nothing has come out. Why did this have to happen?”

“Tell me what happened,” he says, still unruffled.

His tone usually has a way of soothing all the too-big emotions in me. His ever serene and consistent presence, even over the phone, has always been just the thing I needed that calms me right the fuck down.

But today, it’s not doing anything to the way my dread just compounds as the seconds tick by.

“It’s supposed to be technology free, in that no one can bring in any kind of recording devices. That’s why I chose that place. You can’t even find it unless you know. I swear to you—”

“Max,” he says, cutting off my tirade. “I need you to take a breath and tell me about this place. Give me details.”

I close my eyes, but my entire body feels like it’s floating and tipping me onto my head, so I open them again. Trying to blink away the fog of oncoming panic, I take a deep breath and hold it until my lungs burn.

“It’s called Depraved. You can only access it through one of two doors—in the back of a bookstore and in the basement of a restaurant. It’s kind of like a speakeasy. You need a password and a key—which is anything from a little match box to an actual skeleton key. The doors are nondescript, black, with one of those little windows that opens when you knock, and you only see eyes.”

“Very good, Max. Tell me some important things now.”

I like those things. They feel important to me, but I suppose right now, they aren’t the details that Rigo is asking about.

“When you walk in, you sign an NDA and hand over your keys and phone and basically everything on you. It’s all locked away into a locker that uses your fingerprint to open it. It’s safest that way, so you don’t lose anything and nothing gets stolen.”

“Go back to the NDA. Everyone signs one?”

I nod. “Yeah. That’s why I went there. Like Kala. I can be anonymous and not worry quite so much about whether someone next to me has a fucking camera.”

Except that someone did. My stomach rolls as nausea threatens to undo me right here in the middle of the hall.

“So someone broke the NDA,” Rigo says.

“I guess,” I say. “Rigo, I can’t lose hockey. I didn’t do this on purpose. What do I do to fix it?”

He’s silent. There’s zero noise on the other end of the phone for so long that I think he’s hung up. Finally, he says, “I need you to leave Philly. Go back to Kala and don’t come back until I call for you.”

“But—”

“If there’s even the slightest chance that I can save your contract, you need to be out of the public eye, period. No accidental sightings. Nothing anyone can speculate about. Not even the mundane events like grocery shopping. So you’re not tempted but still entertained, I want you to get on a plane immediately and stay there. Understand?”

“Okay,” I say. “Can you save my contract?”

“I don’t know, Max. You’ve already had your last warning from Philly. I’m not sure I can find you another contract if they let you go for this. Your skill is the only thing that’s kept you in the game this long when your public shenanigans would have had you jobless a long time ago. Let me do my job, Max. I need you to banish yourself until I call for you. Understand?”

Tears sting my eyes. “Yeah,” I say. “I understand.”

“Good. I’ll talk to you when you get back.”

The call ends. Before the screen can even go back to sleep, my phone makes the telltale ping from ShareIt, telling me I have a notification. Unable to help myself, I click on it and a post comes up.

It’s a clip from the video. Someone reposted and tagged me, commenting that they’d like to be in my ass. I untag my account, but before I can close the app, I’m tagged three more times.

My breathing becomes quick and shallow. I think my vision blurs as I stumble through disabling my account entirely. No more tags. No more video clips.

The shaking of my hands becomes so pronounced that I drop my phone. I need to sit. Stumbling my way out of the hall, I walk right into the back of the couch and practically slide to the ground behind it, hanging on with a white knuckled grip.

No. No, no, no, this isn’t happening!

I look around my living room, desperate for anything that can make this go away. When nothing pops out at me, I squeeze my eyes shut. Pulling my legs in tight, I curl around myself, and begin to rock slowly. Trying to self-soothe.

I don’t cry exactly, but the gasping and whimpering sounds just don’t stop. What else am I going to do right now? The world around me shivers and shakes, tips and threatens to send me over the edge of a cliff where I watch the short list of everything I care about get further and further away.

It takes a long time to get myself under control. To convince myself that I need to do what Rigo said. I need to go. Leave Philly as inconspicuously as possible and just disappear. It feels like running.

Because it is. I’m literally running away from a problem that I created. It doesn’t matter that it shouldn’t have happened. I was there. Being there at all is reason enough for the blame to be on me.

So what if I should be allowed to enjoy the kinks I like? As a professional in the spotlight, I need to appear as mundane and vanilla as possible. I’m already partially hated for being in the spotlight by some social groups because I’m an out and proud bisexual and any flaunting of that or anything kinky can be interpreted as me and the league pushing our gay agenda.

Right now isn’t the time to focus on that. Angry Max is going to ensure that I lose my career. I can’t afford that. I can’t lose hockey.

Picking myself up, I groan. Every muscle in my body is stiff from a combination of the weird position I was sitting in for fuck knows how long and the tension that’s been increasing since the video leaked.

While I don’t want to touch my phone at all right now because of all the other social media accounts that I’m no doubt being tagged in, I have to book a flight and make reservations. I just left the Isle of Kala a couple weeks ago with the ‘Gays Can Play’ crew when we had our yearly end-of-the-season celebration. Kala was one of our last stops before heading home.

It doesn’t take me long to book a cabana that’s off the beaten path on Bane Island. It’s not one of the party islands that I usually spend time on. This one has secluded beaches and a calmer vibe. Between Bane Island and Keone Reef, the employees-turned-residents of the resort live on one of these two islands among the visitors who want a more relaxed experience.

Not that I’m feeling particularly enticed by parties and shit right now, but I think I need to take that temptation off the table entirely. I don’t know how long to book for. While I sit there and stare at the screen, almost unseeing, my mind goes to mush and I feel dazed.

The world is crashing down around me. I swear, I can feel a part of the ceiling slam into the hardwood and shake the foundation of my house. I teeter on my feet and grab for the wall to steady myself.

What am I going to do? What will I do if I lose hockey?

Squeezing my eyes shut, voices run through my head. Laughter. Failure. Loser. Lame. Nobody.

Digging my palms into my eyes, I hold my breath until I stumble and land on the floor. There, I gasp as I lay on the cold, hard, wooden floor. The cool against my skin helps to clear my head and make the voices fade. The echo of laughter hangs on, but I push through that.

Instead of booking via the app, I scroll and click through links until I find the contact information and dial. It doesn’t take long before someone answers.

“I need to book. I’m looking at a cabana on Bane Island, but the problem is, I don’t know how long I need to stay. Can I book a couple weeks with an auto extension or something until I need to go?” I explain.

“If we move you from a cabana into a bungalow, we can accommodate that,” he says. “When will you arrive?”

I huff. Good question. “I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow. I need to book my flight.”

“I can do that for you if you’d like,” he offers, and I agree. The fewer things I need to do on my phone, the better. I think I’ll just leave it at home. It’s not like I can use it once I get there anyway.

But no. I’ll need it to access my reservations and my ticket. It’s best to take it. But maybe I’ll disable all my social media accounts and delete the apps first. That way I’m not tempted to lash out at these fuckers messing with my career.

Do they not know that their actions can have consequences on someone else’s life? Or do they just not care? I’d like to find the fucker who posted this shit on the internet, tie him to the fucking goal and sling pucks at him until he’s a sorry, pathetic, broken piece of shit.

“All set, Mr. Latham. We’ll see you tomorrow evening,” the man says.

“Thanks,” I say and hang up.

I do just as I planned though and disable all my accounts before deleting the apps entirely. Then I make sure I can access my flight and reservation information before packing. At least there is something to occupy myself so I don’t just curl up into a ball and wish bodily harm on someone for so long that I live in that furious moment.

Instead, I lose myself in the monotonous task of packing for an unknown number of days in exile.