Memories with The Breakfast Club: On and Off (Kindle Worlds Novella)
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Felice Stevens. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Memories with The Breakfast Club remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Felice Stevens, or their affiliates or licensors.
For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds
On and Off
By Jenna Kendrick
To Felice Stevens, my dear friend online and off
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to Felice Stevens for allowing me to write in her Memories with the Breakfast Club world. I hope I’ve done her guys (and Lillie) justice.
Thank you to Reese Dante for my beautiful cover!
As always, thanks to K.A. Mitchell for her advice and friendship, and for sharing her magical outdoor office, which continues to be my happy place when it comes to getting words on the page.
And thanks to my husband for his unwavering support and willingness to cook dinner even when it isn’t his turn if the words are flowing.
Chapter One
“Glide on two feet, transfer your weight to one foot, lift the free hip a bit.” Mitchell repeated the instructions by rote as a line of aspiring figure skaters attempted to follow them. “Glide on two feet, transfer your weight.” Stop thirsting over the new coach teaching the Basic 1 class. Well, maybe just a peek. He could look with his eyes, as long as his hands stayed firmly at his sides.
He refocused on his students just as Lillie lost her tenuous balance and crashed to the ice. As much as one could crash when they were a couple inches shy of four feet tall and moving at a pace more often associated with snails than little girls. He braced himself for tears—some of the basic-level kids were used to mommy and daddy kissing every boo-boo, real or imagined. But no, Lillie pursed her lips and pounded her glittery pink gloves on the ice in frustration. Good sign.
Now to see if she’d try again or make her way to her uncle, waiting just off ice. Mitchell watched as she started to push herself to her feet with a look of determination—at least until she realized she had his attention. She immediately flopped back on her tush and held her hands up. He bit the inside of his cheek at the damsel in distress act and lifted her to her feet.
“Just this once. Part of skating is getting up after you fall. Keep your free leg closer to your skating leg, and you’ll have it.” Mitchell demonstrated the move once again. Lillie gave him her most flirtatious six-year-old smile, complete with batted eyes, and made her way to the back of the line for another attempt at one-foot glides.
Mitchell suppressed a laugh. He caught Trina’s eye and gave a slight nod for his assistant to take over for a moment, then skated over to the boards. Lillie’s uncle and his partner were busily snapping photos of their darling on their phones and laughing hysterically at her antics.
“Did you teach her that trick?” Tyler asked Marcus. He tried to act upset, but the effect was ruined by his inability to stop his lips from curving upward.
“I think she got it from you. That’s the same look you give me when you want me to rub your feet at night.”
Tyler’s silver-blue eyes gleamed in a way that said his feet weren’t the only thing that got rubbed when the man batted his eyes at his partner. Mitchell swallowed back a wave of jealousy. It’d been months since he’d had a foot or any other part of his body touched by anything but his own left hand.
“I’ll have to give it another try tonight.” Tyler blew into his shivering hands. “If I thaw out in time.”
“You mean, if you don’t fall asleep in the cab on the way home.” Marcus cupped Tyler’s hands in his own and rubbed briskly. “We’re meeting the guys, remember?”
Torn between longing and gagging on the sweetness, Mitchell instead returned his attention to the ice as the couple bantered behind him. His group continued to work on glides, a line of girls and boys in gleaming, new figure skates. Most of them would quit long before they outgrew the boots, but their parents all hoped their son or daughter would become the one-in-a-million to make it to the Olympics. After all, Mitchell had done it, and he’d started right here on this patch of ice at Chelsea Piers. They conveniently overlooked the fact that he’d crashed and burned in a very public spectacle. Surely their child would know better than to allow off-ice drama to affect their scores. Good luck with that.
“One last try,” he called out, “then we’re done for today.”
Lillie successfully made her way across the ice without falling this time. The girl behind her wasn’t so lucky, but she popped right back up. He’d have to consider some adjustments for next semester. With a private lesson or two, Rebecca could skip a level, although with her twin brother and best friend Lillie in this class, she might be happier staying lockstep with them. With the way Mackenzie kept looking longingly at a group of hockey players waiting to begin their lesson, however, she’d apparently prefer to be wearing a pair of black hockey skates and pads than the teal dress and matching gloves she currently wore.
As his students filed off the ice, he offered high-fives and made a mental note to talk to the girl’s mother. He dreaded it already. On-ice tantrums and childish flirtations were easier to deal with than parental aspirations. He’d been fortunate his own parents hadn’t let their dreams exceed his drive to compete. At least he hadn’t thought so until his competitive nature failed under the weight of heartbreak and humiliation, and he discovered just how vested they were in his success.
“What do you say?” Marcus’s raised voice cut into his thoughts as something poked him in the shoulder. Mitchell pivoted on his toe pick and saw Marcus holding out a black plastic card with white lettering. “Come out with us tonight. The pass will let you avoid the line and the cover.”
Marcus Feldman owned Sparks, a gay club. Mitchell had chatted with Marcus and Tyler after class several times in the last few weeks, so he wasn’t surprised by the offer. What did surprise him was the fleeting temptation to accept.
“Thanks, but that’s not my scene these days,” he said, as much to remind himself as to respond to Marcus. No more partying and mindless sex to exorcise the pain of betrayal and disappointment. No more club drugs and waking up in strange beds or seedy hotel rooms to find he’d been the filling in a hot guy sandwich with no memory of the act. These days—not soon enough—he avoided anything that rendered him unable to face himself in the mirror the next morning. Bad enough that others had turned him into a cautionary tale; he didn’t need to inflict it upon himself.
“So come for the company, not the scenery,” Tyler said. “Lillie’s sleeping over at Jacob and Rebecca’s, so we’re meeting up with friends.”
“Well, some of them at least,” Marcus muttered under his breath. “I’m sure Zach and Sam are already working on an excuse.” Tyler elbowed him in the side.
“This isn’t a setup, is it?”
Marcus chuckled. “No, these guys are all happily paired off, to a disgusting degree.” As he said that, Marcus twined his fingers with Tyler’s, making it obvious he was just as disgustingly committed. “But I can point you towards a willing bartender or dancer if you want.”
“Not happening.” Much as
he might lust over the new cutie coach, he’d learned his lesson and kept his hookups far away from his professional life. The last thing he needed was for a student’s parents to try matching him up. As soon as word got out, every mom with a gay best friend would be after him.
Besides, he had someone waiting for him at home. Someone who put up with Mitchell’s perpetual cynicism and gave back as good as he got. Someone who never asked for anything more than Mitchell could give. And who could be ignored with a click of the mouse.
Marcus thrust the card forward again. “Take it. If not for tonight, some other time.”
Mitchell couldn’t continue to refuse without being rude. Mitchell tucked the card into the pocket of his fleece jacket, where he intended it to stay. “Thanks. If my plans change for tonight, I’ll be there.” Marcus and Tyler would figure out soon enough that he had no intention of showing up.
* * *
After three more hours of group lessons, Mitchell finally walked through the hangar doors leading out of the Piers. The contrast between the freezing rink and the oppressive summer humidity had sweat running down his back long before he reached his building. He slid his skate bag down his arm to land with a thud as soon as he closed the apartment door. Although he’d done little more than demonstrate swizzles and bunny hops back-and-forth across the width of the ice, he was as exhausted as if he’d been training for Worlds. Coaching individual skaters in private lessons was all about skills, but group lessons were as much about crowd control as skating.
He took a moment to lean back against the door before pushing off in the direction of his tiny kitchen, pulling off his drenched t-shirt and throwing it towards the general vicinity of his bedroom. His laptop sat open on the raised strip of countertop that served as kitchen table, mail collection site, and office. He glared at the empty bowl from this morning’s fruit and yogurt sitting where he’d left it when he’d rushed out the door. He tossed the bowl in the sink, on top of the pan and plate from last night’s chicken breast and spinach. He’d deal with the mess later. Right now he had other priorities. After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, he tapped the touchpad to wake the screen. His browser was still open to his favorite site.
He entered the name of his nemesis in the search box and scrolled through the list of topics where Doc1984 had posted on Topical today. Doc had been a busy boy. Where to begin? He didn’t have the headspace to argue politics, but debating appropriate pizza toppings wasn’t worth the effort tonight. Was it ever? Besides, he agreed with Doc’s pro-onion screed, bad breath be damned—not that he’d post anything that sided with him.
But the top 100 books everyone should read in their lifetime; that offered an entire library’s worth of potential arguments without breaking a virtual sweat. He scratched at his itchy chest. A few quick posts, then he’d shower off the actual sweat drying to his skin.
It made sense that someone with the username Doc1984 would have a jones for Orwell, but Melville? Someone needed to spare the impressionable minds of other Topical posters. Mitchell added a comment to the thread, offering up several popular fiction titles intended to provoke his nemesis. Sure enough, a notification appeared on his screen almost immediately, indicating Doc was online. Mitchell linked his fingers together and stretched, knowing his evening was made. Their sniping was always more exciting in the heat of the moment.
Doc1984: “Bail Out” makes your Top 100 list? You might want to try reading a book with multi-syllable words sometime.
Typical response, exactly what Mitchell expected from the pompous ass. He tapped out a reply.
Wallflower: I thought the topic was Top 100 Books, not Top 100 Pretentious Titles Everyone Lies About Having Read.
He pulled his knees up to his chest to get comfy in the straight-backed chair and called up his favorite music playlist. The one he’d titled “Messing with Doc” because why be coy about it. The game was on.
He’d stumbled onto Topical last year after he caught a reporter rifling through his skate bag. With the next Winter Olympics coming up, the skating world was desperate for a big story. Nothing stirred interest—and TV ratings—in his sport more than drama, and since nobody had done anything particularly egregious lately, Mitchell’s downfall at the last Games remained the scandal on everyone’s lips. His refusal to give interviews was an ongoing bone of contention with the skating federation and only served to make journalists and fans more curious.
When he’d sought out information on privacy rights, a Topical argument about celebrity gossip sites topped his search results. Intrigued, he’d jumped into the fray. Posting as Wallflower—the name seemed to suit his desire to stay out of the spotlight—the anonymity of the site allowed him to express his opinions in a way he’d never been afforded under the glare of the public eye. Soon his participation extended to all manner of threads, from the mundane to the deeply personal.
Doc1984: I suppose you also think the Dreamforce graphic novels belong on the list?
Wallflower: They’d be much higher than Melville, that’s for sure. Or Orwell, for that matter.
Mitchell followed that up with a private message for good measure.
To Doc1984: And I know for a fact that you lust over Dreamforce. You posted right along with the rest of us heathens when the last volume came out.
Nothing on the site excited him as much as unleashing his inner troll on Doc1984. He doubted the guy was really doctor of anything, but he sure had the ivory tower arrogance down cold. Mitchell had made it his personal mission to storm that tower and bring Doc down to size.
To Wallflower: Which you only know because you’ve been stalking me all over the forums.
Doc replied rapidly. Show off. Mitchell had to make up for in snark what he lacked in typing speed.
To Doc1984: Someone needs to keep you in check. Otherwise you’ll be convincing everyone to put anchovies on their pizza and mandating that first graders read Moby Dick.
To Wallflower: Nah, they need to walk before they can run.
To: Doc1984: Are you talking about the anchovies, first graders, or white whales?
To Wallflower: Definitely the anchovies. ;-)
To Doc1984: Do we have the sort of relationship that extends to emoticons?
To Wallflower: Aww, you admit we have a relationship. I’m touched. You should know that I don’t put out until the third date. Unless you bring me flowers, in which case I might consider the second.
Since when do we flirt? Rattled, Mitchell stood up to grab an apple from the glass bowl next to the fridge while he considered how to reply. Wallflower and Doc1984 argued, maligned, and disagreed as a matter of principle—and ate dinner in front of the computer, stayed up all night chasing each other from thread to thread on Topical, and harassed each other first thing in the morning instead of washing the breakfast dishes. Well, maybe that last one was just him. But they definitely didn’t flirt.
He set the uneaten apple on the counter and absentmindedly began washing the dishes. He’d been brutally raw online, hiding his offline identity but revealing many other truths and hurts. Doc—and anyone else who read the Relationships subTopic—knew in broad strokes about an ex’s betrayal that had left him doubting himself and how their friends had taken sides. Mostly his ex’s. But even if Doc had heard about Mitchell Abend, two-time Olympic figure skater, he wouldn’t associate those stories with Wallflower, online know-it-all and occasional shit-stirrer. And it would stay that way.
He dried his hands with the towel he kept hanging from the oven door and turned back to his laptop, ready to post a snarky comeback that would set the conversation squarely back within his comfort zone.
To Wallflower: You still there?
To Wallflower: If you ran out to buy flowers, I like lilies.
To Wallflower: …
To Wallflower: You do know a joke when you see one, don’t you?
To Wallflower: You’re beginning to suit your name. I feel like I’m talking to a wall.
To Wallflower: If you
’re not going to cut a guy some slack, I’m out of here. Hot date tonight.
He’d spent the last ten minutes worrying over nothing. Doc had been taunting him, another parry in their usual sarcastic banter. And the pang in Mitchell’s chest over Doc’s final words was merely disappointment that his evening plan to argue with his nemesis had been curtailed.
Doc wasn’t the only one who had a life away from the glowing screen, dammit. Or could if he wanted one. The card tucked into his jacket pocket suddenly seemed like a dare. He closed the lid on his laptop and went to dig his club clothes out of the back of the closet.
Chapter Two
Jackson quelled his jealousy as his friend Zach stood up and grabbed his husband’s hand. “You sure you’re okay here by yourself?” Zach shouted to be heard over the pounding dance mix. “Marcus is always getting pulled away for some crisis or other, but Julian and his husband should be here soon, along with Tyler.”
“I’ve already got a Jewish mother,” Jackson said wryly. “Stop hovering and go dance with your husband.”
Zach grinned and tugged Sam to the dance floor. Jackson had been happy to catch up with Zach on campus earlier in the week. His old friend had been giving a guest lecture, and they’d decided to meet for lunch. He’d been less thrilled with the look of pity that hadn’t fully disappeared from Zach’s face from the moment Jackson took his first limping steps towards the coffee shop. Granted, he got points for inviting Jackson to Sparks instead of assuming that his disability compelled him to stay home watching Golden Girl reruns—but he’d have earned more if he hadn’t hesitated over it.