The bright, white light crept around the dark, hotel room shades.
Keanu squints and covers his face before resigning himself to the day's beginning and sitting up in his bed.
It is seven in the morning.
His shoulders rise and he extends his arms over his head, reaching to release the night's sleep positions embedded in his body. He wipes the crust from his eyes and pushes his hands up to his spiky hair, roughly rubbing through it like he'd rub a dog's head. His hair has grown just enough that it's disheveled. His mouth stretches into a yawn as he rises from his bed. He starts his coffeemaker before moving to the bathroom to take a morning piss. He washes his hands and stares at his reflection in the mirror, inspecting his stubble from a couple of days off of filming. Rubbing his hands against the black sandpaper on his chin, he decides against removing it for now. After brushing his teeth, he rummages through his drawer to find a red t-shirt, pairing it with black track pants and sneakers. He grabs a muffin from his mini-fridge and in the closet, he retrieves a long, black duffel bag filled with a few left-handed hockey sticks, balls, a face mask, pads and rancid hockey gloves. He sets the bag down by the hotel door.
The drawer under the coffeemaker held a few plastic-wrapped, paper coffee cups. He tears one open, fills it with freshly brewed coffee and presses a plastic lid on top. Lifting it to his mouth, he takes a sip, singeing the tip of his tongue. Fucking fuck that's hot! How many times will he repeat this act before he learns to wait before his first sip? He slides the cardboard sleeve over the cup, reaches for his hockey bag and keys, and heads to his Porsche. He tosses his bag in the back, his breath visible in the crisp October morning air.
He pulls into a parking lot where other cars have gathered. *For almost ten years, he's been meeting the same group of guys for a street hockey game every Sunday, when not filming or on location, having met some as strangers at a gas station when he'd first moved to L.A. Every weekend they alternated between red and black shirts. Some guys would slam beers on the sidelines during the game. Keanu didn't usually partake in that, but when one of his forwards, Steve, offered it to him this morning, he surprised him by accepting. Ninety minutes and two Busch Lights later, they were cleaning up the equipment when Steve asked if he wanted to join them at a local dive bar for greasy wings and more beer.
"Alright, sure," he agrees. He can use the distraction.
Face still ruddy from the game, Keanu shuts his car door and walks up to the rusty, iron back door of the sports pub, where the rest of his teammates are waiting. His sweaty, red tee is stuck to his chest, hanging down on one side where an opposing player's glove caught his collar during their game. He scuffs the bottom of his shoes along the worn, green carpet on his way to a booth near the pool tables. He slides into the burnt orange, pleather seat, riddled with black cigarette burn marks, and he shakes hands with others sitting there.
A cocktail waitress is at his side in seconds with her white pad of paper in hand. "Hey, how are ya? What can I get you, honey?" she asks, pencil in hand.
"Just a coke, thank you," he replies, handing her a twenty dollar bill.
In the background, several televisions have a college football game on and a few regulars sit at the bar in their UCLA jerseys, watching. Steve is over at the pool table, standing behind a twenty-something brunette in jeans, a white shirt and a black satin vest. He is leaning over her on the pool table, showing her how to shoot. No sooner had the waitress returned to the booth with his soda than Steve was calling him over to meet some of the woman's friends, gathered at a small, round table next to the billiards. He politely greets each one, shaking their hands, offering his name and a friendly "nice to meet you," before pulling out a stool at the small table and setting his glass down. He notices one, a twenty-four year old named Amy, hasn't taken her eyes off of him since he'd walked over. He averts his eyes, trying not to draw attention, putting the straw up to his mouth. She's standing next to the pool table, cue in hand, slowly grinding the blue chalk on the tip of the stick, until her friend calls out that it's her turn. She walks over directly across from where Keanu faced, and slowly leans over the table, her plunging v-neck sweater going deeper and her eyes fixated on him.
YOU ARE READING
The Beginning
Fanfiction"Come here," his voice is gentle again. She gives in, placing her small hand in his. Lifting the cloth, he sees her blood spill out from her palm. He inhales sharply through his teeth and presses the rag back down. They sit there like that for abo...
