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.
He continues to focus on the game, unaware of her moves. Still sweating from the hockey game, he pulls the bottom of his red shirt up and without thinking, wipes his brow, showing a hint of fuzz on his lower abdomen. Amy continues to stare, until her friend asks her to move out of the way so she can take a shot. She stands, one arm caressing her other, still watching as he releases his wet shirt back to his waist. She walks over to the table and motions to the seat beside him. "Anyone sitting here?"
"It's all yours," he replies, returning his attention back to the football game. She sits down, one leg crossing the other in his direction, and twirls a lock of her hair as she focuses on him.
Keanu swallows the last drink of his soda and sets the glass down on the table with a clank. He stands up and walks over to Steve, shaking his hand and letting him know he is leaving. Overhearing his goodbye, Amy grabs her purse and runs over to him, touching his arm to get his attention. "You're leaving already?"
"Yeah, I need to get going."
"Did you drive?" She inquires. When he nods his head yes, she continues, "Would you mind giving me a ride home? I'm ready to leave, too."
Keanu looks at Steve and then at her friends, waiting for someone to step in. When no one does, he agrees to give her a lift to her apartment.
She buckles her seat belt as he turns the key to the ignition and starts the drive to her apartment complex. She turns her head to look out the window, elongating her neck as she caresses the V line of her sweater, slowly moving her fingers up and down her décolletage. He takes his hand off of the stick shift as they sit at a red light, caressing his lightly stubbled chin, trying not to look in her direction. Pulling into her large complex, he puts the car in park and turns to look at her.
"Thank you so much for the ride, Keane," she says, using the nickname his hockey buddies gave him years ago. She removes her fingers from her neckline and begins to dance them up and down her thigh, holding eye contact as she does. "Would you mind walking me to my door? It's a long walk and I'm still new to this place."
He places his hand back on his chin, sly smile on his face, "Uh, sure. I can do that."
"Oh thank you, Keane!" She lays her hand on his upper thigh and gives it a small squeeze. "I really appreciate it."
He looks down at the maroon nails on her hand, caressing his thigh, and then back up to her. "Sure thing." He turns the car off and walks around to her side, where she waits for him to open her door.
"You're such a gentleman." She grabs his arm before he has a chance to offer it and motions ahead. "I'm this way."
"Alright."
She doesn't tell him exactly where her apartment is in the complex until they are directly in front of it, at which point she pulls his arm in the direction of her door, pushing her key into the lock before he knows what has happened. Opening the door wide to a darkened apartment, she turns around and wraps her arms around his neck, standing on her tiptoes as she presses her breasts against him. "How can I ever thank you for your kindness?"
Reflexively, one of his arms wraps around her waist as he steadies himself against her jump toward him. She smells of Victoria's Secret Pear body spray and her cashmere sweater is exquisitely soft under his hand.
"Nothing. It's my pleasure," he replies, pulling his hand back from her waist.
"I know. Why don't you come in for one of my homemade chocolate chip cookies?" She is still standing an inch away from him, arms still around his neck.
"It's okay, really," he assures her.
She lowers one hand to his still moist shirt collar and grabs the cotton tightly in her hand. "I won't take no for an answer," she insists, tugging on his collar to move him toward her. He hesitates briefly before giving in to her request, slowly moving through her door.
She offers him a seat at her small island in her kitchen and turns around to grab the plate of cookies from the counter. Rather than push the plate across to him, she walks around to his side of the island where he has turned his stool towards her, elbow on the counter. She sets the plate down next to him and reaches under the plastic wrap. With a cookie in one hand, she puts her other hand on his knee, separating his legs so she can shimmy between them. Keanu sits patiently, amused by her confidence. Amy places her other hand on his cheek and runs her thumb along his lower lip. Without thinking, he parts his lips slightly, watching to see what she will do next. She touches the chocolate cookie to his mouth, urging him to take a bite. He does as directed, crumbs left on his lip. He starts to move his hand to wipe his mouth but she sets the cookie down to stop him, instead leaning in and pressing her lips against his, tasting the chocolate on his mouth.
At first he doesn't move, but as her hand moves up his thigh, he relinquishes his strength and wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. He can taste her cherry lip gloss as she shoves her tongue past his lips. He closes his eyes and gives in, pushing the vision of doe-eyes and tanned, bare shoulders out of his mind, as he tries to replace those thoughts with the taste of Amy's lip gloss and the touch of her cashmere sweater under his fingers. He opens his palm and presses it up her back to her neck, where he threads his fingers into her long, curly hair, pulling her deeper into him. She is gorgeous. She is into him. She is an excellent kisser and that pear scent is inviting. Her hand reaches to the crease where his thigh meets his hip and his eyes fly open. He gently pushes her hand away from his hip and pulls his lips away from hers. "I'm sorry, Amy. I've really got to go." He rises from his stool and steps backward to expand the distance between them.
She has a look of confusion mixed with irritation. "You've got to, what?!?" She asks incredulously.
"I've got to go."
She laughs. "You've got to be kidding me."
"I wish I were, Amy, but I'm not. He moves towards the door before turning back to her. "Thank you for the cookie. It was nice to meet you."
"You're serious? You're leaving?"
He shook his head, "Sounds crazy," It is crazy, he laughs to himself. "But yeah, I've gotta go." He moves his hand laterally in a small wave before turning around and quickly exiting her apartment, not turning back until he'd reached his car.
Sitting in the driver's seat, his engine roars to life. He lets it idle, one hand on his forehead as he second guesses his decision, before finally putting it in reverse and pulling out of the parking lot. He drives home in silence, thinking about the next day of filming and hockey and anything else.
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Back at the hotel, Keanu tosses his hockey gear back into the closet and kicks off his shoes. He walks into the bathroom and rubs his face a few times before his hand lands in front of his nose. The smell is impossible to endure, like well-worn gym shoes after being sprayed by a skunk and left in the desert heat for a few days. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a can of shaving cream, dousing his hands in the white foam and massaging it into his flesh before rinsing it off in the sink. He brings his wet hands back to his nose and deeply inhales, satisfied with the result. He reaches over his shoulder to grab the back of his red shirt, pulling it over his head in one tug and throwing it into the pop-up laundry basket in the corner. He peels off his socks and track pants, leaving only his black Calvin Klein boxer briefs. He reaches into the shower and turns the water on, then walks into the main living area while waiting for the water to warm up. He flops down onto his hotel bed and thoughtlessly reaches for the remote. Flipping through the channels, he comes to Entertainment Tonight and notices the familiar green tank top. He pauses here, remote still in hand, watching her speak.
**"Keanu is, is...it's hard to explain. I mean I could sit here and say he's a really nice guy. But the thing that I'm sure most people don't know about Keanu is that, he's, I've really developed a, an incredible amount of respect for Keanu because he's so...honest."
Steam from the shower begins to pour out from the bathroom. The ringing of the phone pulls him away from the interview. He picks it up to hear Jude's voice on the other line, full of apologies and explanations for missing his call before launching into casual chatter about his last couple of weeks. Keanu responds with grunts and half-replies, which is atypical for his conversations with Jude, who picks up on it immediately.
"How's the work?" Jude starts with a softball. Keanu replies with more small talk, so Jude probes further. "How's it going with Sandra?"
Keanu is caught off-guard. He drops the remote and curls his hand around his ribcage. What does he mean? "Fine. She's great to work with," is his short reply.
Jude isn't having it, though. "Nah, bro, how is she?"
"I answered. She's fine."
"Okay, look. You've been acting like a puppy dog for weeks. Don't act like you haven't, Keany."
"What are you talking about?" he tries to deny.
"Fuck off," Jude is relentless.
Keanu pauses for a hundred beats before finally replying, "Truth?"
"Nothing but."
"It's the same old — she's beautiful, funny, smart, easy to be around. You know. I like her enough."
"I like her enough," Jude gently teases. "You like her more than enough, K."
Keanu rubs his forehead so hard his skin slides around. "Sure. I like her a lot..." he shrugs before looking back at the screen.
**"Enough about Keanu, what about me?" Sandra asks the journalist, before shooting the camera with a dart gun.
Keanu turns the TV off and returns to Jude. "Which is pretty much exactly why she got the part. We have chemistry just like any other costars," he continues. "C'mon, it's nothing but the feels from on set stuff. Anyway...anyway." Jude knows from his tone he's gotten as far as he can that day.
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* Street hockey for 10 yrs is true, stories and names are fiction
** From actual interviews.