Scott (Owatonna Book 2) Read online

  Scott

  Owatonna U Hockey, 2

  RJ Scott

  V.L. Locey

  Scott, Owatonna U Hockey, 2

  Copyright © 2019 RJ Scott, Copyright © 2019 V.L. Locey

  Cover design by Meredith Russell, Edited by Sue Laybourn

  Published by Love Lane Books Limited

  All Rights Reserved

  This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer-to-peer program, for free or for a fee. Such action is illegal and in violation of Copyright Law.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Contents

  Scott

  1. Scott

  2. Hayne

  3. Scott

  4. Hayne

  5. Scott

  6. Hayne

  7. Scott

  8. Hayne

  9. Scott

  10. Hayne

  11. Scott

  12. Hayne

  13. Scott

  14. Hayne

  15. Scott

  16. Hayne

  Epilogue

  Coming next in the Owatonna U Hockey series

  Coming next for Jared & Ten

  Harrisburg Railers

  Authors Note

  V.L. Locey - have you read?

  RJ Scott - have you read?

  Meet V.L. Locey

  Meet RJ Scott

  One

  Scott

  The no-look pass from John was sweet. Right to my stick, just as we’d practiced, and for a single shining second I was the best goddamned hockey player in the world. I collected the puck, iced to a stop, reversed my skating, the chilled air whipping my face, and I beat one of their defensemen as if he was standing still. I could envision the puck in the net. Hell, I could taste the goal.

  I stickhandled past the other D-man, weaving around him, kicking the puck with my blade, back to my stick. The goalie going low, I deked to my left, saw the netminder wobble as he pushed to stop the puck, and slapped it right at him, aiming for the space above the glove hand. I watched it fly in slow motion, but as soon as it left my stick, I knew I’d let it go a millisecond too soon. The rubber met the posts, the crack of sound an exclamation point to my failure to score.

  John was there, collecting the puck, trying to corral it as it jumped and slid around the net, but the defense was too good, and in an instant they were shuttling it between them, heading back up the ice. I slammed a hand against the plexiglass, pushed off, and used the momentum to get myself around the back of the net. Muscles screaming, I followed the puck and the other team, reaching Benoit just as he went low, the puck going high, and that was it, the biscuit was in the net, and we were five goals down.

  In the first freaking period.

  I hadn’t even managed to scrape back a goal that would count. Despondently, we headed back for the change, John’s stick tapping my calf.

  “Nice one, Scotty,” he said as he passed and sat back on the bench.

  Nice one? I’d fucking missed. A second later, a softer release, a single skate step, and that would have been a goal. Then we could have taken home at least a score in this sorry excuse for a game. John had to be riding me on this.

  “Fuck you, John,” I snapped, but I wouldn’t look at my fellow skater, because he was such a waste of space right now.

  This shitty game was all Ryker’s fault.

  Ryker was home with his dad and Ten, but why the hell would he need to be with Ten for so long? The Eagles were a hot mess without him, and when we lose today, it will be all on him.

  We’d opened up the team to the hotshot asshole, and now for some reason, I was being left out to hang because the rest of them relied so heavily on Mr. Draftee. Coach placed a hand squarely on my shoulder, squeezed it. I got the message.

  At least you tried, Scott.

  I just wished the rest of the team would try as hard. Acid temper coiled inside me and it hurt.

  “What the fuck was that?” I snapped at John.

  He turned to me. “What the hell?”

  “Where were you? Why didn’t you pass earlier?”

  He looked at me steadily, his bright blue eyes narrowing. “What’s your problem, Scotty?”

  “Stop calling me fucking Scotty, and do your fucking job.”

  He was talking at me, shouting something, but I didn’t listen because it wasn’t worth it. I wanted back on the ice. I was going to pulverize their D, and I was going to score the next goal if it killed me. Testosterone flooded me, my vision clear, my chest tight with tension.

  I’ll show them all.

  I glanced up to where Dad was sitting, and he was staring back at me, his gaze fixed and stony, disappointment in every line of him.

  Oh yeah, I got his message as well.

  Shame it was you and not your brother on the ice. He ’d have made that shot easily.

  You need to practice, Scott. Stay behind.

  Fight for this, Scott. Don’t let me the fuck down.

  Man up, you loser.

  I was out at the next change, muscles loose, breathing harsh, and my focus fixed. We could pull this back. John won the face-off, and I caught the slick pass, avoiding their big D. I was on fire. I was purpose and vengeance all wrapped into one.

  The tablets were worth it. They were making me fly. I could do anything. I passed to John, who moved to Brandon, and then it was back to me, tic-tac-toe, I had the disc on my stick, the net was wide open, and I was ready. I wound up to shoot, dismissing the crippling pain in my shoulder, forgetting my dad, the coach, the team. The D-man came from nowhere, hip-checking me, nearly taking me off my skates, and I lost the puck. The whistle sounded, but temper held me in its fiery grip. I threw my stick at the D-man as he skated away. It missed him, and someone gripped me from behind. I rounded on the man, swung my gloved fist, and connected with someone’s head, the red mist consuming me, the fire burning so bright I couldn’t even see. More arms held me, and there was shouting and screaming. Ben was there. What was my best friend doing up on this end of the ice? He was our goalie. He should’ve been up in our net. He was in my face talking to me, trying to get me to stop straining for freedom to hit someone else. He took off his mask. I could see his dark eyes, and I know he was talking about something.

  “Get back in the net!” I was freaking out. The yelling got louder, the air hot with my temper. Was that me shouting?

  A fist connected with my face, and I welcomed the pain because pain actually meant I was alive.

  “I want to play!” I yelled trying to get free of the hold, and I lashed out at the people nearest to me, connecting with flesh, feeling like a god.

  “Stop him!”

  “It’s Ben!” John shouted at me. “He’s hurt. You laid him out!” The voice permeated the temper and passion, and I tore myself away, my fists up, ready to fight anyone who wanted to touch me.

  And then Ben was there, standing in front of me, his face covered in blood, streams of it running from a gash in his forehead, a terrible flood of scarlet on his dark skin.

  “Scott!” he shouted at me, swiping at the blood. “It’s me!” He gripped my upper arms, and I shook him off, but he wouldn’t let me go that easily, stared right at me, blinking at the blood as it slid around his socket. “Scott, please?”

  My head was spinning, the red mist retreating, the effect of t
he pills that made me fast and strong, slipping away and leaving me a ragged, panting mess.

  What had I done? I reached for Ben to touch the wound, and he flinched and skated back.

  My best friend was scared of me?

  “Off,” the referee snapped, then took my arm. I was too exhausted to argue, too overwhelmed to care. I glanced up at Dad, and he was on his feet, looking so goddamn happy to see his son fight.

  At least he was proud of me, but at what cost? What have I done?

  All I felt was sick, and the rest of the game was a blur. The coach held me on the bench. I didn’t play again, but he wouldn’t let me go to the locker rooms, his face a mask of pity and shock. I was lost, becoming something smaller as I sat miserably, staring at the floor, the adrenaline leaving me shaking and confused.

  They said the tablets would make me fly, but no one had said I would crash so hard.

  We lost. I don’t know by how much, because I didn’t care. We headed back to the locker room, everyone deadly quiet, and all I wanted to do was apologize to Ben, who hadn’t come back after I’d hit him. He’d need stitches; I’d caught him just above his eyebrow, right where it would cut the worst and bleed like a bitch.

  “Okay, Scott, let’s do this.”

  Coach was talking to me, our assistant coach Eddie standing next to him, the two of them staring at me steadily.

  “What?” I blinked at the room around me. It was just me and the two coaches. “Where’s the rest of the team?”

  Coach exchanged a pointed look with Eddie. “We want you to open your locker, Scott.”

  My locker? What?

  “I don’t understand.”

  Coach placed a hand on my shoulder. “It will be okay, Scott. I promise we’ll work through this.”

  Why did I want to cry? Men don’t cry. That’s what everyone had told me when Luke died and I was all cried out. I leaned into Coach, wanting more, needing a hug. Even as messed up as I was, I didn’t miss the irony of the coach being the only one to give me true affection.

  Eddie cleared his throat. “You have the right to have someone with you, Scott. We need your permission to see inside your locker, but you shouldn’t be here alone.”

  Who would I ask? My dad? Ben, whom I’d just hurt? Ryker wasn’t here.

  I didn’t want any of them to see anyway. The guy who sold me the pills told me what to do if I was found out, but he’d also warned me to keep my cool even if they made me feel like shit.

  I reached for the padlock, entering the familiar numbers, and instead of standing aside and letting Coach see what I had in there, I reached in and pulled out the small tub of tablets, handing it directly to him. I’d memorized what I needed to say, the wording perfect, the description of what I’d taken clear and concise. Anything to mitigate the punishment if they found the pills before I told Coach about them.

  “I’m self-reporting that I have been using Androstenedione for exactly five weeks.”

  Eddie’s shoulders fell, and Coach turned the pills over in his hand.

  “You need to come with me,” he said and took my arm, leading me out of the locker room and into his office. Eddie didn’t follow and threw me a look of what I had to think was pity. “Sit down, Scott.”

  I looked at my feet. I wasn’t wearing skates. Where had they gone? I was just in socks, still in uniform, hot and sweaty, and completely out of it. Like the weed I’d tried when I was eleven, a stolen puff from Luke, which had made me see prisms and feel as though nothing could hurt me. That was how I felt now, numb, floating, and a band of pain viciously crushed my skull.

  “I won’t let this slide,” Coach said. “You need help, Scott.”

  He kept talking, about how I was grieving over Luke, how the pressure of hockey and academia was too much for some people, how I needed so much help I was going to be an old man and still getting therapy. Or at least, it sounded that way.

  “… one year suspension, Scott. You understand that, right?”

  I nodded as I tuned back in. The NCAA handed out a season’s suspension for steroid use. I would be a senior before I could skate again.

  Skating is my life. It defines me. It earns me my father’s love. It connects me to Luke.

  “… a test. Okay. Also, counseling is important and mandatory at Owatonna U, okay?”

  “Huh?”

  “Scott, are you listening to me? We’ll do a test, make this official. That is the way it has to be.”

  “Uh-huh,” I answered. The pain in my head matched the sickness roiling in my stomach.

  “Okay, we need to get a student rep—”

  The door slammed open.

  “What the hell is going on!” My dad was there, a bristling bear of righteous indignation.

  “Mr. Caldwell, please take a seat.”

  This sure was official; normally Coach called my dad Gordy. They were even halfway to being friends. Not a stretch when Dad had bought the team a bus and was our volunteer driver for away games.

  Will he still do that if I’m not on the team?

  “Coach, all men fight. It’s part of the game, and I won’t support you benching him.”

  Wow, finally a glimmer of support from Dad, which meant absolutely nothing to me, as I sat there sweating and sick.

  “Mr. Caldwell—”

  “He’s your star player right now.”

  “He’s not well,” Coach said.

  “He’s got a temper is all. About time he showed it on the ice. Scott, we’re going home.” Dad pulled at my jersey. “Let Coach cool down and think about this.”

  I didn’t want to go to what Dad called home. It was nothing like home; it was a mausoleum steeped in memories of Luke. Nothing more than a box where I kept the fear, pain and shame I carried with me every day. I tried to telegraph a message to Coach without Dad seeing. Don’t make me go home with him.

  “Scott was found in possession of restricted steroids, Androstenedione, to be exact." Coach picked up the tub from the table.

  Dad stopped his blustering, went bone-white, and for a moment I thought he was going to keel over and die on the spot.

  “What?”

  “Scott has self-reported steroid use, tests will be done, and he’ll sit out the rest of the season.”

  Dad’s defense of his angry fighting macho son vanished in an instant, horror turning into a blank expression I knew so well.

  Here it comes.

  “You're…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, but in my head, I knew how it went. You’re nothing like Luke. His meaning was always clear— you’re not the son I wanted, not like the one I loved. “Drugs?”

  “Dad—”

  “You weren’t even real?” He lurched back, his hand on the latch of the door.

  “I just wanted…”

  “I can’t do this. I won’t watch another son die.”

  He didn’t listen, wrenching the door open and slamming it shut behind himself so hard the wall shook, and Coach and I were alone. Compassion flooded Coach’s expression, and I wanted to cry. I wanted to sob my heart out and have Coach make it all better, ripping away all the dark bits inside me and tossing them away. Because no one else could help, and I couldn’t help myself. Losing Luke had broken everything in my life, and now I had nothing left. Not even hockey.

  If you don’t have hockey, then you don’t have a fear of your dad hating you for failing.

  The next hour was a blur—tests, avoiding the team, refusing to talk to Ben, sending my apologies in words through Coach. The team was worried, or so Coach said. They wanted to see me. They were sorry. Sorry about what, I didn’t know. None of this was their fault—I’d done this to myself.

  “I’m taking you home,” Coach said. He’d been with me the entire time, the student rep less happy about working with a druggie who cheated at hockey. Or at least that was what I read into her sour expression. Who could blame her? I was cheating, and I was taking banned meds. She was right.

  We left the building, the arena empty, none o
f the guys waiting this long, no fans and students milling around, just the scent of hot dogs in the air from the closed-up carts. Empty rinks are eerie affairs, but at least no one would see my shame as I left.

  There was one car in the parking lot, my dad’s, and for a second a wild hope uncurled inside me. Was he here to hug me, tell me it was all going to be okay, that he wanted to be my dad again, and that he forgave me everything?

  “Dad’s here,” I said to Coach, who gave me one final arm squeeze.

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? You have my cell number. Use it. We need to get counseling organized; it’s mandatory, you remember that.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t see. If it was me who put pressure on you…” he began, but I didn’t want a speech where blame was laid. I’d done this to myself, and I didn’t really know why.

  I shrugged off his touch. “It’s all on me.” I was good at this lying shit.

  Rounding the car where Dad stood in the cold, I saw he had his thick coat wrapped around himself. I waited for him to say something, and then as Coach’s car headlights swept our way, I noticed the case at his side—my case.

  “I can’t do this with you,” Dad said and nudged at a case with his foot. “You’re a cheating lying drug addict, and I don’t want to see you.”

  “Dad—”

  He held up a hand. “How could you do this to me? To us?”

  That was always his go-to question. How can you not be Luke is what he really meant.

  “I needed you to listen to me,” I shouted. The drugs had been so good at leaving me disconnected from the world of guilt and failure that consumed me.

  “Why? This will kill your mom.”