Across the Pond (Raptors Book 2) Read online

  Across the Pond

  Arizona Raptors, book 2

  RJ Scott

  V.L. Locey

  Copyright

  Across the Pond (Arizona Raptors #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

  ISBN - 978-1-78564-194-7

  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.

  Dedication

  We owe a huge thanks to Daniela Sarmiento who painstakingly went through this manuscript and helped us immensely in our use of Spanish in the story. All mistakes are ours… (RJ - well mine actually, as I was the one who did the final pass from her detailed notes!)

  Thank you, Daniela. XXX

  To my family who accepts me and all my foibles and quirks. Even the plastic banana in my holster.

  VL Locey

  To our small army of proofers who helped with checking the Spanish, the facts and spelling…

  And, always for my family.

  RJ Scott

  Contents

  Across the Pond

  1. Alex

  2. Sebastian

  3. Alex

  4. Seb

  5. Alex

  6. Seb

  7. Alex

  8. Seb

  9. Alex

  10. Seb

  11. Alex

  12. Seb

  13. Alex

  14. Seb

  15. Alex

  16. Seb

  17. Alex

  18. Seb

  Epilogue

  Next for the Raptors

  Hockey from Scott & Locey

  Authors Note

  Also by V.L. Locey

  Also by RJ Scott

  Meet V.L. Locey

  Meet RJ Scott

  One

  Alex

  There’s nothing more depressing than an empty house. The silence preyed on me when I was alone. It was an unnatural state for a guy raised with three siblings, a ton of uncles and aunts, fourteen thousand cousins spread over two countries, and a grandmother who had moved to the US a few years back to live with my parents, and who kept touch on a daily basis. The only time I’d ever had a measure of quietude as a kid had been when I’d locked myself into a closet to avoid my older brother’s wrath over breaking one of his toys. Even then, within five minutes, the entire Santos-Garcia clan had arrived—including my cousin Renaldo, who worked for a locksmith—and I was sprung. My family did not believe in spending time alone.

  Family was what made a person strong. La familia hace a una persona fuerte.

  In my experience, most Latino families were tight, strong, and crazy nosy. Everyone had their noses in everyone else’s business. And as much as that had driven me nuts as a teenager, now I yearned for someone to talk to. I hated how still and dead this place was. Henry was battling for his life, and Ryker had left for the All-Star game. Ryker had totally deserved to be invited, and I planned to drive out to San Luis, where my enormous family lived, and watch all the festivities. Henry so did not deserve what had landed on him. I had made a vow to God that if I ever got the chance, I would pound Aarni Lankinen into paste for the harm he had caused my friend.

  But first, I had to pack and go visit Henry one more time. I hated to leave him. The three of us—Henry, Ryker, and I—had grown close during the season. Sharing a house will either strengthen a bond or break it. It had made us into a brotherhood of sorts. A trio of rookies bound by our love of hockey, cheesy puffs, late-night horror movies—Henry always wussed out and hid behind a pillow—and music.

  Now, it was just me rattling around, washing clothes, dusting, and worrying over my friend’s slow path to rejoining us. Los tres amigos. Sadly, I was the only friend left in this big rental house on the South side of Tucson.

  “Enough. Shit, Alex, stop dwelling and get moving.”

  My abuela always said that, along with there’s no such thing as fun for the whole family, or my husband was a shithead.

  I missed my grandmother so much and I fingered the medallion on the end of the chain with the figure of San Sebastián engraved on it. She’d given it to me because that particular saint was the patron saint of athletes and I kept it with me tucked away where I wouldn’t lose it. I didn’t wear it all the time, particularly not when I was playing, but it was never far out of my reach.

  San Luis was under four hours away, but some days it felt as if she were back in Toluca with a big stupid wall between us. I longed for her hugs and a plate of her hojarascas. If I closed my eyes, I could taste those sweet shortbread cookies. The memories of running into her house with my siblings and cousins to grab a couple of the soft, warm treats lifted my spirits. Sometimes, she would serve them with her homemade arroz con leche. The rice pudding and cookie meal was special for the grandkids, and we had to promise never to let our mamá know she fed us sweets for dinner.

  Family was a road trip away. Being there, at home, would be a blessing I desperately needed. So I got my ass in gear, tidied up the place, ran the vacuum, finished the laundry, which included the clothes I’d found in Henry’s hamper, and set to serious packing. I cranked up some Bad Bunny teaming with Drake and felt some of the sadness lifting from my shoulders.

  That lasted until I showed up at the rehab facility where Henry was staying, his neatly folded clothes packed in a Raptors duffel. Just parking outside this place brought me right back down, but I shoved that all aside, the rage and the melancholy, and I brought up the Alex Santos-Garcia face that everyone knew. The guy who smiled and made jokes, winked at pretty girls, and never missed confession or Sunday mass. The good boy, the son who made his papá proud. The fake Alejandro who everyone looked up to for being one of the few Mexican-American players in the NHL was not the real Alejandro, not by a long shot. The real Alex hid a dark, corrosive secret way deep in his soul, one that would make his parents weep and his church call him a deviant.

  “Wey, stop,” I growled to myself, turned off the engine in my Jeep, and hauled my ass inside, where the security guard immediately stopped me.

  “Hold up,” he said, pushing out of his chair. I hit the brakes right inside the doors. “Let me see what’s in that bag.”

  My gaze flew from him to the white couple whom I’d followed in, both with huge shopping bags that he’d not even blinked at.

  “You didn’t check their bags,” I pointed out.

  He was shorter than me, less muscular as well, but he had a badge and an attitude that I was oh-so familiar with. His lips flattened. “Show me the inside of that bag, amigo, or you can go back to wherever it was you came from.”

  “Right, yeah, I get it.” I shoved the duffle bag at him.

  He gave me a look that spoke volumes, then turned, placed the bag on the chair he’d been sitting in, and began methodically taking every damn thing out and shaking it. He shook the bag as well when it was empty, patted the insides, and ran his fingers along the seams. Throughout the fifteen-minute show, all kinds of people walked past. Doctors, nurses, aides, visitors. And there I stood, in
my jeans, Raptors T-shirt, and high-tops, feeling lower than the rug we were standing on. I said nothing, something my parents had taught all of us. “Just let them do what they feel they need to do,” my father had explained. “Never talk back, never give them reason to chase you, and always have your identification on you. Understand, my little ones?”

  My parents’ greatest fear was being swept up in a raid and being sent back to Mexico, even though they, and now all the kids, were American citizens. My little sister and I had been born here, but my older siblings had been Dreamers until they’d passed their tests after graduating high school. Still, things being what they were, none of us in the Latino community felt one hundred percent safe…

  “Fine, you can go in, but there’s a time limit on visitations today. Something about fumigating for vermin. Make sure you don’t get caught in it,” the guard said, walking off to leave me with the tumbled mess of Henry’s clothes scattered around.

  I cursed under my breath.

  “Cara de cerdo hijo de la gran puta!”

  “Nice, I’ve never heard him called a pig-faced son of a bitch before.” I glanced to the left to find a cute girl in a pink smock smiling up at me. Her long black hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail, her eyes were big and brown, and her lips the same color as cherry soda. “I always call him a snout-faced slug.”

  That made me smile a bit. “Sorry for my language.”

  “No harm done.” She picked up and folded one of Henry’s T-shirts, then handed it to me. “He’s an asshole. Always give us a hard time.” Us meaning anyone who wasn’t white like he was, I was sure. I nodded. “So, Henry talks about you all the time. I see you coming in and out every day, not that I’m like stalking you or anything!”

  Pink flushed her soft brown cheeks. Great. So a pretty young woman had obviously been checking me out, and I’d not picked up the signs. So typical. I was really the worst at pretending to be straight. Note to self—pay more attention to girls.

  “No, no, I didn’t think you were stalking me at all. I kind of saw you too,” I lied like a motherfucking rug. My eyes fell downward, to her name tag and then to her breasts, for just like a second because guys liked boobs. Hers were nice. I guessed. “Blanca, such a pretty name. My great-great-grandmother on my father’s side was also a Blanca.”

  “Oh well, that’s cool. Blanca Acosta Ramirez.” She offered me her tiny hand, then sketched a cute little curtsy.

  Yeah, this young woman should be making me hard, right? I mean, she wasn’t of course, but she should be, so I needed to pretend I was interested. Fuck, I hated this so much. But she was the kind of young woman my family would love for me to date.

  “Alejandro Santos-Garcia,” I said, took her hand, bowed over it, and then kissed her knuckles. She giggled and batted her lashes, and before we were done folding clothes, I had her phone number. She seemed nice, a little too fangirl for me, but I could see doing dinner and a few movies with her. Maybe double-dating with some of the other guys on the team. Well, aside from Ryker, who had a boyfriend. I envied him that freedom way more than I envied his skills on the ice. I paused outside Henry’s room, shook off the dour mood that wanted to return, and burst into Henry’s room with a grin.

  Henry was sitting up in his bed. He was still a wreck. His head and neck were bandaged to protect the eye injury he’d sustained in that car crash. He did manage a shaky smile for me despite the shattered leg in a cast that would cost him the rest of the season. God only knew what that eye injury would end up costing him. I touched the gold cross that rested on my chest, offering up a quick prayer to the Virgin Mary to keep him in her tender graces.

  “Hey man, how you feeling today?” I dropped his bag onto the bed and unzipped it.

  “Like I ran into a wall in a shitty sports car,” he replied. I patted his hand, careful to avoid the IV embedded in his vein. “I feel like my head’s packed with batting.”

  “You sound like my cousin Estefan after he drinks too much,” I parried, carrying his clean clothes to the built-in dresser by the bathroom door. “Did you know that Tennant Rowe came here for help after his injury?” I glanced back at Henry, who had only one good eye to see me with. It was a pretty eye, the blue a rich deep color.

  “My father told me that.”

  “Yeah, well, I think that says a lot, don’t you? Look how fast he recovered! I bet by next training camp you’ll be out-skating me in timed sprints.” I laid his clothes into a drawer, closed it, and turned to find him staring out the window. “Hey, buddy, you hear me?”

  His head swiveled in my direction. The dull look lifted, and he smiled at me.

  “Alex, hey! Nice to see you,” Henry called a little too loudly.

  Fuck. “Wey, dude, good to see you!” I grinned and continued unpacking his clothes, glossing over the tics and lost words, the time spent trying to remind him of who Ryker was, and repeated questions. Head injuries were brutal; we all knew that. There wasn’t a hockey player alive who wasn’t aware of what concussions did to the brain. And maybe if it had just been a concussion Henry was dealing with…

  “So, I met this pretty girl in the lobby,” I said as I sat down. His smile seemed a little brighter, and so we talked about women and dogs until I had to leave. “I’m going home over the All-Star break, but I’ll call every day, okay?”

  “Sure, okay.” He held up his hand for a fist bump. I rapped his knuckles gently, stuffed his dirty clothes into the duffel, and left it by the door for the laundry service to tend to while I was gone. “Bye, Alex!”

  “Later, wey.” I slipped out into the hallway, paused, closed my eyes, and took ten deep breaths. I was not going to break down here in the damn corridor. Fuck that. Crying had gotten none of us anywhere. Best to kick that shit to the curb, man up, and face the future head on. My future for a week lay in San Luis. My cell vibrated. I pulled it from my front pocket, smiled at the incoming call, and answered it immediately.

  “Are you coming home soon? I went shopping at lunch. I see you in an Instagram picture. Such ratty jeans, mijo, and no shirt, so it seems you obviously need clothes. I found you good jeans on sale.” Ugh. No, not jeans that I hadn’t tried on. They’d never fit over my bubble butt and thick thighs. Jean shopping was a hands-on thing for a hockey player. Still, it was the thought that counted, right?

  “Mamá, I have clothes.”

  “So you just show off your chest on purpose all over the Instagram? You don’t want the kind of girl that sort of picture will draw, Alejandro. Why not share one of you in a suit? Such a handsome young man you are in a suit.”

  Okay, time to switch gears. “I’m leaving the rehab center now. Should be there by dinner time,” I said, stalking past the guard at the door without flipping him off. My restraint was legendary.

  “Good. I’m going to be leaving early and stopping at the market. Is there anything special you want?”

  I flopped behind the wheel of my Jeep, the warm winds gusting around the windshield, blowing away the sadness I’d been feeling, even if just for a little while.

  “Strawberry milk. Oh! Black bean dip, Limón chips… Oh! And saladitos! The lemon-flavored salted plums. Not the apricots. Juan likes those.”

  “Such a list!” She laughed. “I’ll get what you like, don’t worry. Your brother and sisters will be here tonight, and Dave and Mary of course. I think some of the cousins said they’d stop by, but not Héctor, because he’s still mad that your papá wouldn’t loan him a hundred dollars to buy a new cat. Imagine! We tell him the pound is filled up with cats. Go get one there, but you know Héctor. He has such grand plans. Going to breed fancy cats and sell them! Aquel estúpido.”

  Yeah, Héctor was a stupid ass. His head was filled with flimsy get-rich-quick schemes. If only he would buckle down and work hard, he would succeed. That was a speech we’d gotten as kids daily. Papá would line us up before he left for work, kiss us on top of the head, and tell us that success was no accident. He would know. He’d come to America with nothing
but his pregnant wife, two kids, and a dream. Now he was the manager for ten Magic Marts in the San Luis area, and my mother ran a big dental office. They’d worked their butts off. Hard work, commitment, and a dream, Mamá had whispered to us every night. That was all a person needed to be a successful American.

  “Ignore Héctor. He’s a fool. Is Abuela making cookies?”

  “Now, what do you think?”

  “Ah, I love her. And you!” I made kissy noises into the phone. “Okay, I’m leaving now. I might stop for gas and maybe a snack…”

  “¡No! Nada de snacks! Arruinarás tu apetito.”

  I sighed dramatically. “Fine, no snacks so I don’t ruin my appetite.”

  “Good boy. Oh, and Father Delgadillo is coming as well, so make sure you shave and do not come with any trashy girl on your arm.”

  “Mamá, have I ever brought home a trashy girl?”

  “Don’t start now that you are playing for big-league teams. Find a nice girl, one who goes to church, and hopes to get married someday. God knows I wonder if Juan will ever settle down. I think maybe he is a gay. So you and your sister Luisa will have to find good spouses soon before I am too old to bounce a grandbaby on my knee. We’ll no talk babies for Elizabeth yet.”

  I let my eyes drift shut. “Luisa just graduated from nursing school. Why would she want a baby so soon? And I’m in my first year on the team. You’re not even fifty yet. I think you have some time left, eh? Si Dios quiere.”