Scott (Owatonna Book 2)

by RJ Scott

  Giving Dad what he wanted to hear had been a particular strength of mine, but why Dad had listened to me that bright, shining day, I’ll never know, because he let Luke go. Positively encouraged him out of the door with a promise he’d come back a more focused hockey player.

  Luke had never come home.

  The grief hit me like a sledgehammer, and I came to an abrupt halt just by the Zamboni door, gripping the wood, staring down at my glove, and dropping my stick to the ice.

  He never came home.

  “Scott? Hey, you dropped your stick.” Lissa buzzed around me like a fly, nudging me, tugging me away from the wall, skating backward, guiding me in that lazy circle I’d been trying to do. She skated over to my stick and dropped it over the wall, then came back to me. “Lift me,” she ordered imperiously, and I released her hold and held out my hands encased in the hockey gloves.

  “How exactly,” I said, worried she was coming on to me, concerned that I’d done something to give her the idea I wanted to pick her up.

  “Take them off, then stand absolutely still.” She left me then, circling me, as I took off my gloves and tossed them with the stick. Then she held out her arms. “Brace yourself. Balance with me.” She leaped at me, scaring the hell out of me, but I caught her close, and she wrapped her legs around me and let go of her hold. Abruptly I had a handful of arched figure skater.

  “Shit, Lissa, I’m going to drop you.”

  She twisted in my hold. “Lift me higher,” she demanded. I didn’t have a choice. She weighed nothing, and in seconds I had her over my head. She laughed as she arched her back, then swung herself down to finish the move with a pirouette and a smile. “Now let’s skate.”

  I really didn’t want to argue with her, and together we did a circuit of the rink.

  “Now faster,” she said and set off, turning to face me, and then just as quickly jumping to skate hard. She did a whole lap while I thought about it, and then I was with her. I matched her speed in the corners, but on the straights, she had everything going for her, and she sped away. We skated like that for what seemed like hours, and by the time we stopped, I was sweaty, and my mind was blank, and I felt like I’d done something real for the first time since the crap that had me thrown from the team.

  She left then, and it was only six thirty, so I skated slow circles and welcomed the burn in my muscles. I sensed someone else joining me, but I didn’t see them until a body stopped me skating and a very familiar figure grinned at me. Ben.

  “Scott, let’s work.”

  “Ben, I—”

  “I’m having issues with my glove hand.” Ben took up residence in the net, looking every inch the goalie, bouncing on his skates, waiting. “Come on, do me a solid.”

  I retrieved my gloves and stick, not sure how I could say no without appearing like a complete asshole and took the bucket of pucks Ben had, and scattered them on the ice.

  What if I’ve forgotten how to do this?

  I corralled the first puck, the weight of it against my stick reassuring, then, blades cutting into the ice, I sent it toward Ben. It was a nothing shot, direct, easy to stop, and Ben stretched out after catching it and sliding it back.

  “Again,” he ordered.

  We did this all the time, spending hours on the ice, me shooting pucks at him, both of us learning from each other. Correction, we used to do this all the time. I hadn’t been on ice with him in weeks, but something clicked inside, and abruptly I was back with accuracy and strength. It took up until puck eleven, but finally I got one past Ben’s glove, and I did it again and then again, and each time he whooped, and I threw a celly, and there it was… I was back.

  Of course, when he skated off the ice, chattering on about some game he was playing with Ryker online, I realized I wasn’t back at all. It was just a few moments of normalcy, nothing more.

  Ben left first, only because I hung back. The last thing I wanted to do was spend time discussing what we’d just done, and me staying back meant that Coach Quinton found me, cornered me, and gave me the look.

  The look that said, Scott, you are fucked.

  “Scott,” he began. I edged away slowly, heading for the door. “I have a proposition for you.”

  I stopped trying to escape and waited for him to explain.

  “We’re looking for someone to work with the kids on a Tuesday and Thursday, short drills, some team building, the ten and eleven-year-olds. Not much in the way of money, but they could benefit from some help from you.”

  I couldn’t help the snort of derision. “Yeah, right, like the parents are going to want me anywhere near their kids.”

  Coach settled that glower on me. “I vouched for you,” he snapped. “You want to make me look stupid to the hockey moms?”

  “No, Coach,” I replied instinctively, my hockey player heart falling right in line with the coach.

  “I’ll email you the schedule, be there on time for your first session. Don’t be late.”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “And I want you and Ben to set up regular practice. You want back on the team next year, you work your ass off to keep up your skills.”

  Did I want to be back on the team? Probably not if it meant dealing with my dad and the pressure of academia with sports and the fact that my world view had shifted. I’d need to talk it over with Hayne. He made me see my life in a very different way; not the blue-white of ice but through a prism of rainbow colors.

  “Yes, Coach.”

  He grunted something. “You keeping okay?” he asked, staring at me as if he could see through me.

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “You want to talk about anything, I’m here. In fact, I want to see you in my office each week before the Thursday kids-shift.”

  I could’ve said no; I wasn’t on the team, he wasn’t really my coach anymore, but I didn’t say any of that.

  I nodded. “Yes, Coach.”

  As I walked back to Hayne, I felt lighter, or if not lighter, then at least not weighed down with blackness. I stopped just outside the door, hands pushed into my pockets, my gear over my shoulder, my stick gripped tightly, and stared at the number on the wall. The digits gave me a focus, and the anticipation grew for talking to Hayne, telling him about Lissa with the lift, and Ben with the glove side issue, and teaching kids skills, and having to talk to Coach.

  The door opened before I could open it myself, and Craig came out, his eye turning purple.

  “Fuck, if it isn’t the ice-skating fanny bandit,” he sneered.

  “Fuck, if it isn’t the lawn fairy meathead,” I shot back.

  “Fuck you, asshole,” he said and pushed past me.

  “Not with all the lube in the world,” I muttered, and he shot me a look that spoke volumes. Still, he didn’t stay, rushing away and nearly falling onto his ass on the ice.

  When I went upstairs, the door was still locked, and when I went inside, Hayne lay on his back staring at the sky through the skylight.

  “Okay?” he asked, and the single word held so many questions that I am sure he wanted to ask.

  “Are we?” I began and realized immediately I was being far too cryptic. “I mean, are we okay? Did I fuck it all up?”

  He sat up and shook his head. “No, I promise you didn’t.”

  I sat next to him, making sure to leave my sweaty gear by the door. We knocked elbows, and I couldn’t help but feel lighter when he took my hand in his and linked our fingers.

  “You know what, Hayne? I like it here.”

  Ten

  Hayne

  Winter stayed around a long time in Minnesota. I was kind of glad of that because if it was cold and ugly outside, Scott tended to spend more time inside with me. We were… well, we were something unique and special. We kissed and laughed a lot, jerked each other off even more, and slept wound around each other. He was my first lover and my first love. I’d come to realize how much I loved him two days ago when we’d been going through the stack of textbooks in the corner that we co
uld trade at the campus bookstore for money. It wasn’t any kind of huge thing; no angels sang or such. I just looked up from book sorting when he’d tugged on a curl. He did that frequently and for no apparent reason. Our eyes met, and my pulse skipped several beats, and I knew he now held my heart.

  So yes, the books would bring us some cash. Not much money, for sure, but some. We were two perfect examples of poor college students. I brought home the old baked goods every Friday when I locked up Cream the Beano for the weekend. Nothing like staying alive with stale doughnuts and ramen noodles. I was happy, though. Super happy. Happier than I had ever thought I would be.

  Backpack stuffed with old books, I stumbled into the campus bookstore and nearly wiped out a rack filled with OU bookmarks and highlighters.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said to the rack as I righted it.

  “No worries, it’s always getting knocked over.” I glanced around the rack to find Ryker, Scott’s friend, smiling down at me. Ah, no wonder the rack stood back up so easily. He was on the other side helping. “Guess I need to find a place away from the front door to set it up.”

  “Yeah, hey,” I said, hiking the hundred pounds—or so it felt—of books up over my shoulder. “Hi, Ryker.”

  “Hi, Hayne.” He jerked his chin at the huge bag on my back. “Trading some in, eh?”

  “Oh, yeah, the attic is really full what with my art stuff and Scott’s hockey stuff. Plus, we need the money.”

  “Let’s see what you have here.” He lifted the backpack off me, and I sighed in relief. “You know it’s not going to be close to what you paid for them, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.” I followed him to the counter, glad to have that weight gone.

  “How are things at Cream the Beano?”

  “Meh, it’s dull during classes, but between classes I sell a ton of coffee.” I blew some curls out of my face and helped Ryker stack all the books into a neat pile.

  “Okay, this will take a bit. I have to look up the books online and see what we’re giving on trade-in.” He lifted the top textbook and looked at it as if it were some weird alien artifact. “Art History and the Restoration of the Sistine Chapel. Sounds… riveting.”

  I giggled a bit. “It actually kind of was. It’s an artist thing.”

  “Hey, it’s got to be better than some of the books my boyfriend reads. Graphic pictures too, like of palpating cows.” My eyes flared. “Yeah, dating a farmer is a life experience.”

  “You two seem happy though,” I said off-handedly while I played with the edge of a book dealing with nineteenth-century art.

  “We are.” His smile nearly blinded me. “I can say the same about Scott, too. During our coffee breaks, he’s always talking about you. He’s totally wrapped up in you.”

  I could feel my cheeks glowing. “I’m not sure about that,” I mumbled, flicking the edge of the book with my fingernail. He’d never said he loved me. Of course I had never said it to him either. Maybe he didn’t love me as I loved him.

  “Trust me, the dude is crazy about you. Hey, you’re coming to the party tonight, right? The Valentine’s one for the hockey team?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Scott hasn’t said anything about it…”

  “Ugh, what a shithead. I’ll text him and remind him.”

  “No! No, don’t do that. If he wants me to go with him, he has to ask me. That’s how knights behave.”

  “Knights?” His dark brows were tangled.

  “I mean… knights like uhm, I have to get to class.” I waved at the mound of books. “Can you total those up and give Scott the cash? Thanks. Bye!”

  I ran for the door, colliding into it when two girls pushed it open. They laughed. I muttered an apology, then streaked out into the corridor.

  As I padded across campus, I began to really notice all the hearts in all the windows and all the couples walking along holding hands. I wanted that too. With Scott.

  All during my Art 403 class, which was two hours long, I mulled over how to get Scott to ask me to that dance/party thing without appearing desperate. When Professor Tritchie, who was also my department advisor, tapped me on the back of the head with a paintbrush, then pointed out that my canvas held nothing but a blue dot, I made up some sort of crap about it being a conceptual approach to the infinite number of pixels that comprise a drop of rain. She looked at me over the top of her paint-speckled glasses.

  “Uh-huh. Well, since this is going to be your senior independent work and must, in some way, correlate with your senior thesis, I suggest that you may wish to add a few more dots or read up on the cellular structure of raindrops. I’m rather sure they’re not comprised of pixels.”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  Ugh. Class couldn’t end quickly enough.

  Pixelated raindrops. Brilliant, Hayne. Focus on school and not Scott. You’ve got a thesis to write and a senior independent work to start. Stop daydreaming about a stupid party on Valentine’s Day with a man who will move out as soon as he’s able.

  I really hated my inner me at times. Not as much as I hated that blue dot, though. I swiped a brush through it, glowered at the indigo smudge, and then asked for a new canvas. The new one sat there untouched until class was over. Then I ambled home, careful to tiptoe up to the attic in case Craig was prowling the house. He did that now, prowled and threw dark looks whenever he saw me. I seriously considered asking him to leave, but I was afraid to do so. Life really sucked when you were a Hayne.

  “Hey, where were you?” Scott asked when I slipped inside the attic. It was nice and warm up there, and the air smelled of Scott’s aftershave, and turpentine. It was an erotic smell to me. “Ryker handed me a fistful of money over coffee. We’re rich!” I tugged off my socks and joined him on the bed, sitting cross-legged in front of him. “Between your old books and mine, we’ve got over eighty bucks.”

  I frowned at the four twenties and five ones lying on the crocheted covering. I’d known that the trade-in would be meager, but shit, that was really horrible. I guess art books weren’t high on the resell listings or something.

  “Forty-two dollars each.” I sighed.

  He cupped my chin and lifted my eyes to his. “Okay, what’s wrong? I mean, I know it’s not a fortune, but it’s over forty bucks. We can buy some real food with it or maybe go to a movie.”

  “I want to go to the Valentine’s Day party tonight!” I blurted out. His blue-green eyes widened at the explosion. “I do. I know you don’t because of things, but I want to go and dance with you and hold your hand and have people know that you’re my Valentine, even though we never really said we were Valentines, and we’re not really serious or exclusive—I’m exclusive of course because no one wants to date a mop-headed queer artist—but all the doors had hearts on them, and I’ve never been to a party with a man I care about, and I… this is nothing about the blue dot and my senior thesis… okay, it kind of is because Professor rapped me on the head during class for daydreaming about you and me doing a waltz at the party when I should have been painting, but I don’t know how I got here to the blue dot, but I think it’s kind of confusing you, isn’t it?”

  “Uhm, no, not really, yes. Yes, I got seriously confused there.” He kissed me before I could spout more stupidity. My eyes drifted shut as soon as his soft lips touched mine. I chased him for more kissing when he leaned back and broke the kiss. “I didn’t think you did jock parties or wanted to hang with athletes.”

  “I want to be out with you. Just once before I graduate I want to go to a college event with a man who desires me.”

  “Then we’ll go.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yep, but you have to open this letter that came for you today.” He pulled a long, white envelope out from under his ass. “It’s from the Minnesota Museum of American Art.”

  “No,” I gasped, my heart now lodged in my throat. Scott grinned at me and tapped the return address on the envelope. “No, oh no. I… do you think they want it? I thought they’d call or text or email o
r… no, oh no.” I buried my face in my hands. “Open it for me. No! Don’t open it.”

  “Why not?” He tugged on my hand. I shook my head, curls sliding back and forth over my splayed fingers.

  “No, I can’t. If they turn me down, it will ruin our Valentine’s Day night out. Let it sit until we come back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No…”

  Scott chuckled, kissed my finger, and tore open the envelope. “From the desk of Diana Ford-Gray, executive director and blah blah blah…”

  “I’m going to faint,” I said into my palms.

  “I’ll read faster,” Scott said. Then the room fell silent aside from my heated breaths against my hands. “Uhm… excellent showing of vibrant imagery, color, and bold dramatic contrasts. Wonderful saturation, symmetry, and depth. Uhm… something about organic shapes of winter and nature, flowing forms and focal points. They would be thrilled to include Winter Knight in the Winter’s Wrath showing. Please sign and return the enclosed permission forms, and we will include your work in the exhibition beginning March 1 and ending April 1. Thank you… look forward to working with you in the future… promising career ahead… blah, blah, signed Diana Ford-Gray.”

  “Oh. My. God.” I fell into his arms, crying into my palms. Scott scooped me up and held me close, rubbing my back, kissing my curls, and showering me with congratulations and praise. I wiggled around on his lap, took his face between my hands, and kissed him hard and long. “You’re a blessing, Scott. Without you, this would have never happened! My love for you is all over my work! Oh! I have to call Mimi and Mom. They have to come see it in the museum!”

  I leaped off his lap, desperate to find my phone and call home. Scott sat there, letter beside him on the bed, looking at me for the longest time. I bounced around the attic, floated actually, squealing with Mom on the phone, while setting up a trip to campus for them on the opening night of my artwork being displayed. I whirled and danced as I got changed for the party and then tugged Scott up from our bed, red scarves dangling off my neck, and chattered the entire walk to The Aviary.