The Good Green Earth (Colors of Love Book 3)

by V. L. Locey

  The Good Green Earth

  Colors of Love #3

  V.L. Locey

  Contents

  The Good Green Earth

  The Good Green Earth

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  What’s next in the Colors of Love series

  A note from the author

  About the Author

  Other Books by V.L. Locey

  The Good Green Earth

  (Colors of Love #3)

  By

  V.L. Locey

  M/M Hockey Romance

  Will their attraction grow into something deeper, or will it wither and die on the vine?

  After the Syracuse Stallions clinch the championship, Nathan Zinkan, the renowned wild man of the AHL is arrested for a DUI. Again. When a no-nonsense judge adds a heavy dose of community service to an already stiff sentence, Nathan has to forget a summer of partying and slide on a pair of gardening gloves. His entire future now rides on how well he can behave while helping elderly urban gardeners tend to their tomatoes.

  Watching local garden center owner Bran Cavanaugh working without his shirt is a benefit he wasn’t expecting. Pity Bran is also the one in charge of the community garden as well as keeping tabs on Nathan’s hours served. The two men are instantly at odds due to Nathan’s rebellious nature and Bran’s icy demeanor. Yet there’s no denying the attraction that begins to build between the hot-headed athlete and the cool as a cucumber master gardener.

  Copyright

  MM Hockey Romance

  The Good Green Earth (Colors of Love #3)

  Copyright © 2019 V.L. Locey

  First E-book Publication: September 18, 2019

  Cover design: Sloan J Designs

  Edited by: Kathy Krick

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2018 Sloan’s Design Shop

  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.

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

  PUBLISHER: V.L. Locey

  ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to only ONE LEGAL copy for your own personal reading on your own personal computer or device. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. 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, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer.

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Created with Vellum

  Stick Taps

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

  To my alphas, betas, editors, and proofers who work incredibly hard to help me make my books the shiniest we can make them.

  To Rachel who helps keep me on time, in line, and reasonably sane.

  The Good Green Earth

  Chapter One

  “In all honesty, Nate, it could have been much worse.”

  I threw my agent a dark look, the darkest one I had, but he just kept walking at my side as we left the Onondaga County Courthouse. My attorney had left me with Arn to rush off to handle some other stupid slob who’d gotten his ass in a bind.

  “Explain to me just how it could be worse,” I snapped. My hands balled into fists and jammed into the front pockets of my dress slacks. I’d ripped off the matching blue suit jacket and silver tie the moment we’d left the chambers of the honorable Judge Bend Over Zinkan and Spread Your Cheeks. I pushed around a dude in shorts and a sleeveless hoodie texting as he crossed Clinton Square. Arn made a sound that told me just how irritated he was becoming with me. Good. I was happy to hear that I’d finally ruffled the feathers of the neatly groomed black man who’d been my one and only representative since the age of sixteen.

  “Okay, for starters, he didn’t give you thirty days in jail as the law says he could have.”

  I scoffed outwardly but inwardly I knew that I’d avoided a bullet on that one. Young athlete in his prime, looking like I did with my tats, my nose ring, my body, and my black and pink undercut hair would have been the center of all kinds of manly attention in prison. Not that I disliked manly attention, I kind of dug it. Nathan Zinkan enjoyed all kinds of attention—especially male attention. That was the best kind of attention. Actually, it was the only kind of attention I desired. And I was not shy about my preferences. I wore my gayness like I did my tats, my hair, and my nose piercing. Loudly and proudly. I just liked consent to accompany my man attention. Call me funny that way.

  “Yeah well, all the other shit he slapped me with made up for it.” We left the imposing white domed courthouse and all its bad vibes behind, my gaze locked on the reflecting pool. Now it was a happy little water play area but in the winter it was a skating rink that was supposed to reflect old time days when Syracusans skated on the canals. “I’ve lost my license for six months. I have to enroll in that stupid IDP program, and I have to spend my whole summer pulling weeds and spraying aphids.”

  Arn took hold of my elbow to slow my pace a bit. My gaze flittered from the kids playing in the pool to my agent. “Nate, listen, I know that a thousand hours of community service seems a little excessive to you but given that this is your second drunk driving charge in two years, I tend to think the judge was pretty damn lenient.” I gave him a good eye roll but said nothing. “Well, kid, you can look at it like this. It’s better to be out in the fresh air squeezing tomatoes and helping senior citizens than it is to be inside a cell with a guy named Killer who hates punk-ass hockey players with electric pink hair and a diamond nose stud.”

  “You think I’m a punk?” The sound of children’s laughter floated by on a warm June wind.

  Arn ran a hand over his closely cropped hair. “Nate, I think you’re young, financially secure, and successful, and therefore, you’re prone to making stupid decisions.” He left out a lot about my family and for that I was grateful. Arn knew all about the mess that the Zinkan family was. He’d seen the dysfunction first hand.

  “Yeah, okay.” I shook free of his hold and stalked to the nearest bench where I dropped down like a ton of shitty bricks.

  Arn sat down next to me, placed his briefcase on his thighs, and drew in a long, slow, calming breath. I had that effect on people in positions of authority. Teachers, coaches, cops, agents, my older brother, clergy, dog catchers, airline pilots, librarians…hell anyone who thought they could tell me what to do. I had a real issue with being told what to do, when to do it, and where to do it.

  “Nate, you’re a skilled youn
g man and you’ll go far but you have got to pull your head out of your ass or you’re going to sabotage your future. We are still hoping to move up into the NHL, right?”

  “Yes,” I muttered. My shoulders bowed in as I wallowed in self-pity.

  “Okay, then you have to stop being such a wild man. The drinking, the parties, the clubs, the attitude, the sexual antics, the drunken driving. It has to stop. Nate, look at me.” I forced myself to glance at Arn. He was a handsome dude for someone in their forties. Lean, smart, always well-dressed, and nice. Nicer than my older brother was, that was for sure. “Do you understand that you could have killed someone while driving under the influence?”

  Guilt gnawed at me, making my stomach cramp. Of course I knew that I could have killed someone. I’d woken up in cold sweats numerous times, the ghostly fingers of what could have been wrapped around my throat, choking the breath out of me. Remorse rode me like a circus pony.

  “I was barely over the legal limit,” I quickly fired back. Fuck. One stupid joy ride with the championship trophy in my new convertible Mustang and this mess was the result.

  “That’s not the point. One beer can cloud a person’s judgment. What if you had plowed into a family instead of a tool shed out in Cazenovia? What if someone had been inside that shed looking for a weed eater?”

  I nibbled on the inside of my cheek. “I know. I just…we were celebrating.” Christ’s sake, I had little to celebrate in life aside from hockey achievements. Maybe I did overdo it at times…

  “I know, kid, I know, but every decision we make has consequences. You skipping college to jump into the game, picking me to represent you, all good decisions.” I snorted. He went right on talking like a father or something. “You have the goods to make it in the pros, but you keep shooting yourself in the foot. Professional hockey teams do not want troublemakers. And you’re one more fuck up away from being branded troublesome, and then you know where you’ll be playing? Not in Manhattan that’s for sure. This organization will trade your ass to the first team or league that expresses an interest, and that won’t be many. But maybe you want to play for some shitty little team in the outer reaches of Bungholia?”

  “No, I want to play in New York City,” I said with conviction, my gaze moving over the people of Syracuse enjoying an early summer day as if my life wasn’t imploding like a house of cards.

  “Then use this summer to get your act together. Work hard, stop being an ass, and when training season comes make sure you show up in shape, ready to play, and without that hoodlum attitude you’re so famous for.”

  “Hoodlum,” I repeated then chuckled. “Dude, you are hideously old.”

  “Yeah well, I might be outdated but I’m not spending my summer picking potato bugs.” He slapped my thigh and pushed to his feet. “You want a ride home?”

  “Uhm, yeah, I guess I’ll need a lift since I don’t have my license anymore.”

  “Really sucks to be you right now,” he said then ambled off whistling, his briefcase swinging back and forth. That was a pretty righteous potshot. God, what a merry asshole Arn Toras could be. And what a shit day this had been. And I suspected come tomorrow at nine in the morning, things were going to get a whole lot worse.

  The worst things didn’t even wait until the next day. They piled on as soon as I walked into my studio apartment in Canal Towers, a huge red-brick building that overlooked the Syracuse Inner Harbor. The Erie Canal was a big deal here in Syracuse, and throughout most of upstate New York as it linked Syracuse and a slew of other cities with Lake Erie. Lots of history around the canal could be found here in town. Just about everything had the word ‘canal’ attached to it. There was even a museum one could visit if one wished to know about canals. I personally didn’t care much about the canal, but it drew all kinds of visitors. You see one big trench filled with water you’ve pretty much seen them all. Sure, it’s kind of cool to think about mules dragging boats along the Erie Canal back in the old days. Hell, maybe back then people didn’t get sentenced to gardening all summer simply for swerving his new car to avoid a dog. Probably people ran their horse and buggy into garden sheds all the time in the olden days. Horse sees a rabbit and gets spooked then races off and crashes into a shed. Bet that happened all the time with no repercussions aside from a dead horse and a promise to help Jedidiah build a new shed.

  Flopping down onto my couch, I kicked off my dress shoes, cracked open a bottle of cold pink lemonade and turned on my phone. I’d turned it off before going into court and hadn’t had the balls to reconnect with the world since my sentencing. After a long pull on my lemonade, I placed the bottle on the oval coffee table. My phone vibrated steadily as it loaded all the missed calls and texts. While it did that, I took off my dress shirt and pitched it over the end of the dark brown sectional. A soft breeze whistled through the sliding door that I’d left cracked. I was on the seventh floor of a twelve-story building, so unless a thief was Peter Parker he wasn’t gaining access. Apartment seven on floor seven. Man, I had finagled to get this place. I wore number seven and had pulled every string I could when my realtor had shown me this place when I’d arrived here in Syracuse two years ago. Fresh from the draft, thrilled to be chosen number one by the Manhattan Mustangs. Two years later, and a Calder Cup win under my belt, good old number seven was ready to go pro. Shame the pros weren’t ready for good old number seven.

  Reaching for my lemonade, I sighed, fell back into the cushion and drained the bottle in one long pull. Then I balanced the empty on my abs, my eyes resting not on my stomach but on the tattoo of a broken clock with the name Jacob inked into the clock face instead of numbers, over my heart. God but I missed him. He had been the only one who really got me. He’d been the only one who stood up for me. He’d be so disgusted with me right now. I cleared the wad of shame from my throat, coughed, and watched the bottle bounce up then tumble to the couch. It rested there beside me while I sorted through hundreds of messages from friends, teammates, and the press asking for interviews.

  “Fuck you,” I snarled at the press corps requests. They’d fucking roasted me when I’d been arrested again. Not one of them had said ‘Hey, maybe Nate is just kind of lost right now. Let’s give him a break, okay?’ Nope, every damn sports reporter from Syracuse to Los Angeles had pointed out my faults—repeatedly. Now they wanted me to play nice and sit here in my home, looking contrite, and beg them and the fans for forgiveness? “Fuck you all.”

  The urge to whip my phone over the railing of my balcony and watch it plummet down to the ground below was strong. I’d wait though. After all, Chris had texted seventeen times. And if there was one thing the youngest Zinkan boy did not do, it was piss off the eldest Zinkan boy.

  To save wear and tear on my thumbs, I called my older brother and got to my feet as soon as the call went through. Gunnery Sergeant Zinkan picked up in four rings. He was stationed in Fort Irwin. I opened the sliding door wider and stepped out onto the balcony. There were a couple chairs and a table out here. I pushed around the round table that still had empty beer bottles and a bag of corn chips sitting on it from the night before and rested my hip against the sturdy wrought-iron rail. I braced myself, eyes shut, face into the prevailing wind, for the evisceration that was about to take place.

  “What did they give you?” Chris asked bluntly. No greeting or attempt to be pleasant.

  “And hello to you too, big brother,” I snapped, squeezing my eyes so tight that my forehead ached.

  “Skip the bullshit pleasantries. If you meant them they might have more meaning, but we all know you only care about yourself.” And so it began. “What did the judge give you?”

  I prattled off my sentencing as gulls cried out. The water and the people attracted the birds to the city. Sometimes they sat on my railing. I fed them old bread and shit. It was kind of like having pets but not having to care for them, which fit me because I only cared about me. Ask Chris, he’ll tell you all about greedy, immature, embarrassing Nate.

  “He
should have sent you to prison for a few months,” my beloved older brother sniped. I opened my eyes and looked down on Syracuse. From here you could see the domed roof of the Canal Energy Arena, where the Stallions played. I wished I was there now. Pity the ice was gone and there was a sporting show setting up. Maybe I should go anyway and forget my phone and this condescending ass of a sibling. Why do I let him hurt me like I do?

  “Thanks,” I huffed, spinning from the railing to drop my ass into one of two plastic chairs that matched the round white table.

  “Maybe some time in the brig would straighten your ass out. If Jacob could see you now…”

  I kind of drifted off then because I knew this whole thing by rote. One of my gulls appeared, swooping down to land on the railing. I smiled at the bird who bobbed his head at me as if telling me to stop being such a lazy dick and feed his hungry feathered ass.

  “…his life in the fucking desert like a hero. All of us have made the military our lives, served with pride, and then there you are ruining chance after chance that life hands you. I’m glad Dad’s not able to grasp what you’ve become, Nate.”

  I tossed a corn chip at the gull. It landed on the cement and he flapped down to pick it up. Then he shit on my patio.

  “Et tu, Gilbert?” I whispered to the gull as Chris went on and on about my lack of discipline, my lack of conviction, my lack of morals (because I put my dick into men, and Chris was still having trouble with that whole icky thing) and my lack of anything decent or good. “Okay, so,” I pushed into Chris’s rant. “I’m going to be doing this gardening thing starting tomorrow. I won’t be able to come out and visit Dad at the home like I had planned on.”