CHAPTER TWO

COLTON

I’m blowing into my hands. I’m surprised they’re not frozen solid.

I’ve forgotten how cold it is up here in Canada, otherwise known as the ass end of the world. I’m a hot-blooded guy. Give me Spring Break and Bloody Marys on the beach—not a freeze-your-sack-off wasteland where everyone finishes sentences with ‘eh.’ It’s like Deliverance in the fucking Antarctic.

My anger is momentarily directed at my father, for destroying the good Beckett name, for being such an A-grade asshole not a single college in the States would touch me. And thus Branton, Canada, the complete opposite of Abbotsleigh in every way, right down to the shitty décor and 1990s fashion sense. The entire town’s stuck in a time warp. It’s just a jump to the left… right into a frozen lake.

But this is my only shot, my sole chance at redemption. My brother Cayden managed to tee up an ice hockey try-out with a local scout who thinks he can get me into the local shitshow of a college.

Cayden—Mr. Perfect, Giants quarterback. At least he is doing something to restore the Becketts to their former glory.

It could have you been you too if you didn’t piss away your future at Abbotsleigh, I think, which is entirely true, of course. I’m twenty-two and still trying to get my life together. But what does it really matter? Everything I touch turns to shit eventually. I’ve got fucking Hulk hands.

I’m standing outside the Branton Ice Hockey ‘Palace’ waiting, jumping from foot to foot to fight off the cold that’s no doubt sweeping in from the admittedly rather scenic mountain range that rings the town.

A group of ice hockey players passes me and heads inside, the last of them pausing and nodding in my direction.

I nod back.

He’s probably fucking his sister, I muse.

“Colton Beckett?”

I turn to face a burly looking guy wearing little more than a Maple Leafs shirt. “Yes.”

He shakes my hand vigorously. If he’s cold, he’s not showing it. He looks down, noticing how my eyes are drawn to the T-shirt. “They breed us tough up here, son. Your brother tells me you’ve got quite the talent on the ice.”

Good ol’ big brother’s really been laying it on thick. In truth, I haven’t placed ice hockey in years, too busy balls deep in lacrosse and ladies. I used to, though, back in NYC with my brothers. We’d hit the rink every Monday night. Besides, I figure there’s enough crossover between the two sports to make it work. I’ve still got the speed, the stamina… These Canadian pussies won’t know what hit them when I take to the ice.

“I do,” I nod, oozing that famous Beckett confidence that strips away inhibition, underwear, self-restraint…

“Call me Noah,” says the scout, clapping me on the shoulder with a hand so cold this guy may as well be a white walker. “Let’s head in and get you suited up.”

The nineties rerun continues inside the ‘palace,’ though the smell of wet ice and even wetter carpet does bring back a gut-heaving wave of nostalgia.

Most of the players I saw walking in are already kitted up and on the ice, the slap, slap of sticks colliding echoing off the domed ceiling.

Noah wolf-whistles to the sister fucker I saw earlier. He’s coming out of the locker rooms, changing his trajectory to meet us. Soon Noah has a hand on each of our shoulders.

“Colton, meet the star of the Branton Bears—Ricky Lake. Ricky, meet Colton Beckett.”

“Ricky Lake, like the old talk show host?” I query.

The expression that comes over Sister Fucker’s face tells me it’s the wrong question. He smiles, every inch of it seething. “Something like that.”

Noah looks to me. “Ricky will get you geared up. Scoot out there in five and we’ll have ourselves a bit of a game, see where you’re at.”

“Okay,” I nod.

Noah slaps me on the back. “Good. Great. Fantastic.”

At least they’re not short on adjectives… I could think of a few to describe the surroundings.

Ricky leads me to the locker rooms, opening a locker and gesturing inside. “Wayne’s out all season. You can use his stuff, though I’d leave his gotch alone there. Spare sticks are in the corner.”

“Thanks,” I offer, no idea what ‘gotch’ means and too afraid to ask.

He goes to walk away before stopping and shifting close to my ear. “Oh, and don’t get too comfortable.”

Here we go. “Why’s that?”

“Because American assholes who think running around a field with a cock cup is a sport don’t last long around here.”

“I don’t think you know much about lacrosse, or Americans for that matter.”

He laughs, slathering on that same shitshow grin so popular around these parts. “You’re about to learn some Canadians aren’t that polite.” He shoulder checks me. “See you on the ice, Beckett.”

“Is this ice hockey or fucking Mighty Ducks?” I shout after him.

I’m smiling simply because I’m surprised my celebrity’s spread all the way out here to Nowheresville, Canada. But fuck him. Fuck them all. I might have taken it easy, but if he wants to throw down a challenge I’ll happily serve up my big fat American balls for him to feast on.

It’s good to feel the blood rushing in my veins again as I suit up, selecting a stick from the pile, testing its weight.

I head out, a quick prayer to the Powers That Be to deliver me this one, premier ass-kicking.

The future my privilege promised me might have been robbed, yes, but I’m not about to let these winter hillbillies have the last laugh.

I spot Noah behind the glass, arms crossed and expression scout serious.

Another man in a puffer jacket skates over wearing a trucker cap. The fact that he looks like he’s weathered every World War tells me he’s the coach. He skates to a stop just as I’m about to come onto the ice. “You the American?”

“I am.”

He hands me a red armband, pointing down to the far end of the rink. “Get your ass down to the red team.”

Fucking ice. It’s slipperier than I remember, but I manage to correct myself and skate down to the end of the rink where a group of seven or so guys are waiting, all with red armbands like this is some kind of gang throw down. Not a single one introduces themselves, and that’s A-Okay by me.

I look down to the other end, pleased to see Rick ‘The Dick’ Lake is warming up with the blue team.

I slap my stick against the ice, everything starting to come back to me.

It’s like lacrosse, just with ice, I tell myself. Slippery fucking ice.

I take in the competition. For Canadians, these guys are seriously built. Must be all that poutine, pie and lack of pussy.

The whistle blows. It’s on.

Immediately, I’m slammed forward from behind. There’s enough power in it to drive me to the ice, but I correct and skate forward.

I dodge a blue defender and carve out an opening, but it soon becomes clear no one’s going to send me the puck.

The blue team scores.

This time I double the hustle, actively seeking out the puck and trying to snatch it away. I almost can’t believe it myself when I manage to do so successfuly, skating hard towards the blue goal with the puck in front of me, side-stepping one defender and looping around the next.

I can’t help but smile.

I’m Wayne Fucking Gretzky, bitch!

Something smacks into me from the side, driving me completely off my feet and into the glass. Pain shoots up my shoulder as I bounce off it and come crashing back down to the ice, the puck sliding away to be scooped up by Ricky, who skids to a stop, spraying me with ice. “Go back to your bum bandits, Beckett. There’s nothing for you here.”

I ignore the pain and get up, notice one of the other red team members shaking his head as he skates past.

Ricky scores, looping around the back of the goal laughing and smiling.

I lock my eyes on him. So you want to get physical, do you? I can do physical.

I steel myself. Fuck scoring. Fuck the rules. I only want one thing.

I skate with long, slow strokes, ignoring where the puck’s at and setting myself as close to Ricky as possible. A blue defender goes to shoulder check me, but I’m ready, cutting hard right and hammering my elbow deep into his sternum. He goes down like a sack o’ shit.

I keep on, brushing off another wannabee gangster and pinning myself to Ricky’s position. My confidence is building, that red hot nickel ball of Beckett fire starting to heat up inside me.

“Hey!” another red team member shouts, lining me up.

I take hold of my stick and draw it back, smashing him across the jaw. He spins away.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. Everyone makes for my position—red, blue, all of them jostling to take me out, but I’m quick, dancing and darting, weaving and slipping through them until I’m right on Ricky’s tail.

He takes possession of the puck, building up speed. He’s a quick little prick, but so I am.

He sees me, right on him, cutting left and right, trying to shake me off as we close in on the red goalie, but he’s not going to escape this time.

I swing left and hide myself behind a line of blue defenders, waiting until just the right moment before swooping right and lowering my body.

Poor Ricky Lake doesn’t even see it coming.

I collect him somewhere around his hips with my stick and body, lifting him skywards maybe four, five feet into the air and slamming him into the glass. He sort of rolls upwards even higher. For a second I think he’s going over the glass completely, but he drops onto the ice, the glass cracked from the impact.

Silence.

Ricky tries to get up, collapsing back to the ice dazed, blubbering away in like he’s reciting Dr. Seuss.

I’m tackled to the ice, a punch collecting my jaw, another digging into my ribs.

I’ve taken a beating before. I can take it again.

Noah and the coach arrive, shouting and ripping people off me.

I manage to get to my feet.

The coach shoves me. “Get the fuck off my rink!”

I put my hands up, skating backwards.

Ricky’s being helped up by his teammates. He spots me. “You’re fucking dead, eh. You hear me?”

“Sure do, dickhead.”

I strip off as soon as I’m off rink, leaving the gear in a pile and heading for the doors.

That went well. Don’t you think?

It’s déjà vu, another walk of shame because I can’t keep my temper under control or my dick in my pants, another lecture and big boot up my ass, rocketing me off to my next failure.

I’m halfway across the parking lot when someone grabs me from behind. I spin around with my hands up, light snow falling to the asphalt. I’m ready for a fight, but it’s Noah, the scout.

“Wait,” he says, hands up, “Jesus Christ. Just one damn moment, eh?”

I lower my hands. “Sorry.”

He points behind himself. “About what happened in there? I don’t know, almost killing the team captain and leaving his best buddy with a shiner thanks to your stick tricks, all of which was completely against the rules… You’re sorry about that, you mean?”

“It didn’t work out,” I shrug. “So yeah, sorry I wasted your time.”

I keep walking. I left my jacket inside, but fuck it. There’s no way I’m going back into that ass factory.

I take the bus to where I’m staying, a single-bedroom granny flat at the back of an old woman’s property. She’s got more fingers than teeth and smells like baking soda, but she’s been accommodating enough. Besides, it was the only place left in town.

I take a shower, cursing when the water goes from heavenly hot to ball-cuppingly cold. I slam my open fist against the tiles. “Does nothing in this fucking town work?”

The water remains icy.

Apparently not.

I dress and sit in front of the heater, watching the way the temperature dial flashes on and off, on and off.

What now, genius?

I screwed up the single chance I had here. This was my only ticket back into college, and what do I do? Five minutes in and I’ve gone full-on GI Joe.

A knock on the door startles me out of my stupor.

I answer it, holding myself.

It’s Noah, still wearing that same Maple Leafs T-shirt. “There you are,” he says, stepping in.

“How’d you—”

“Find you?” he laughs. “Hate to tell you, but everyone knows everyone in Branton. You couldn’t hide out here if you were Harry Houdini.”

I’m still not sure why he’s here. “If you’ve come to tell me to leave town… “

“Quite the contrary. I think I can get you into the college.”

The fuck? “You’re joking.”

“Your skating needs work, as does your stick-handling, and your temper… Boy, oh, boy, is there some work to be had there. But,” he says, dipping forward and taking a seat at the small breakfast table, “you’re exactly the kind of raw aggression this team needs to pull itself back onto the ladder.”

“And the coach is going to go for that after what I pulled?”

“He will… come around.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“I’ve already spoken to the Dean.” He stands, reaching into his pocket and handing me a slip of paper. “Fill in the details. Classes start after the weekend. Smart fella like you can catch up from the missed week, I’m sure.”

“Thanks,” I say, admittedly stunned.

He takes hold of the doorknob and pauses. “But Colton, as much as we need that aggression, you’re going to have to put a leash on it, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply.

“Stay focused,” he says. “I want to see you on the ice, not in a body bag.”