by RJ Scott
Benoit
Owatonna U Hockey, 3
RJ Scott
V.L. Locey
Benoit, Owatonna U Hockey, 3
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.
Dedication
To my family who accepts me and all my foibles and quirks. Even the plastic banana in my holster.
VL Locey
Always for my family,
RJ Scott
Contents
Benoit
1. Benoit
2. Ethan
3. Benoit
4. Ethan
5. Benoit
6. Ethan
7. Benoit
8. Ethan
9. Benoit
10. Ethan
11. Benoit
12. Ethan
13. Benoit
14. Ethan
15. Benoit
16. Benoit
17. Ethan
Epilogue
Want to read more?
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Coast-to-Coast
Harrisburg Railers
V.L. Locey - have you read?
RJ Scott - have you read?
Meet V.L. Locey
Meet RJ Scott
One
Benoit
Move-in day.
Senior year.
Final season with the Eagles.
Last chance to be the breakout young goalie that Edmonton would not pass up for a future higher draft pick.
No pressure.
“Mom, where are the water bottles?” I shouted from my new room on the second floor of the house Ryker and Scott had insisted I move into. The house Ryker’s father had bought and Scott and Hayne called home, although they lived in the attic/studio.
Chucking clothes aside, I then dug into bag after bag, looking for the small plastic bottles of fresh, clear Canadian water we’d packed. “Oh no, come on.” I whipped a sneaker over my head. Why had I packed one Nike but not the other? “Where are they?”
“Dude, seriously, I nearly suffered blunt head trauma walking past your door,” Ryker said, flinging the blue Nike back into my room.
I spun, my hands in fists, and gaped at my friend, and now fellow housemate, staring at me. “I can’t find the water. Ryker, I’m seriously freaking out. You know this American water isn’t fit for my crease. Have you seen my water? Where’s my mother?”
“Ben, breathe. Do the yoga stuff. In. Out. In. Out.” He padded into my room, hands up in a placating manner, his eyes nearly obscured by long wavy hair. Hair he’d let grow out over the summer for Jacob, his boyfriend, who was now back on the farm, several hours away from campus.
“Right, yeah, calming breaths. I’m okay now.” I sat on the edge of my bed, closed my eyes, and focused on inhaling and exhaling. Ryker dropped down beside me, looping an arm around my shoulders. “It’s cool. No worries. If I forgot them, Mom will just ship me more.”
“Totally correct,” Ryker said, leaning into my side a bit. “Your mom is on top of things. And your sister…”
“Dude, don’t talk about my sister unless it’s to say she’s amazing, because she is.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything about Tamara other than she’s super amazing.”
Right. I knew guys. I was one. I might not have been straight or even bi, I tended to think of myself as pan or omni, if picking categories was essential, which it’s not, but society gets hung up on labels. I tended to fall for people first and not worry over genders. Heart matters, not genitals. I did kind of dig older men for some reason, but other than that, I was open to dating anyone.
“And is really pretty.”
I opened my eyes, turned my head, and gave Ryker my best touch-her-and-die big brother look.
“And is only seventeen,” I reminded him. “And why are you checking out my sister when you have a boyfriend?”
“What? Am I dead or something? Jacob and I are allowed to look, discreetly. Man, why did you mention him?” He groaned, falling back onto my naked mattress as if he’d been shot with a crossbow. “It was like five whole minutes since I last thought of him. Seriously, Ben, I think I’m going to fucking die without him here this year.”
“Nah, you’ll be good. You can visit on weekends.” I patted his thigh.
“Sure, when the roads are passable, which is hardly ever in the winter. You’re smart. You’ve totally avoided the agony of relationships and focused on hockey. Dad told me to do that but then… Jacob.” He sighed dramatically. “I’m going to die. I can feel it. Death is imminent.”
I wanted to say something but bit down on any reply. Honestly, it wasn’t that I didn’t want someone in my life; I did. It was an aching hole inside me. Being the fifth wheel all the time sucked. But I hadn’t found the right person, and this year dating was taking a massive backseat to hockey and studying. I had to maintain good grades, and I had to make sure Edmonton didn’t let me slip through their fingers. They had thirty days after I graduated. If they opted out? Well, they just couldn’t opt out. I’d dreamed of playing for them ever since I was old enough to stand on skates. I’d grown up idolizing Grant Fuhr and then had added Malcolm Subban to my list of black goalies to emulate if and when I had the chance to go pro. I had to make it. For my heroes, for my family, and for myself and all the black kids who wanted to play the game.
No pressure at all.
“Looking for these, maybe?” Tamara asked, stepping into the doorway, in jean shorts and a flowery little summer top, holding my precious bottles of Quebec water. “He okay?”
“Yeah, he’s mourning his boyfriend.” I shot up, leaving Ryker spread out on my bed making odd, pained noises.
“Oh my God, is he dead?” my sister, who really is the prettiest and sweetest thing ever, gasped.
“No, just graduated,” I explained, taking the four half-gallon containers and hugging them to my chest. People might think that importing water from your home lake was stupid, but it wasn’t. American water wasn’t pure enough. It made the ice bumpy. I know. I’m a goalie. I have a relationship with the ice in my crease. Some tendies talk to their pipes. I groomed my ice with tender loving care, and it loved me in return. Maybe I should start dating my ice…
“I see she found you,” Mom said, carrying my pads into the room, Jared Madsen on her heels, with another box full of skates and several goalie sticks under his arms. He seemed as tired as my mother did. Kind of worried too. Guess he was more concerned about Ryker than he let on, although I’d known he was worried when he’d called me at home in Stanstead over the summer to ask me to move in here with Ryker to keep him company and on track. I’d promised I’d do my best, but it was asking a lot.
“Yeah, thanks.” I hurried to relieve my mom of my gear. Mr. Madsen dumped his armful onto the bed, covering Ryker, who lay there whining softly.
“Ryker, you have a ton of stuff yet to move in. Come on.” Mr. Madsen patted Ryker’s denim-cove
red knee, gave me a weak smile, and then left us to it.
Ryker sat up, blinked, and slouched off to help his dad with his boxes and bags. Tamara began decorating, looking for a box of thumbtacks and getting my posters of Malcolm in net and Swollen Members unrolled. Every time Mom looked at the rap group from Vancouver, she would roll her eyes at their name. Mom and Dad were more Smokey Robinson or Teddy Pendergrass lovers, although Mom had said that if she were thirty years younger, Drake would be in trouble.
“You look tense. Why are you tense already? School or hockey hasn’t even started,” Mom asked a few minutes later while we were making my bed. A double. No way did a twin fit me anymore. She shook out the flat sheet, and it drifted down over the fitted sheet hugging the mattress. “Honey, you have to remember what your father told you. The weight of the world does not rest on your shoulders. Nor does our situation.”
“I know,” I replied while I shoved the ends of the sheet under the mattress.
I heard her tut and glanced from the wadded-up sheet to her proud face. Tiny but strong, Mom had been carrying the brunt of the financial situation at home since my father had been diagnosed with sarcoidosis, an inflammatory disease that affects his organs. It was a condition that none of us had ever heard of before. Abnormal masses grow in the affected organs. For my father, it was his lungs and lymph nodes. His had gone undiagnosed for a long time, his persistent cough related to his damn smoking habit, or so we’d all assumed. His condition was chronic, and his lungs and vision were already compromised. Things had changed so much in one summer.
One day he’d gone in for a physical when he’d changed jobs and—BAM—the chest X-ray had shown some suspicious spots. It had been really stressful finding the right team of doctors and the correct diagnosis. Thank God we lived in Canada. The medical bills for his treatment and doctors would have bankrupted us if we’d lived here in the States.
Dad now suffered from shortness of breath, fatigue, and swollen joints, which kept him at home for the most part and unable to work. That was where he was now, home, running a course of meds while resting and grumbling about being on oxygen at fifty. Not being able to drive me to campus also upset him. As did the possibility of missing my games. He was my biggest fan.
If I could make a splash this season, the scouts would be all over me, talking me up, and I’d hopefully get an invite to a rookie tournament and maybe training camp. If I worked hard, I might make the team. Then I’d be making money. Real money. Money that would help ease the burden of my dad’s illness and the cost of my college education, as well as Tamara’s. This year was beyond important. There could be no distractions.
“You know, but you’re not taking it to heart,” Mom replied, as she always did whenever we discussed life and Dad’s illness.
Tamara leaped into the conversation, my favorite poster of Drake in her hand. “Okay, so how about we put Drake over the bed? This way you look up at him at night while you—”
“Tamara!” Mom gasped, erasing the creeping unease that was settling on the room.
“What? I was going to say he could look at him at night while he tries to fall asleep. God, Mom, you’re such a pervert.”
I chuckled at my sister. Always keenly aware of tension and doing her best to alleviate it. The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, and before I was ready, I was hugging my mother and sister goodbye out in the street. Mr. Madsen had left as well.
“Tell Dad I love him.” I held the passenger side door open for my mother. Tamara was driving back home. Poor Mom. I’d ridden with my sister in the past. She tended to lose track of things like speed limits when she was bopping around to whatever K-Pop band the girls were obsessing over at the moment. Not that I blamed her for her love of Asian men, but safety first, seriously.
“I want you to promise me that you’ll take time for things besides hockey.” Mom took my chin in her hand, forcing me to stare into big brown eyes just like mine and Tamara’s.
“She means find a boyfriend,” Tamara tossed out as she buckled in. “Or a girlfriend. Just get out of your head and enjoy senior year.”
I was going to reply, but the K-Pop flared to life. Mom rolled her eyes, kissed me on the cheek, and then released my chin. I closed the door soundly, patted the roof, and hurried to get back onto the curb before Tamara ran over my toes.
Poor Mom. I wasn’t sure I could do over twenty hours of BTS no matter how mouthwatering Asian guys were. Good thing they had a hotel lined up for the night. Mom would need the break. They pulled away, I waved, and then Scott appeared at my side, his thick arm resting around my neck.
“We’re doing stir-fry for dinner. You want some?”
I nodded, gave the taillights of my mother’s car a long last look, and then ambled back into the house, the smell of the fresh paint on the walls still strong. Ryker’s dads—dad and stepdad, but Tennant had informed us that we must call him ”Ryker’s Pop” just to twist Ryker’s nuts—had dropped some big cash into the place. New paint, carpeting, and a whole house rewire to get things up to code. It was nice now, clean and tidy, which I preferred. My old place had been a pigsty, and no matter how much Jacob and I had pleaded with the other guys on the team, they just would not pick up after themselves.
In the small kitchen, Hayne threw us a glance over a bare shoulder, his smile timid but welcoming. He had blue paint on his nose and in his wild curls. The guy was totally cute, shy around us yet, but not as bad as he had been, and madly in love with Scott. They kissed all the time. We sat down at the secondhand table and ate, the four of us, talking about our final year at OU while forking in pork, green peppers, mushrooms, bok choy, and broccoli florets. Hayne had graduated last year and was trying to make a go of it as an artist. The meal was perfect for athletes. I scraped the last spoonful of food out of the wok, playfully tussling over it with Ryker until Scott stole the plate from my hand and wolfed down the remains in one massive inhalation.
“Dude!” Ryker shouted, threw an arm around Scott’s neck, and they rolled to the floor, wrestling and laughing. I jumped back, as did Hayne, both of us leaping up to sit on the counters until a victor was decided.
“Who do you pick to win?” I asked Hayne.
“Mm, maybe Scott.”
“Okay, I’ll take Ryker to win. Loser cleans the kitchen.”
Hayne nodded, curls falling into his face, and we shook. Five minutes later, I was elbow deep in soap bubbles since the dishwasher was still waiting for the repairman to arrive.
“Dude cheats,” Ryker grumbled. “Tickling is totally not a wrestling move.”
“Just dry faster, giggle goose.”
“‘Giggle goose’? Really?”
“Just dry.”
“Canadians are lame chirpers.”
The second wrestling match of the night ended with Ryker washing and drying. Someone had to represent Canada and our chirping ability. Sitting on Ryker’s back while shoving my wet fingers into his ears had taught him a lesson he’d not soon forget. Truthfully, we’d both laughed like fools throughout the wet willy episode. It was kind of hard to stay mad at Ryker.
After dinner, I took a walk around campus, skates slung over my shoulder. Kids were rolling in from all over the country, and Canada, of course. The hockey and football programs here were top-notch. Stopping along the way to the rink, small squirt bottle in my back pocket, I chatted with a few returning students, several inviting me and the guys—Ryker and Scott—to this party or that party. People always wanted jocks at their parties. I smiled politely because I am Canadian and said we’d see if we could make it.
I had no intention of going to any parties this year unless they were team-sponsored events. Ryker going was doubtful, not without Jacob at his side, and Scott needed to stay as far away from booze and dope as he could get. Plus, Scott was happy at home with Hayne, cuddling on the couch, kissing and touching, whispering as lovers do. A twang of envy flared to life as I strolled around the quad. I swallowed that down like a sour belch. There was no point in
dwelling over romance. This year I was a monk. Just call me Father Morin. No parties, no sex, no falling in love with this girl’s eyes or that guy’s lips. Work, study, focus, serenity. Those were my four agreements, my personal guide to making sure life went as I needed it to go.
Passing the massive football stadium, skates draped casually over my shoulder, I slipped into the hockey rink, the warm August air replaced by the snap of artificial cold. I breathed in the smell of ice and men and felt a knot in my shoulders loosen. It had always been this way with me and hockey. The sounds, the smells, the speed, and the competition. It was close to a religious experience or perhaps even a sexual one.
“Brain, you’ve got to stop with the sex shit, okay? We’re chaste this year, remember?” I mumbled, trotting along toward the Eagles locker room, then hanging a right to the tunnel that led to the ice. And there it was. Eagles home ice. The screaming raptor already painted into the circle at the center ice. The ice was pristine, untouched by any skate, virginal, innocent of the way of barbaric hockey players who would gouge it up and spit on it, bleed and fight on it, strive to make dreams come true on it. It was chaste, and I was going to pop its… “Brain, come on, we’ve got to stop this. Trust me, it’s going to be a long dry spell. We need to focus on the important things.”
I needed to go home and meditate. But this took precedence. I sat on the Eagles bench, toed off my ratty sneakers, and slid my feet into my goalie skates. The ice glittered and winked at me, an alluring temptation. The only temptation that I could indulge in for two semesters.