It`s time for Tuesday Tales!
Today we have a snippet from The Good Green Earth, Colors of Love #3.
Our word prompt today is “Potshot” and in this excerpt we drop into a conversation between Nate Zinkan, the wild boy of the AHL who has been recently arrested for another DUI, and his agent, Arn Toras. This dialog takes place after Nate has been sentenced.
This story may have gay erotic scenes, strong social issues addressed and mature language. If those things offend now is the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales blog. Thanks for stopping by!
“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 the hell was for sure. “Do you understand that you could have killed someone while driving under the influence?”
“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 judgement. 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.”
“I know, kid, I know, but every decision we make has consequences. You skipping college to jump into the game, leaving Ohio, 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 on Broadway,” 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 off plants.” 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.
Copyright 2018 ©by V.L. Locey
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