Summary:
LA Storm #1Hollywood A-lister Finn might be Canadian, but he needs Cameron to show him how to hockey.
Actor Finn Kerrigan is at a crossroads. After growing up a soap star, then starring in a hugely successful trilogy of action movies, he's finally given the chance to read a heartfelt and passionate script that could change his life forever. The role would be enough for people to see him as a serious actor, and maybe even win him an award or two (and no, a golden raspberry award for his action movies doesn't count). Once established as a serious actor he’s sure he can come out of the closet and finally live his truth. When he lies to get the part of a hockey player on a struggling team, he suddenly has nowhere to hide. He might be Canadian, but the last time he skated he was ten, and no, he doesn't have hockey in his blood. With only a month until filming starts, he about to be exposed, but partnered with a player who’s supposed to be giving him tips, he doesn’t realize how many of his secrets will come to light. Falling in lust, one heated kiss at a time, is inevitable, but giving Cameron up at the end of the shoot could break his heart.
Cameron Chavkin is the face of the LA Storm. And the body, and the hair, and the smile. He’s at the prime of his career, men and women want to be with him, and he’s skating better than he ever has before. His house sits next to a famous rock star's mansion, his garage is filled with expensive cars, and he’s even been asked to mentor a once-famous actor in a new hockey movie. Life is pretty sweet. Until the bad boy of hockey meets Finn, a man on the edge with more secrets than Cameron has endorsements. Knowing better than to get involved, Cameron is swept up despite himself, and when it's time to say goodbye to the Storm’s most eligible bachelor is finding it hard to follow the script.
Original Review August 2023:
I'm not Canadian(though my Irish ancestors did settle there for a time before coming to America but no Canadian blood in my veins) but I am from Wisconsin, the frozen tundra, perhaps we're more of a football state than hockey but as I live so close to the WI/MN border and only get MN sports coverage, hockey is everywhere. Never been a hockey fan, don't hate it just never piqued my interest so I get the way Finn feels when he talks about hockey should be in his blood but not really flowing😉.
Truth is: again like Finn, I don't skate, haven't had a pair of ice skates on since 6th grade and the last winter our elementary school made an ice rink in a huge dug out hole for recess. So I completely get Finn's need for assistance as well as the pains(and the hoorays when succeeding) he feels trying to just master standing😉.
I want to wrap Finn so tight in a bone-crushing Mama Bear Hug to let him know that everything will work out, that his fans will accept his true self but in truth not everyone will. In fiction so many things work out in HEA, which is a great thing because we all need HEAs to brighten our days and to give us hope, but sometimes that makes the hate in the real world uglier. Hate may not be in the majority but there are times when it seems to have the louder voice. So again I understand Finn's reluctance to be open about who he is and what is driving him to master this upcoming role because it's more than just what it can do for his career it's about what it can do for him as a member of the LGBTQ community. I definitely teared up more than once during Finn's part of Script.
Okay, that got a little maudlin and preachy, I apologize for that. Don't let my above sentiment bring you down or steer you away from this first entry in Scott & Locey's new LA Storm series. Despite my emotional thoughts on Finn, Script is very fun, very entertaining, very dramedy bordering on rom-comy at times, and oh so very Scott & Locey.
I'll briefly mention Cameron(and it really will be brief unlike previous points), he is a player who is dealt the blow that no athlete or fan wants and yet 150% find themselves in at some point in their career/life. Falling short of that brass ring or silver trophy as in this case. Not everyone can win, somebody has to lose it's just the name of the game, if you can't accept that then you are in the wrong profession/fangirling-or-guying. Cameron understands that, doesn't mean he likes it but it's part of being in that life. Let's face it Finn couldn't have chosen a more perfect athlete to seek out for lessons in the art of hockey, skating, and losing considering the role he's training for.
On the ice and off, Finn and Cameron are a wonderfully matched pair and I can't think of a scenario for a more powerful chemistry-fueled start to this newest Scott/Locey Hockey Universe series. Spot on, Ladies, SPOT ON!
Was I ready to say goodbye(at least as a front and center team) to the Boston Rebels? No. But then I wasn't ready to move away from the Raptors when Rebels started, Owatonna when Raptors came, and certainly not the Railers when Owatonna began. As the Railers are the cornerstone of the Scott/Locey Hockey Universe we still get the occasional holiday/lifetime milestone novella though. Truth is we never really say goodbye to any of the players in the authors' universe as it's the same league and returning favorites tend to pop up here and there. And when LA Storm ends and a new team emerges, I'll be sad to say goodbye to them as well, but when you're a sports fan there is always the sadness of the offseason which is kinda what going from one team series to the next feels like, one ends but a new fresh start begins and the adrenaline rush of a clean slate is wildly addictive and seductive.
I don't know just how many stories the Scott/Locey Hockey Universe has to tell but long as they keep creating them, I'll keep reading them. Not too bad for a not-really-a-hockey-kind-of-gal, guess loving these stories despite of my non-fanness speaks more volume to the greatness of these stories more than anything I've said above. Keep 'em coming, ladies, KEEP 'EM COMING!!!
Chapter 1
Finn
“But you’re Canadian.”Atlas stared at me in shock. “Wait, Vancouver is in Canada, right?” My agent pulled out his cell phone as if he were going to check where in the world my hometown was.
I stopped him. “I am, and it is.” Where did he think it was? South of LA?
His shock turned into bewilderment, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d been my agent since the early days when I was a child actor in a soap and was an uncle-type figure who’d watched me grow up. It was Atlas who’d gotten me a lead in the low-budget Rapid Action from Byrnes-Rose studios, which, after becoming a surprise hit, had spawned two sequels, Rapid Start, and Rapid Recall, and made me a lot of money. And him. In all that time I’d never seen him so confused in all that time
He had a raft of clients, and was used to having things dumped in his lap, but it seemed I’d finally done something way beyond his understanding.
“But you want to read for the lead in a hockey movie?”
“Uh huh.”
“And you can’t skate.”
I closed two of my fingers together. “A little. I skated when I was younger, but then… acting. I mean, I can stay upright. Or at least I could when I was ten.”
“But don’t all Canadians do the hockey thing? From birth? I mean, I’ve seen videos of teeny tiny Canadian babies skating around with those penguin trainer things.”
I sighed. “Not every Canadian is into hockey, just like not every American is into football.”
Atlas inhaled sharply. “Blasphemy!” And for a moment he waved in front of him as if he were making the sign of a cross—I’d insulted him and the rest of the U.S. in some way. I enjoyed watching football highlights—mostly because of the men in tight pants—but being picked up to star in a soap at ten meant my formative years had been all about the role, the marketing, being a public figure, and not anything to do with funny-shaped balls.
Or pucks.
My life had always been way too filled with other things for me to get into sports.
Unless you counted me getting into Roscoe Lewinsky, the tight end for the LA something or other, because I got into him, and he was tight and just as much in the closet as me.
I snorted a laugh, and Atlas stared at me with a comic-book open mouth and wide eyes, as if I’d lost my damn mind and wasn’t paying attention to his meltdown at all.
He pointed at my chest, turning a dark shade of red. “You told me… you said you could do this…”
“No,” I began with exaggerated patience. “What I said, when I was drunk, I hasten to add, is that as a Canadian it’s my civic duty to be the star of the next Grierson blockbuster featuring the great sport of hockey. That is what I said.”
He blinked at me as if I’d ripped the carpet from under him, which I kind of had. Case in point, me being offered the lead of a new hockey movie, The Cup, directed by the hottest director in Hollywood, Oscar winning River Grierson. The role of Hayden “Mac” McKenzie was deep, and written in such a beautiful way, it was based on a bestselling autobiography (which I hadn’t read, because… reasons). Who knew, it could even be Oscar material unless, of course, a meaningful biopic of someone cool came out at the same time. The role I’d been offered was that of Rowan Campbell. He was the classic misunderstood underdog. The one who takes his struggling disorganized team all the way to the Stanley Cup Final on sheer grit and determination alone. Of course, while also falling in love with a sassy and confident blonde woman and sacrificing that love for his team. Cue dramatic music, dark lighting, and an on-ice reconciliation as I hand my tearful yet feisty lover the cup, then skate around the rink with confidence.
All sounded great on paper.
Apart from one small detail.
I hadn’t skated since I was ten, and I didn’t watch hockey.
No hockey.
At all.
And according to my agent, I may as well hand in my Canadian card right now.
I flexed my muscles. “If it helps, I love maple syrup, and if I wasn’t keeping in shape, I could eat way more poutine.”
“But no to the skating.”
“Yeah, no.”
“Well shit,” Atlas muttered as he began to pace his office. “You reassured me… you said… fuck… you signed the goddamned contract.”
“Yeah, you’ve already said that.”
He continued to pace, punctuating each step with a curse word. It was a long perimeter to pace, at least twenty-by-twenty, so that was a lot of cursing. I focused on the posters on his wall, from movies featuring his clients, including the Rapid films with me front and center, my quirky sidekick at my side. Action movies with snark and banter had been my golden ticket to the big time. From soap opera wannabe to the face of a franchise, I’d risen like cream on milk. Who knew that an archaeologist solving mysteries with the aid of a psychic would get so big? Of course, comparisons to older whip-wielding archaeologists were made, but fuck that, there was no such thing as a new story. Add some spectacular car crashes, and the first in the trilogy grossed a lot, and with me signing up just for a percentage, it made me rich. Not only that, but I was everyone’s breakout darling.
And the Oscar goes to Finn Kerrigan for his not-quite-dramatic role in Rapid Loss! Yeah, right. No one got an Oscar for crashing cars and searching for treasure while shirtless.
“Earth to Finn!” Atlas snapped his fingers under my nose, and the hysterical thought of me being handed a golden statue for Rapid Loss drifted away. Was Atlas done with his pacing already? When he ruminated, it normally took a while, but he’d apparently come up with a solution quick as anything. Or had I been daydreaming too long?
“You’ll never get anywhere by staring out of the window!”
Take that, Mrs. Appleton, sixth grade English. Which one of us was the daydreamer with a career he loves?
Which reminded me—I needed to send my annual charity amount to her and the school. After all, besides the accusations of daydreaming, it was her after-school drama classes that had pulled the actor out of me. Maybe I should add my name to the donation this time, get an auditorium named after me, just to show the residents of Gibson Hills how far I’d come. So far, despite their doubts that the kid with verbal diarrhea who couldn’t sit still, could ever amount to anything.
Obviously, they knew how far I’d come given that I name checked the town every interview, and my mom was all about giving out bits of information from my childhood, but there was no school auditorium named after me yet.
I should get on with that.
“Jesus, Finn! Are you even listening to me?”
“I’m listening,” I lied. I could picture the new addition to the school already. A complete stage set-up where anyone could act in peace, with a designated teacher/director, that was a safe space away from the attentions of school bullies.
“So, you agree,” Atlas pushed.
Agree with what? “Yes?” I said, hopeful that this was the right answer.
“Okay. It might cost you, but for now, you taking the part is only a rumor, so it won’t hurt your brand when you pull out.”
“Sorry? What did you just say?”
“What you agreed to. That we pull you out of the movie.”
What? The fuck? No. “Now hang on—”
“You just said—”
“I wasn’t listening.”
He let out a dramatic sigh. “Finn, you know I love your need to do this project, but we have a potential Rapid 4 in the pipeline.”
“I’m not doing Rapid 4.”
“But it’s your franchise,” Atlas said. “Ten percent of ticket income, and a thirty-five-million payday—”
Like I needed more money. “No. Anything but Rapid 4.”
“Well, there’s no point in signing contracts on The Cup if you can’t skate—”
“I doubt the due who played Aquaman could really breathe underwater,” I reminded him.
Atlas closed his eyes, pinched his nose again, tense, frowning, and exasperated. “You can’t special effect away the fact that you’re not able to fucking skate, Finn.”
“I have time. Filming doesn’t start until July. So, that’s what, six weeks? I’ll learn to skate just like I learned how to rappel down a mountain.”
Atlas muttered under his breath as I stared at the movie poster for Rapid 2: Rapid Start, in which I was seen in the montage as I rappelled heroically to save my sidekick, the bespectacled psychic. I’d cleaned up good on that poster.
At least I think I did. Doubts were my constant companion, because I didn’t always see the square-jawed, blond, and blue-eyed action hero, but instead the kid from Gibson Falls with my deep dark secret. Still, the outside packaging was good, if a little airbrushed where they’d gotten rid of my random freckle. My face sold seats, and that was what the Rapid series had been—a money maker.
I could sell the lead in a gritty movie like The Cup, and I refused to doubt that.
“Listen to yourself, Finn! It was your stuntman who did all the rappelling. All you did was the six-inch hop from a box into that weird superhero landing where you flexed your freaking muscles and made that joke to the camera about rope burn.”
Hmmm. He had a point.
“But I did learn how to rappel, and that’s the main point.”
This time his frustration was so real I sat back in my chair.
“Jesus Christ, Finn, you didn’t. You had one lesson with Jeff the buff and built mountain climber—your description not mine—and then spent the rest of the week with him at your place in the Bahamas, and you know how much it cost you to stop him going to the press on that.”
Ahhh, yes, Jeff. Him of the ass, and the huge cock, and the sexy walk.
He’d certainly shown me the ropes in more ways than one. What a week, and well worth the two million I’d had to pay to keep him quiet.
I chose not to rise to his comments about Jeff, and instead, focused on the simple answer to the issue.
“Then we’ll get a stuntman to do the skating. Simple.”
“Did you take your meds today?”
I attempted to act affronted, but he was only asking because… well, because I probably wasn’t making logical sense right now with the amount of things I wanted to say.
“Of course, I did.”
He stared at me—looking for the lie. But there was one thing I never skipped, and that was my Adderall. All of this unfocused-me was just a result of the overwhelming excitement at the chance of making a movie that mattered. That was my explanation, and I was sticking to it.
Atlas sighed dramatically. “Did you even read the spec?”
“Yep,” I lied. All I saw was Grierson’s name on a script when I read the first page. Picture my character, sweating, exhausted, staring at a countdown to the end of a quarter, or a period, or whatever, as his uninspired team headed for a loss. I could imagine the expression I would use, exhausted, broken, resentful even, but maybe hopeful even as the clock ticked down. That one page was close to the limit of my acting ability, but shit, I wanted to emote the broken hockey player more than do anything with freaking Rapid 4.
“Stay with me, Finn… Finn.” This time, Atlas was right up in my face.
I reared back. Curse my squirrel brain, but I was staying with him. I was undeniably in the goddamn room right now, but I did pinch my knee to make sure. I peered back at the posters and the one for Rapid Recall which was movie three in the franchise, and noticed someone had missed airbrushing the freckle under my left eye.
Not good art-guys, not good.
I should get on to that.
No wait—I have an agent—Atlas can sort that out.
“They left a freckle on my poster,” I informed him. “They either leave all of my freckles or not—we can’t have anything in between.”
“Stop changing the subject.”
“I wasn’t. But a freckle is a freckle and—”
“Stay on task Finn.”
“Sorry.”
“Look, you understand Grierson demands full commitment, immersive—he’ll want you to understand the pain of pushing yourself to the limit. He’ll want you to freaking live the part and act your heart out.”
I waved at the huge images of Rapid 1, 2, and 3, plus the much smaller poster for the indie film, Where the Ladybugs Live, which made up the full movie resume of Finn Kerrigan, former soap star turned Hollywood star. “I can act.”
I can.
Atlas leaned over me and placed his hands on my shoulders, my chest tightening because I really didn’t like being hemmed in or trapped. “When I took you on, son, I promised you one thing. Do you remember that?” How was it that he managed to sound sixty, when he was only ten years older than my twenty-seven?
“Um. That you’d only take twenty percent of my money?”
He rolled his eyes. “I promised I’d never lie to you.”
“And?” I focused back on his face, shrugging off his hands.
“You know, and I know, that under the action hero is not another layer where an Oscar-worthy character actor lives, Finn. You’re at the level you should be at—you’re not the type to live and breathe your part and immerse yourself in understanding what makes a character real.”
I winced because this was some character assassination.
“It’s not a bad thing, okay? You’re great at what you do, flashing your abs, looking pretty, leaving the messy stuff to the stuntmen, and it’s made you more money than you could spend in a lifetime. But if Grierson thinks there is another layer, then you and me… we know he’s wrong.”
I listened to the words, but none of what he said meant I couldn’t do this movie—if Grierson was willing to take a chance on me in his gritty piece of art, then why shouldn’t I believe I could do it?
“I signed the contract; I’ll figure the rest out.”
“I want you to reconsider Rapid 4.”
“No.”
“You can’t skate.”
I puffed out my chest. “I’m Canadian, I’ll figure it out.”
* * *
Okay,so figuring it out wasn’t going so well, and I’d already gone three days into my thirty-five until filming, paralyzed with indecision.
I wrote a list, checked it twice, laughed at my own stupid joke in my huge empty house, and then it hit me.
Like I did with Jeff the mountain climber, all I needed to do was find an expert in skating, in hockey, someone who would sign an NDA, someone who could make me the best goddamn hockey-playing actor in the entire world.
In the thirty-two days left to me.
We had a team near here, the LA something or other, Thunder? Or Lightning? I looked them up, feeling remiss that I didn’t even know the name of the local hockey team. The first entry in the search showed LA Storm, so I was close. I knew it was something to do with the weather.
I clicked into an article—the LA Storm were one game away from doing something amazing in the Stanley Cup, which was the cup of all cups in hockey. I may not love hockey as much as my bloodline insisted I should, but even I recall riots in Vancouver after the local team there lost in a cup final. The LA Storm—and what a cool name that was—were fighting the Boston Rebels.
Okay, so I needed to find someone with the Storm team willing to sign an NDA and teach me. Any one of them would do, and I clicked on the fourth thing on the list: Hockey’s sexiest players.
Now this I could get into.
Number one was some pretty boy out in PA, all flicked hair and flirty eyes. Oh and married to a guy.
Gay.
How did he manage to be gay and play professional sports?
I crossed him off my mental list. That would be way too dangerous, because what if he was attracted to me, and me to him, and then we fucked, and he told my secret, and I lost all the parts, and maybe not even the team behind the Rapid franchise would want me.
No one wants a gay action hero. Right?
Second was some kid out of Florida, a rookie who looked as if he wasn’t old enough to shave.
Third was an actual LA Player. Interesting.
Cameron Chavkin, twenty-six, single, and whoa… he was all bad boy oozing with brooding sexiness.
“Jesus, look at that ass!” I said to no one. I clicked the link to a recommended video, one from a previous year’s run for the Stanley Cup, and fell down a rabbit hole of sexy, exciting men. LA had been knocked out in the second-round last year, and there was a video of the team reactions. I sought Cameron out.
There was one image of him staring up at the big scoreboard over the center of the ice and he was broken. I thought he seemed as if he was going to cry, but not in a weepy way, instead in a manly, stoic I’m-too-tough-to-cry-but-I’ll-let-my-eyes-water-up, kind of way.
His attention was fixed on a replay of a goal hitting the back of the net, in the background the other team was celebrating, and I took note of the narrowing of his gray eyes as this Cameron Chavkin emoted his pain and loss with resigned grief.
This was me.
Well, not me, but the character I was due to play in The Cup.
I wanted this Cameron guy to show me how to be like that, how to do that.
I channeled my best Liam Neeson monologue voice. “Cameron Chavkin, I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you’ll say. If you are looking for money, I can tell you I have a lot of money, and a very particular set of skills in persuasion. I will track you down. And I will hire you.”
I laughed at my own joke.
And in my empty ten-room house in the hills, with its three pools and the marble Italianate kitchen, no one laughed back.
I was all alone, and I needed to talk to someone who wasn’t my agent.
I considered calling my sister, but she was pregnant with a third nibling, and so over my regular freakouts over a lot of things… so that was a no.
Or Natalie? She was my beard, or I was hers. Either way, we did promo every so often to keep things settled.
But she was filming in Brazil and the last text exchange we had was all about her falling in love with a woman called Chloe, and I couldn’t rain on her loved-up parade with my misery.
Maybe I could call Luca Bennetto? He played my sidekick in the Rapid films, and he was also one of my few friends in Tinseltown—growing up on a soap set was hard on friendships but he’d followed more or less the same route, albeit ten years before me.
I liked Luca, and he liked me.
So, Luca it was.
I tried his cell, but it went to voicemail, and I didn’t have the heart to leave a message as convoluted as what I needed to explain.
So much for talking to anyone.
Suck it up, buttercup.
Saturday's Series Spotlight
Chestorford Coyotes
RJ ScottWriting love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
RJ Scott
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