Summary:
LA Storm #2
When he’s lost everything, can Michael rebuild his broken life and find a love worth fighting for?
In the high-stakes world of professional hockey, Michael "Zeetoo" Zhang once had the potential to shine even brighter than his older brother, captain of the LA Storm. But one wrong turn and a growing gambling habit have led him down a treacherous path. After a run of bad luck, he's left with nothing but debts, and after an arrest, he's slammed with a non-custodial sentence of work in the community. Fate takes an unexpected turn when he is placed in an inner-city garden project, where he encounters Bryce, the enigmatic and surly manager of the project, who harbors a deep resentment toward him. Despite Bryce's cold demeanor, Michael wants to prove himself worthy of being loved, if only the scars of past failures and the constant shadow of his brother's success didn't haunt him and leave him feeling lost and alone.
Bryce Kincaid is chased by his own brand of demons, and years out from his mistakes, he's determined to stick to one path and never waver, just in case he once again loses control. Michael Zhang is everything Bryce doesn't want in his life; temptation wrapped in sex, the hockey player is a man on the edge, and to fall for him would mean Bryce opening his heart to hurt.
As they work side by side, the walls around Bryce's heart begin to crack, revealing a vulnerability that even Michael can't resist. Drawn to each other they discover a passion that goes beyond the ice and the earth, and find a love that defies the odds. Only, just as Michael starts to believe in second chances, his past catches up with him, threatening to derail his life completely, and destroy Bryce right along with him. If he wants a life with Bryce then Michael must confront the demons of his past and fight for the future he never thought he deserved.
Original Review February 2024:
Even with 30+ books in their Hockey Universe, Scott & Locey keep producing amazing stories with so much emotion that your heart can't help but melt No matter how many tropes & pairings the duo creates they keep finding ways to bring originality to said characters and as far as my mind is recollecting, I don't recall any of their athletes and the men who love them facing this kind of struggle(A bit cryptic I know but I don't want to spoil anything😉).
Michael and Bryce are complete opposites from occupations to homelife to emotional states, at least on paper. As Second progresses a few cracks begin to appear that give us a peak that they may not be as opposite as originally thought. Not to spoil anything but sometimes the struggles a new couple faces should be proof that they should not be together and then again it's those same struggles that make them perfect for each other if they are willing to put the work in. Scott & Locey have perfectly balanced both sides of those coins. It's easy for a reader to sit on the outside and want to smack a character(Michael😉) with an iron skillet to make him see sense(trust me I'm that reader most times😉) but when you start to look at life from the characters view you begin to understand why they are the way they are, doesn't mean you don't still want to give a good whack but you understand him😉.
As I've said from their very first hockey collaboration, Changing Lines, I don't know which author writes which character but they have always created a realistic cast. Michael and Bryce are no different, realistic fictious gems that I just want to wrap in loving Mama Bear Hugs until all the pain and drama disappears.
Now, having said that, don't think Second is bogged down in depressing, angsty, heartbreaking melodrama. Yes, there is some of those elements but the hurt is well balanced with comfort, healing, and humor that sucks you in until the last page is swiped and then you want to kick yourself for not reading slower to savor the deliciousness of Michael and Bryce's journey.
Just a couple of things to finish off:
1. As always, most of the Scott/Locey Hockey Universe is a collection of standalones but again as always there are a few mentions of past characters and teams. You don't have to read them first to enjoy Second but I warn you, when these other characters make an appearance or mentioned by current MCs, you will definitely be intrigued with wonder over their journeys and with 30+ books in the universe, that is a rabbit hole you might want to start at the bottom(or beginning as it were) to work your way out of instead of falling further in😉. But seriously, however you choose to read you won't be disappointed nor will you be lost(I do highly recommend reading the original Railers and Owatonna in order as the holiday novellas further the journeys of already established pairings).
2. In the Scott/Locey Hockey Universe there have been a few entries that had very little actual hockey in them for various reasons, ie: off-season, injury, possible retirement, etc. Second falls under "etc". This doesn't diminish the brilliant pull of the story in any way but I just wanted to mention it for those who need to have a lot of on-ice time in their stories, there is some here and it definitely plays a part in Michael's psyche but not nearly as central to the story as in others.
Chapter 1
Michael
“Card,”I demanded and schooled my features when the king of diamonds turned up. I had a straight flush, and it was perfect—the kind of dream hand in poker that comes once in a lifetime. My heart raced as I peeked at my cards, barely containing my excitement. The odds were in my favor. It was a sure thing, a certainty, and blinded by the promise of winning, I did the unthinkable. I pushed all my chips to the center of the table. Everything. It was a bold move, a statement. I was all in. This was my moment, my chance to erase all my past mistakes, to come out on top, to prove to everyone, especially to my brother, that I was more than just a cautionary tale.
The room fell silent as the other players contemplated their next moves. One by one, they folded, until it was only me and one other—a newcomer with a poker face that gave nothing away. The final card was dealt, and I held my breath, ready to claim my victory.
But fate, as I had learned the hard way, is often cruel. In a twist that seemed ripped from a movie script, the newcomer revealed his hand. It was the only one that could beat mine, a statistical improbability, a once-in-a-lifetime counter to my once-in-a-lifetime hand. A royal flush.
“Read ’em and weep, Freckles,” my opponent cackled.
The realization slammed into me like a physical blow. I’d lost.
Lost everything. The room spun, and the sounds around me faded to a dull roar. I couldn’t breathe, couldn't think. The chips, my lifeline, my ticket to paying my way out of debt, were now sliding across the table, away from me.
The weight of what I had done crashed down on me with brutal force. I’d gambled everything on a single hand, and everything was over. Paying off the debts, the promises of turning things around, the fleeting glimpse of a better future—all gone with the turn of a card—my brief taste of success was ash in my mouth. The debts were still there, looming larger than ever, and now, I had nothing left to pay them with. My car, my last asset, was as good as gone, promised to Looper for a fraction of its worth. I’d been so close to clawing my way out and keeping my baby, only to plunge deeper into the abyss.
“I’ll be back,” I said with confidence, but no one met my eyes.
I made my way through the smoky backroom to where Looper stood, overseeing his domain. The noise of the poker game faded behind me as I approached the man who held my fate in his hands. Looper, the enigmatic figure who ran these high-stakes games, was more than just a loan shark; he was a kingpin in this underworld, and he’d called me his friend for the longest time.
“Hey, Looper, buddy,” I started, my voice brimming with the confidence of a man who’d had a win tonight before the losses. “I need more money.”
He glanced up from his notebook, his expression unreadable, then flipped through worn pages with deliberate slowness, stopping at a page with my name etched at the top. His finger traced the figures next to it, a damning ledger of my debt. “You’re in for sixty plus already, Michael,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, but his eyes were bright with excitement.
I swallowed hard; the euphoria of any win I might have had tonight weighed down by the cold reality of his words. “I know, I know,” I rushed, “but you've seen me out there. I'm on a streak.”
The air in the room grew heavy as Looper’s eyes bored into me, a silent threat lurking in their depths. His calm demeanor belied the danger he represented, a façade of civility with his expensive suits and businessman vibes, masking the ruthlessness of a man who ruled whatever shadowy world he had going on here. It used to be I could play out in the open, or lay my bets in full view of anyone, but now… well, this was all I had. Shadows and deals.
“You're skating on thin ice, Michael,” he said, then chuckled at his joke. “See what I did there, Mr. Hockey Hero?”
I stood my ground, trying for confidence, but inside, fear began to spike at what I was doing. Looper’s reputation was well-known; he was not a man to be crossed. His words, though measured, carried an undercurrent of menace.
“Sure, funny. I get it.” I paused. “Twenty K will cover me for now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I've been patient, but my patience has limits, and I’m cutting you off when I have debts against your name already.”
As if on cue, one of his goons, the one with the accent— Kurgan, I recalled—a mountain of a man with a face like granite, took a deliberate step forward. The message was clear: this wasn’t just a friendly warning. Looper didn’t need to raise his voice or make explicit threats; his power was understood.
A bead of sweat trickled down my back. “I’m riding a wave of wins and I just need a little more time.”
Looper studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Time is luxury, and it’s one you’re running out of. Remember, I have eyes everywhere. I know about your wins, and I know about your losses. You can’t hide from what you owe.”
The reality of my situation was closing in, suffocating. Looper’s presence, Kurgan looming silently behind him, were physical reminders of the threat hanging over my head.
“I’ll get your money, Looper,” I repeated, more to convince myself than him. “Just give me a bit more time. You know I’m good for it.”
“Your worth is measured by your ability to settle your debts,” Looper sneered. “And right now, Michael Zhang, you’re worth nothing.” His gaze was steady, and he closed the notebook with a soft thud, a gesture signaling the end of our conversation. “I run a business, not a charity, and time is something you don't have, Michael.”
His words stung, but I was Michael freaking Zhang, and I was overdue some luck.
Looper tapped his lips. “But, say you throw me a bone on who’s injured, or hey, what about you engineer the Storm losing to Boston next weekend…” Looper began.
“What?”
“A turnover here and there, a loss—that might pay me back some of what you owe?”
Shock nearly cut me off at the legs. “Fuck off. I’m not throwing freaking games.” The thought of doing that, of letting down the team, of…
Would it hurt?
It would be one game.
Fuck. What am I doing? I’m not so desperate that I would do that.
Would I?
“The Storm is a team; it’s not like I can throw a game just by my actions alone. You really think that I, alone, could make sure the Storm loses to a team like Boston?”
“But you’d be willing to throw a game if you could?”
“What? I didn’t say that. No, I wouldn’t help you.”
“Then, that’s your loss, Mr. Zhang.”
I stood there; confident I could fix things. Looper's refusal to extend more credit was just a blip. The world I had been drawn into, this underworld of high stakes and higher risks, might be unforgiving, and didn’t care about my potential, my earnings, or my name, but I was on a roll.
He had to see that.
“Fuck’s sake, Looper—”
Kurgan placed a hand on my chest and the towering giant of a man was between me and my banker. I ducked and hip-checked him, but this wasn’t some D-man I was skating away from, he was musclebound, had a hundred pounds on me, and was immobile.
“Leave,” he grumbled.
I poked the bear, literally, shoving at solid muscle. “You need to fuck off, so I can talk to your boss.”
Kurgan grabbed my hand, twisted it, and shoved me backward until I met the wall. Then, in a flurry of motion, he had me outside the side door, shoving me so hard I stumbled back and hit the scaffolding currently gracing both this building and the restaurant beside it.
I beat on that closed door—felt a bone crack in my hand I smacked it so hard—but I didn’t care, and no one came out to me.
“Fuck you!” I shouted up at the building, a wave of righteous indignation washing over me. I crossed to my Mercedes, which was all flash and style, and about the only thing I still had to my name, even if the repayments were killing me. I kicked the tire. “Fuck you!” I repeated, drawing a few glances from pedestrians heading into the family restaurant.
Their expressions pinched, they had no idea how badly I’d been screwed over, or why I was kicking my car and railing at the world. I confronted them, bristling, waiting for them to say something, alcohol blurring the edge of good decision-making. I climbed into my car, the cool air doing little to dull the alcohol buzz, but knowing I shouldn’t drive. I fumbled for my phone—looking for someone to collect me.
Someone who even cared about me enough to get here.
Not my brother. No, Charles Golden Boy Zhang would judge me, tell me I was messing up, demand I stop. Defiant anger simmered within me. I wasn't going to lie down and accept Looper’s judgment, or my brother’s self-righteous condemnation bordering on pity. People needed to remember my successes on the ice, that I shone bright, and the world freaking owed me.
I would win again, prove them all wrong.
Fuck that noise. Maybe someone on the team. Who? I couldn’t think—my head hurt. Maybe Cam would throw me some cash, or Prez—both of them had contracts bigger than mine, and we were teammates—brothers-in-hockey—so they’d help? A renewed sense of determination flooded me at thinking of a way out. I pushed the button to get my phone working, only it was dead, because of course it was, and I turned on the car, then cursed and fought to get the charging lead working.
Startled, I turned towards a flash to my left. There, not more than a few feet away, was a figure with their phone out, snapping photos through my car window. The sudden intrusion felt like a violation, and my temper spiked. The light was blinding, disorienting, adding to the surreal sense that even my private temper wasn’t safe from prying eyes.
I lowered the window a little. “Hey!” I barked, my voice laced with frustration and a hint of desperation. “Get lost!” But the guy, no more than a kid, undeterred by my outburst, continued to snap away, or was he filming now?
In a haze of frustration and the need for a swift escape, I threw the car into reverse and the engine roared to life. My hand was heavy on the stick, driven by the urgent desire to get away from prying eyes and flashing cameras.
The car lurched backward with more force than I’d intended, and before I could fully grasp what was happening, there was a sickening crash. The rear of my beautiful car collided with the scaffolding. People screamed, there was shouting, but for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The light from the camera was replaced by the flashing on the car’s dashboard, warning signals blaring in the sudden silence following the collision.
I was okay.
I hadn’t hurt myself.
Then, the scaffolding shifted, a cacophony of bending, breaking, and crashing.
And everything went dark.
* * *
I slouchedin the stiff leather chair as, across from me, my lawyer Mr. Jenkins, adjusted his glasses, ready to dive into the grim reality of my situation. Beside me, Charles sat with his hands in his lap, silent, judging, and with a permanent expression of concern more patronizing than comforting.
“This is bullshit,” I snapped because, yes, it was fucking bullshit. “It’s not as if I hurt anyone apart from myself—no people were injured in the filming of me fucking up.” I chuckled to myself, and Charles muttered under his breath. I didn’t catch all the words, but I got the gist of his disapproval.
“Let's be clear about what’s at stake, Michael,” Mr. Jenkins began, his voice stern, yet not devoid of empathy. “Your sentence following the incident with your car is community service. This is non-negotiable.”
“We need to appeal.”
Is it hot in here?
“You did the crime, and we’re not appealing,” Charles snapped.
“Fuck you, Charles.”
“You want to go back out there and appeal against something you know was wrong? How’s that going to work?”
I glanced at Charles, biting back a retort. His presence was a silent reprimand, his involvement in my affairs a reminder of how far I’d fallen. Only by his grace was I even sitting in this office and not being driven to some prison in the ass end of nowhere. He’d paid for the best lawyer; he’d vouched for me; he’d basically thrown himself at the mercy of the media to defend me.
I guess it’d look bad for him if a Zhang brother was behind bars.
That was Charles—always watching out for number one. Asshole.
“And that's not all,” Mr. Jenkins continued, speaking right over my incredulous sigh.
“Of course, it isn’t.” I slumped even further in my seat. Three months, and the fall from grace had been spectacular. I was on long-term injured reserve, but it was only a matter of time before the Storm got rid of me, going the same way as my agent, who’d dropped me like a hot potato.
“Your driver’s license is suspended for a year, but you don’t automatically get that back. You’ll have to go through assessment for sobriety.”
“I’m not a fucking alcoholic; it was one drink!” Or two, or whatever. “I’m a professional athlete. I take care of myself.”
Charles huffed and, I swear, he was one more huff away from me decking him.
“As for your living situation,” Mr. Jenkins ignored my sobriety comment, “your sentence mandates living at the address on court records.”
“My house,” Charles said. He was trying for supportive, but I knew, that under that, he was probably feeling smug and self-righteous. “I’m his brother.”
“I’m in the pool house.” A cramped space, one-bedroom, a kitchen-diner, and shitty WiFi, a far cry from my sprawling house that had long since been sold off to repay the mortgages I’d taken out on it. “Shitty, small, and no AC.”
“It’s a roof over your head, and it’s free,” Charles said cautiously.
“Whatever, Saint Charles.”
Charles gaped at me. “You’re an asshole, Mikey.”
“Fuck you,” I snapped back.
Mr. Jenkins shuffled papers and cleared his throat, probably confused by the fact that fan favorite, captain of the LA Storm, Charles Zhang was an asshole, and I was having to stand up for myself. “With respect to the community engagement, there are limited choices for your placement, which you will begin in ten days. Details will follow shortly, but we do have a place for you.”
“As I said, whatever.”
“Michael, I know this is hard, but it’s an opportunity to reset your life on a better path,” Charles interjected, his voice laced with a sincerity that only fueled my irritation.
I turned away, his words feeling like salt in a wound. His life was perfect—Clare, his loving wife, two beautiful daughters, a successful career playing the game he loved. And here I was, losing everything because no one had ever given me the same chances my brother had enjoyed. I’d always been second best, not quite the player he was, not as old, not first in the line for the good stuff. There again, I was just the adopted kid; he was the one with the parents who’d actually created him.
“As I was saying, the place the team has in mind is a community garden project—a chance to contribute positively, as per your sentence,” Mr. Jenkins said, snapping me back to reality.
I scoffed internally. From promising athlete to gardener—not exactly the life story I had in mind. Still, once I was back, I’d show everyone how much Michael Zhang could win at life, and all I needed was the stake for the game.
“And of course, in September, in addition to the hours agreed for your sentence, you are mandated to spend five hours per week with The Honor Guards, the veterans’ hockey team out in Encino. This was agreed with NHL Player Support as a way to—”
“Yeah, yeah, make it look good for them.”
“That will be good for you too,” Charles commented. “To work with vets and see what a real hero looks like.”
I rounded on my brother, who reared back. “The fuck?”
He held his hands up in mock surrender. “All I meant was, hockey players aren’t heroes; we’re nothing special.”
“Speak for yourself, asshole,” I muttered. And fuck you, big brother. Living on his dime, freaking gardening, then, adding in hockey wannabes, and my punishment was complete.
“And remember, any failure to comply with these conditions will land you back in court,” Mr. Jenkins concluded.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s get this shit done.”
Saturday's Series Spotlight
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
Harrisburg Railers Series
Owatonna U Series
Arizona Raptors Series
Boston Rebels Series
Sparkle #1.5(LA Storm)
Railers Legacy Series
Rochester Copperheads Series
