The Goon Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  Also by Sara Hubbard

  THE GOON

  Copyright © 2018 Sara Hubbard

  Cover Design by Cover Couture

  Cover Photo © Lindee Robinson Photography

  Cover Photos © Shutterstock/Vasilev Evgenii

  Edited by the Red Pen Coach

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN eBook: 978-1-988212-23-4

  This book is for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold, given away, copied, transmitted, stored in a retrieval system or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations contained in articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The following novel contains strong language and sexual situations. It is recommended for ages 17+.

  Chapter 1

  As I stand in front of the judge, waiting for her to sentence me, perspiration covers my body. I’ll be the first to admit I sometimes act impulsively and do stupid things. I’m well known for it. But I’ve never done anything criminal. Not until two months ago. Now, I have to face the music.

  I was in love with a guy who I thought loved me back. I was sure of it, even when I decided to pay him a surprise visit last September. He was feeling sick and said he planned on spending the night alone in bed. I thought I’d bring him some chicken soup from the store because, well, I can’t boil water. I made a mistake. I used the spare key when he didn’t answer because stupid me thought he might be asleep. Nope. He was stuffing another girl’s vagina with his cock like it was a Thanksgiving turkey.

  Something inside of me snapped that night.

  I suppose I could have pleaded temporary insanity in court. The judge might have believed me—she may have even sympathized with me. But I didn’t do that. I would have, had there not been a curve ball to my crime. Instead of smashing my ex-boyfriend’s car with a baseball bat, I beat up an identical car in the parking lot of his condo building. How the hell could I have known there were two blue Mustangs there with the same yellow racing stripe down the hood?

  “One-year probation, eighty hours of community service, and compensation to Mr. Green for damages to his personal property,” the judge says before smashing her gavel on her big, judgey desk. Mr. Green is the owner of the other Mustang—the one I smashed up. I’ve already covered his repairs. My lawyer, Mr. Nolan, suggested that soon after I got arrested. He said it would make me look remorseful and help with my sentencing, so I followed his advice. But that’s not the only reason why I did it. Truth is, I felt bad. An innocent man ended up with an un-drivable car. I was in the wrong, and I had every intention of pleading guilty even if he hadn’t caught me mid-swing before I smashed his windshield.

  “What’s next?” I ask my lawyer as we leave the courthouse. It’s late October in Spruce Valley and, though the sun is shining, there is a chill in the air that forces a shiver through my body. I zip up my jacket and descend the courthouse front steps, matching my long-legged lawyer’s speedy pace.

  He adjusts his tie. “Someone from community service will check in with you about a placement, and a probation officer will also be in touch. Follow their instructions, keep your nose clean, and you’ll be fine.”

  It’s a hard thing to reconcile that I’m going to have a criminal record and a probation officer. I’ve always been a little reckless, but I’ve never been in trouble with the law before. And I wouldn’t be now if I’d smashed the right car—Brad never would have called the cops on me. I would have paid for his damages, too, if he forced me, and been done with it—and him.

  Prick.

  “Try to keep that temper of yours intact, Emily,” he says with a smirk.

  I’m glad I amuse him. “I don’t have a temper.”

  He halts and turns toward me. I look up at him just as he tips his head forward to look at me from underneath his thick but sculpted brows. “Well, a video from the Summerset Condo Association would suggest otherwise. And so would Mr. Green.”

  Touché, Expensive Lawyer. Touché.

  “Good luck, Emily,” he says as he holds out his hand. I take it and we shake, his grip soft but mine not so much. “Call me if you have any issues.” He gets into his sportscar that screams mid-life crisis, slides on his designer aviators, and waves at me as he revs the engine.

  I hope this is the last time I ever see him. Not because I don’t like him. He’s fine for an overpaid lawyer—thanks, Mom and Dad. But I’ve decided to be good. The threat of jail is enough to make any girl want to walk the straight and narrow. I might be tough on the outside, but I’m not strong enough to survive jail. I’ve seen Orange is the New Black and I’m not interested in becoming someone’s bitch.

  * * *

  It’s almost a week before I hear from either my probation officer or the community service team. The former comes first. My probation officer’s name is Matt Erikson. Over the phone, his voice comes off like a drill sergeant. He wants to see me every week, on the same day and at the same time, no exceptions. He’s going to be a peach, I can tell. When I finally talk to my community service team member, I hold my breath while she tells me about my assignment because I know it could be bad—real bad. I expect to spend my sentence in an orange jumpsuit picking up trash along the highway or digging ditches.

  I don’t get either of those things. “You want me to assist a police officer with teaching kids how to play hockey?” I parrot to make sure I hear her correctly.

  “Yes. Is that a problem?” Her stern voice indicates that it better not be.

  “No. Not at all.” It sounds fine. Not tough at all. It would be a cake walk if I could skate or if I had any experience with kids. I don’t have either.

  “You start January third, and you’ll report to Constable Brad Corkum.”

  My chest tightens at the mention of that awful name. It’s not his fault he shares the same first name as my douchebag ex-boyfriend, but it’ll be hard to be around him and not think of my ex. “That’s a long time away.” I was hoping to get it over with instead of having it loom over my head for months.

  “You’ll have six months from that date to complete your hours. Check in with me the week before so we can confirm details.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’ll see you then.” I end the phone call and hold the phone against my chest, muttering a curse. Teach hockey?

  My lawyer told me I need to satisfy a bunch of criteria to get my community service signed off as complete. This includes doing a satisfactory job. How the hell am I going to do a good job teaching kids to play hockey when I can’t even skate? This just means I need to spend more of my time prepping for it. Eighty hours of service,
my Aunt Fanny. How about the eighty hours I’ll spend making sure I can skate well enough? Good thing I don’t start until the new year.

  The only person I can think of who can help me learn to skate is my best friend Charlie’s boyfriend, Ozzie. He plays for the local major junior team and is hoping to make the Canadian Hockey League. He’s good enough to make it, too. He’s a busy guy, though, so I know it’s a long shot. And I hate to ask for his help because the free time he has, he gives to Charlie. I don’t want either of them to see each other less because I screwed up. But I figure he might know someone who can help me if he can’t.

  * * *

  “They want you to what?” Ozzie says. He stands by the recliner in the apartment he shares with Charlie while she and I sit on the couch. I’ve just relayed to her everything about my community service and my probation. Compared to community service, probation will be a cake walk. A meeting once a week, no drinking, no breaking the law. No problem.

  “I’m going to be helping kids learn to play hockey,” I say.

  Ozzie holds his stomach while he laughs.

  “It’s not funny,” Charlie says.

  “I mean…come on. I took you guys skating out at Miller Pond last Christmas, and you spent more time on your ass than on your skates.”

  “You’re not helping,” Charlie says.

  He holds out his hands in surrender. “I apologize. Look, I wish I could help, but I’m slammed.”

  I figured this might be the case. Deflated, I heave a sigh and collapse against the back of the sofa behind me.

  “But I have a friend who might be willing to help. He loves a good cause.”

  “Mandatory community service is a good cause?” I ask. Who knew?

  He shrugs. “Sure. You’re helping kids, right? And he already helps teach kids at Tillerman rink, anyway.”

  “I could pay him if it helps.”

  “You could offer, but Michael’s got his own money, so I doubt he’d take it. Especially if he’s doing it as a favor for me.”

  “Michael!” Charlie bounces on the couch, and I eye her, curious. “Yes! I love Michael. He’s so nice. His girlfriend’s kind of a witch, though, and I’m sure she’ll have something to say about it if he agrees, but hopefully he’ll ignore her.”

  Who is this Michael character and why did Charlie seem so excited when Ozzie tossed out his name? I know she has friends of her own, but it makes me feel left out. We haven’t spent as much time together lately as we used to. “Who’s Michael?”

  “You know,” Charlie says, nudging me with her shoulder.

  I wait for her to explain. All I have right now is a first name.

  “You know!” she repeats. Like I can see into her mind.

  Ozzie covers his mouth to block a smile. She does this all the time, and it’s both frustrating and cute. She tries to explain something without giving me a single detail and expects me to know what she’s talking about. “He plays for the Muskrats.” That’s our university hockey team. “He’s the guy that…you know…he’s big and has blue eyes…and short hair.”

  “Oh! Right! I know exactly who he is.” I don’t.

  Ozzie helps her out. “Goon.”

  “Goon?” I repeat. Although Goon is familiar to me, I don’t know him all that well. We run in similar circles, but I’ve maybe said two words to him since I started school here last year. What I do know of him doesn’t convince me he’s the right guy for the job. He’s a brute who spends more time in the penalty box than on the ice. I need someone with patience. Charlie and Ozzie think he’s going to be my savior? I open my mouth to protest but snap it shut. He can skate, and I guess that’s the most important thing here.

  “I’ll give him a call,” Ozzie says.

  “You’re the man.” I hold out my fist and wait for him to bump it.

  He chuckles as he approaches, and after a fist bump that knocks my knuckles a little too hard, he bends down and kisses his girlfriend while I shake the sting from my hand.

  “I gotta shower and get to the gym. Behave, ladies.”

  “Sure, babe. Love you,” Charlie says, beaming up at him.

  He runs the back of his hand down her cheek before walking away. It’s sweet and almost a little too intimate to watch so I look away. I ache for the time when I thought I had someone who felt the same way about me as Ozzie does about Charlie. Almost two months later, and I both hate and pine for my ex. The wound he gouged into my heart hasn’t healed, and I’m not sure it ever will. Perhaps if I saw it coming? Perhaps if he wasn’t good to me? Neither of those things happened. I was blindsided, and I think that’s why I reacted so badly. The pain was too much, and it hit me all at once. We’d even talked about moving in together and getting married. What a fool I’d been to think he might have been the one.

  People often say you know when you’re being cheated on. That even if you don’t know, somewhere deep down you have an inkling. My mother sure knew my dad was unfaithful. I knew. She just didn’t care. They only broke up because my dad admitted it and left her for wife number two. He’s on number four now, but he should be divorced from that one by the end of the year.

  I’ve always judged Mom for turning a blind eye. Now that I’ve been through it, my perception has changed. There was a short time after Brad cheated on me, and when the world seemed to be against me, that I thought about taking him back. Charlie had Oz, and I had no one. I was empty and alone, and being around Brad and his friends and their girlfriends gave me a sense of belonging. But I changed my mind and, well, news got around about what I’d done to that car. Brad was less excited to get back together after that. Everyone on campus took to calling me the “crazy bitch.” Good thing—about Brad, not about the whole crazy bitch thing. I would have hated myself for getting back together with him. Perhaps more than I do already.

  It doesn’t mean I don’t miss him, though, and I hate him for that, too. I still think about what could have been. There are times when I pick up the phone and my fingers hover over the numbers in his phone number because I miss his telephone voice or the way he used to say, “Love you, beautiful” every night I called to say good night. Yes, I loved him. I really did.

  And he ruined me.

  But I let him.

  I’ve always run toward love with open arms, falling hard and fast for guys who never deserved it. But no more. I think for a little while I’m going to try to be alone, and I pity any guy who thinks he can change my mind.

  Chapter 2

  I’m lying on my bed in my dorm room, staring at the wall while listening to music play on my laptop, when Ozzie calls the next day.

  “Good news. Michael’s willing to help.”

  I spring to a sitting position. “That’s fantastic. I owe you for this big time.”

  “Yeah, you do,” he says. I think he’s joking, but maybe not. I still don’t know him as well as I’d like. “Nine p.m. Thursday night at Tillerman Rink.”

  “Nine?”

  “He knows a guy that’ll give him free ice time but only after regular hours.” He pauses a moment. “And beggars can’t be choosers.”

  He thinks I’m ungrateful, which isn’t the case at all. He can’t know how much I appreciate this. I can’t have anything go wrong with my community service placement. The possibility of going to jail is too much for me. It keeps me awake at night. While I doubt they’ll mark me incomplete if I can’t skate, it’ll sure as hell prevent me from doing a good job. I only questioned the time because I wanted to make sure I got it right.

  “Nine’s fine, Ozzie. I could have done three in the morning if that’s all he could manage.”

  “I’ll let him know. Good luck.”

  I’ll need it.

  When Thursday rolls around, I find myself a little apprehensive about meeting Michael. Charlie likes him so that’s enough of an endorsement for me to assume it’ll be fine. But I’m going to be spending one-on-one time with him, and I have a strong personality. This usually means I either really get along with peopl
e or I really don’t. I hope to God it’s not the latter.

  I crinkle my nose as I stare up at the old metal building that looks like it was built before World War I. It’s out of the way, just beyond Spruce Valley, and I had to take a cab to get here. I could have walked, but it would have taken me close to an hour, and ain’t nobody got time for that. Plus, it’s frigging cold. The wind whips about, biting through the fabric of my jacket. My long blond hair lashes my face. I pull it back and tie it with an elastic band I keep around my wrist.

  There are two large fairly new rinks in town, one at the university and one for the local major junior team, and Tillerman Rink is neither of those. Tillerman is more for locals interested in a leisurely skate on Saturdays and Sundays with their friends and family. I’m not sure how much it gets used when Spruce Valley Rink, the one used by the Spruce Valley Huskies, opens their doors to local skating, too.

  This place looks like it should be condemned. The metal roof is stained with rust and bits of black that I guess might be tar. The few windows in the front are covered in black metal wire to keep out thieves. Not that we have a problem with that sort of thing in these parts.

  Then again, what do I know?

  It’s quarter to nine. There are still cars in the parking lot and some parents and kids are leaving with massive bags slung over the parents’ shoulders. Above me, the moon streams down to shine in the puddles a foot ahead. Though it rained most of the afternoon, it’s finally let up. I’m wearing rain boots and a parka, though, just in case. I don’t mind the rain. At least it’s not snow. When I reach the doors, a man coming out holds it open for me. I smile in place of a “thank you.”