A/N - Lenni, you didn't leave your full email addy, mate. This contact thing just ain't easy!

CHAPTER 2 – HOMECOMING

Hobie and the baseball team had early morning practice, as they did four times a week. But as 7am rolled around, none of the young men had even been to bed. They had all crawled back to campus from one of the all-night parties that were regular features for them. They had sat in Jaiden’s convertible, drinking black coffee strong enough to make their eyes water and passing round a joint rolled with the last of weed capable of doing the same as the coffee, provided as usual by Kiefer. Now they sprawled in the dugout, heads lolling and eyes closed.

Hobie couldn’t remember most of the night before, but that only meant he’d had a good time. His head was pounding and his mouth was bone dry. It wasn’t unusual. This was the way college athletes lived, according to his team-mates. Hobie was perfectly happy to go along with that. All he had to do was play ball, hit a few homeruns, and his life was sweet. He didn’t even have to go class; he could do whatever he wanted. For Hobie, it was a huge reward just for hitting a ball with a piece of wood. It was a sweet deal.

The coaches had arrived and were ordering the boys to begin their warm-up laps. Hobie could feel the hard stares of disapproval, but knew as long as he made the hits, got the homeruns, his coaches would do nothing about his lifestyle. He sighed hard and pushed himself into a jog. He hated morning practices. He didn’t even love baseball that much anymore. It was just a job, a job he did so he could live the life he was doing.

That was just the way it was.

The practice went on until just before nine, supposedly to allow the guys time to get to their first classes. Everyone knew the coaches weren’t fooled about how much studying their players actually did, but it was a routine that was still followed and not questioned. It didn’t do to ask too many questions in the world of big time college sport. You might not like the answers.

Hobie was just stepping out of the showers, wearing nothing but a towel, when he found himself face-to-face with his head coach, a stocky guy in his mind-forties by the name of Bramford.

“Yo, Coach,” Hobie said, unperturbed.

“When was the last time you went to bed, son?” Bramford asked, similarly unperturbed.

Hobie shrugged casually. “When I last needed to sleep, Coach.”

“What did you guys do last night?”

“Saw a few friends.”

“Word is you were partying loud enough to keep the whole of downtown Miami awake.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Coach.”

Bramford took a step closer. “Don’t be fooled into thinking I don’t know what goes on, Hobie. I got eyes and ears everywhere in this city. I can find out what my players are doing at any time of the day or night. You’d do well to remember that.”

“You ever do anything about it, Coach?” Hobie asked casually, already knowing the answer.

“If I did, do you think I’d get any wins under my belt? For God’s sake, I wouldn’t even have a team.”

“We ain’t doing anything so bad, Coach.”

“I’m not a fool, Hobie. I was a college athlete once as well.” Bramford paused and shook his head. “But not like you boys. I never even thought of doing some of the things you guys do.”

Hobie said nothing, not sure how to reply for once.

Bramford looked him straight in the eye. “You know you can’t keep on living like this, son. You may get away with it now, but this ain’t the real world. It won’t always be like this. You may be a star here, but out there, you’re nothing. And if you fall, you’ll fall damn hard.”

“I ain’t gonna fall, Coach.”

Bramford ran a hand through his thinning hair. “That’s what they all say.”

“Who’s all?”

“All the young guys before you who thought they could do whatever they want and get away with it. It’s always the same. Eventually, they go too far. And each time I blame myself. I let them get out of control. I could stop it, but I don’t. Because if I do, I’ll just lose them to Florida State or Orlando. And I can’t afford to do that.” Bramford looked at Hobie again. “I know it’s weak. I hate myself for it sometimes. I’ve begged young guys like you to live clean, dedicate themselves to baseball, not to partying. You think it ever worked?”

“Probably not, Coach.”

“I’m supposed to be responsible for you boys, but I got about as much control over you as a homeless man on the street. And there ain’t a damn thing I can do about it.”

“Coach, we’re winning for you. That’s what matters, right?”

Bramford smiled sadly. “You know it’s right. And that’s what makes this world we work in such a shit place. When winning is more valuable than keeping young boys on the straight and narrow.”

“We’re OK, Coach. We’re handling ourselves, you know? We’re just having a bit of fun.”

“So how come your fun is so much different to the other kids on campus?”

“Because we are different.”

Bramford laughed, a humourless sound. “That’s the worst thing about it, you know. You think a normal college kid would get away with stuff you guys do? Yes, you’re different. But that ain’t a good thing most of the time.”

“It seems OK to me, Coach.”

Bramford was quiet for a minute, looking down at his feet. When he glanced up again, his eyes were filled with an emotion Hobie had never seen in his coach before.

“For your own sake, Hobie, don’t go too far. Don’t lose everything you’ve worked for. Cos right now, that’s the way you’re heading. You’re this close to falling right off the rails, just like guys before you have done. I can’t stand to see any more talented young men ruin their lives because they can’t control their lifestyles.”

Hobie nodded and offered a smile.

“Don’t worry about me, Coach.”

X X X

That night, the baseball boys attended a select gathering at an exclusive bar in the downtown Miami. They had been there before and were always treated as celebrities whenever they put in an appearance. Hobie in particular loved the attention he got as the star hitter.

As usual, alcohol was free and plentiful, like it always was for the young college stars. Hobie had grown used to parties like these now and worked the room like a pro, greeting people he knew and introducing himself to devastatingly attractive women in the skimpiest of outfits. It wasn’t long before he’d gathered a group of admirers and was busy working the Bucannon magic.

“Yo, Hobe.” He hadn’t even noticed Kiefer appear at his side.

He slapped palms with the older man. “Yo, Kief, how’s it going?”

“Good, man.” Kiefer tugged on his t-shirt sleeve. “Hey, come over and check this out.”

With little more than a farewell nod to the women, Hobie immediately followed Kiefer across the room to where a group of huge leather armchairs were arranged around a low glass table. Kiefer settled in one chair and indicated for Hobie to do the same. Hobie did so and watched, fascinated, as Kiefer produced a small, clear plastic bag containing an inch of white powder.

“What’d you think?” Kiefer asked, raising his cold eyes to meet Hobie’s.

Hobie shrugged, playing it cool. “How much?”

Kiefer laughed. “Hobe, man! For you, it’s free.”

Even as he spoke, he was tipping an amount of the powder onto the glass, using his fingers to shape it into a narrow line. Hobie was used to Kiefer providing good products and wasn’t surprised to see there was no need for a razor blade to smooth the powder. He continued watching casually as Kiefer held out a thin, clear pipe about three inches long.

“Take a blast, man.”

Hobie needed no further bidding. He leant forward and did as he was told.

X X X

In LA, Saturday evening had arrived and Mitch had just arrived home from work. The house, as expected, was empty. Roe would be at the beach, as he almost constantly was. It made Mitch smile every time he saw the inner-city kid running along the sand or splashing about in the ocean. Roe had grown to love the beach the way Hobie had once done. He was already talking about signing up for Junior Lifeguards over the summer. Under Cody’s guidance, he now flowed with confidence in the water and his passion for surfing was unrivalled. Maybe in a few years time, Mitch would get the chance to realise his dream of seeing his flesh and blood make Baywatch. Only it would probably be Roe instead of his son.

Thinking about Hobie made Mitch glance at the answerphone, in the hope of seeing the red button flashing. It wasn’t. Deep down, he’d known it wouldn’t be. Hobie wasn’t going to have called.

He dropped his bag down and moved into the kitchen, his heart heavy once again. He was opening the refrigerator when Roe burst through the door, wearing only a pair of knee-length surfer shorts. His body was bronzed dark by the Californian sun now and his hair glistened with droplets of ocean water. He looked like he’d lived in Malibu all his life.

“Yo, Mitch, has Hobie…”

“No.” Mitch didn’t need to wait for the end of the question. Roe asked him it every day.

He saw the light in the boy’s eyes dull and his heart ached for Roe. He’d been abandoned enough in his short life. Why did Hobie have to be yet another person to let him down?

In an attempt to brighten Roe, he sent out for pizza and they ate in front of the TV, watching the Lakers game. Roe said little, even as Shaq pulled off some of the spectacular aerial dunks that usually had the kid out of his seat and bellowing in admiration.

“Don’t feel bad about Hobie, Roe,” Mitch eventually said.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t have too.”

“Can’t help feelin’, Mitch.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I thought I had somethin’ with Hobie. Kinda thing I never had ‘afore.”

“He’s hasn’t abandoned you, Roe.”

“Feels like it.”

“Hobie’s not a bad person. You just have to remember that he’s a man now and he’s got the right to do whatever he wants without having to talk it over with me, you or anyone else. I think we’ve gotta accept that.”

“Just coz he a man don’t mean he don’t need a family.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re right.”

Roe smiled humourlessly, looking once again like the streetwise kid who had seen it all and known it all at far too young an age. “But it ain’t worth nothin’, right?”

“Maybe.” Mitch knew there was no point trying to humour the kid. Roe was too sharp to be fooled.

Roe sighed inaudibly and returned his gaze to the TV screen, but he was clearly paying no attention to the game. Mitch looked down at the pizza he was holding, his appetite suddenly gone. He put it back in the box, next to Roe’s barely touched share and closed the lid.

The fourth quarter had just begun when the doorbell rang, barely audible over the noise of the excited Lakers supporters. Mitch glanced up.

“That’ll probably be Cody wanting some company for the game. Want to answer it?”

“Nuh-uh.” Roe didn’t even looked up.

Mitch relented and got to his feet. Pulling open the door, he found himself looking into a pair of familiar dark eyes. Before him stood a young man not much smaller than himself, wearing a team warm-up jacket and carrying a bulging holdall. A young man so familiar, yet in so many ways like a stranger. Somehow almost unrecognisable.

Mitch had to swallow, his throat to dry to allow him to speak.

“Hobie.”