Home > Script (L.A. Storm #1)

Script (L.A. Storm #1)
Author: RJ Scott

Chapter 1






“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.”

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