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In honor of Father's Day here in the US this coming Sunday, I wanted to showcase stories with strong, influential father figures. Some aren't necessarily a lengthy factor in the story, perhaps it's even just one chapter, or a flashback, a memory, etc. Some are not even fatherly to MCs. The father figure has however, left a lasting impression on the characters, the story, and the reader. For Father's Day 2026, this post features 5 stories I felt had fathers-from-hell, or at the very least is definitely not in the good dad category. I find bad parental figures help shape the characters, intentionally or not, make them stronger and in doing so make the story even more brilliant. If you have any recommendations for bad father figures in the LGBTQIA genre, be sure and comment below or on the social media post that may have brought you here. The purchase links below are current as of the original posting but if they don't work be sure to check the authors' websites for up-to-date information.
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Blitz by RJ Scott &VL Locey
Summary:Railers Legacy #2
When hockey's biggest ego meets football's golden boy, sparks fly, and defenses crumble.
Cole "Trick" Harrington III has made a career out of pretending he doesn't care. Not about his past, his name, or the father who built a megachurch empire off judgment and control. Trick torched every bridge back to Atlanta, deliberately wrecked his career, and buried his truth so deep even he started to forget it. Now traded to the Harrisburg Railers, he's skating on thin ice, with a reputation for arrogance and a career teetering on the edge. The last thing he needs is a PR stunt tying him to a squeaky-clean football star, particularly one who is sexy, strong, and always freaking happy. As Trick is forced to confront his growing attraction and deal with the past he's spent years ignoring-including the younger sister he never knew existed-he realizes that the most brutal battles aren't fought on the ice. They're fought in the heart. And this time, he has to stop running.
Tom Fulkowski has led a charmed life. Starting with a typical middle-class childhood in Philly, his skill at catching quarterbacks has propelled him to the heights of pro football. He's got the rings, he's got the cash, and he's got the cars. He's also got a bad back, achy knees, and a yearning to move on. With one final season to play with the Philadelphia Pumas before retirement, Tom looks forward to that next phase of his life. He's just not sure what the next phase is exactly. Then, out of the blue, he meets a wild-eyed hockey player with a chip the size of the Liberty Bell on his shoulder. As he and Cole grow closer, he finds a depth to the younger man that resonates deeply. If only Cole would slow down and let Tom catch up to him, they might win it all.
Blitz is an MM romance featuring a bad-boy hockey player with a past he can't outrun, a football legend on the verge of retirement, a forced PR stunt that might turn into something real, and a game-changing journey to their happy-ever-after.
Original Review August 2025:
I gotta start by saying, I never expected Cole “Trick” Harrington III to get his own story and I definitely could not see myself rooting for him after his behavior in Speed, the first entry in Scott & Locey's newest hockey series, Railers Legacy. He was only in a few scenes but he did not exactly ingratiate himself to the readers with his interactions with Noah Gunnarsson, to say he was a jerk, is an understatement. When I learned Trick was going to get his own story, I never doubted that he would have his HEA because I trusted the authors to get him there by making him earn it. More importantly, I knew there would be underlying issues to his previous attitude and behavior, not that it made it okay but it shows the authors respect the fact that people don't see everything behind the veil, that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, and at the same time those who act out due to the things they don't let us see are still held accountable for their jerkiness(to put it simply).
Now to Blitz and everything about it, Trick, Tom, hockey, football, and romance. As always, we see the journey from both characters' viewpoint, making it the couple's story but if I was to put a number to it, I'd say Trick's side edges on top by a 60/40 margin. Don't get me wrong, Tom has his drama as well dealing with coming out now or waiting until he retires which was the original plan as well as his own "teammate nemesis". As I stated above, Blitz is Trick's redemption journey, though once you learn the reasons behind his behavior, "redemption" might be a little strong but he still has a lot to make amends for. Truth is, some might think the authors didn't spend enough time on the romance factor in Blitz and perhaps they didn't in comparison to their other stories but sometimes that is okay. To have a great romance, you have to have likeable characters that deserve their HEA and sometimes that means the character(s) has to grow, has to heal, has to get to that deserving moment. That is what Blitz is about, Trick's development to deserving, to get him to the point that readers want him to have his HEA.
I'm afraid if I continue I will give too much away and that's a no-no for me, so I'll stop here. Truth be told, my thoughts are a bit jumbled with this story but I hope they aren't coming out that way in this review. I loved the fact that Scott & Locey had competing sports for their two lovers, and by "competing" I mean hockey and football have a partial overlap season-wise not actually playing against each other, despite my loving the dual sport couple, it saddens me a bit too. As the new football pre-season gets underway, my dad and I's hearts are breaking a bit knowing Mom won't be here to cheer on her Green Bay Packers, which is why my thoughts are wonky and again, I hope they aren't translating that way here, if so I apologize. To be as clear and simply put as I can: Blitz will warm your heart, make you smile, but it will also hurt your heart and make you scream a time or two first. Tom may be a football star but he has earned his spot alongside Trick in the Scott/Locey Hockey Universe and together they will entertain you with all the feels you can possibly imagine. There is nothing that is not good about this story and I look forward to their next entry, and the next, and the next, and . . . well lets just finish by saying I'll be here for every journey they bring us😉😍.
Stormhaven by Jordan L Hawk
Summary:
Whyborne & Griffin #3
Mysterious happenings are nothing new to reclusive scholar Percival Endicott Whyborne, but finding one of his colleagues screaming for help in the street is rather unusual. Allan Tambling claims he can’t remember any of the last hour—but someone murdered his uncle, and Allan is covered in blood.
Whyborne’s lover, dashing private detective Griffin Flaherty, agrees to prove Allan’s innocence. But when Allan is deemed insane and locked away in the Stormhaven Lunatic Asylum, Griffin finds himself reliving the horrifying memories of his own ordeal inside a madhouse.
Along with their friend Christine, the two men become drawn deeper and deeper into a dark web of conspiracy, magic, and murder. Their only clue: a missing artifact depicting an unknown god. Who stole the artifact, and why can’t Allan remember what happened? And what is the truth behind the terrible experiments conducted on Stormhaven’s forbidden fourth floor?
It will take all of Whyborne’s sorcery and Griffin’s derring-do to stop the murderers and save Allan. But first, they must survive an even greater challenge: a visit from Griffin’s family.
Stormhaven is the third book in the Whyborne & Griffin series, where magic, mystery, and m/m romance collide with Victorian era America.
Books #1-4(Widdershins, Eidolin, Threshold, Stormhaven, Carousel, Remnant, & Necropolis)
Original Overall Review May 30, 2014:
Original Overall Review May 30, 2014:
I'm doing an overall review because each book flows fluently into the next. Each book is a mystery in itself but the relationships are ongoing and growing so they really need to be read in order, although I did read the short story last and it wasn't really out of place.
The characters are not only well written but easily liked or hated, as the case may be. As much as I love both Whyborne & Griffin, I really enjoyed Christine. A woman before her time and smarter than her colleagues, she doesn't hold any punches with anyone and she is the only true friend that both men come to trust and rely on. As for the hated characters, for me it was pretty consistently Whyborne's father and brother, they are both self-evolved with tunnel vision. But we can't like everyone in a story.
The mysteries are intriguing and definitely well written. They do rely heavily on the supernatural or paranormal, which is a plus for me. It's done so well that for those who aren't necessarily fans of magic I think will still find these stories interesting. This series is an excellent read anytime but a perfect read for October and Halloween.
RATING:
The Easter Redemption by VL Locey
Summary:
Laurel Holidays Spring Romance
On a small maple farm in Pennsylvania a man seeking forgiveness is going to find much more than he hoped for.
They say the only place to go from the bottom is up. Frank Fitzgerald Jr. has learned how fast a man can fall from grace. A mere two years ago he was insanely wealthy and the next in line to inherit a multi-million dollar company. Now he’s standing on a dirt road in some hayseed backwoods town with one bag of possessions and a shiny new sobriety coin in his pocket. Not only did he tumble from a lofty perch, he crashed and burned in epic fashion, landing right on his pride and breaking it into tiny bits that he fears he may never be able to glue back together, no matter what his sponsor says.
Knowing he had to start over clean—both spiritually and physically—he goes to his younger brother Decker for help. Their first conversation isn’t pretty. Frank knows he has a lifetime of slights to make amends for. Amazingly, his brother and his husband open up their barn to Frank for free lodging while he sorts out his life. Part of that life is a new job which he finds at the Stallard Maple Farm just across the pond from the farm rescue his brother now calls home. While Frank works among the maples he finds himself drawn to the eldest Stallard sibling, Maalik. A friendship forms when he discovers that Maalik has his own demons to contend with. Frank is soon feeling things for Maalik he has never felt for anyone before, especially a man, but he’s willing to test those wild new feelings even if they scare the sap out of him.
The Easter Redemption is a slow burn, bi-awakening, small town romance with two men working to better themselves, goofy farm critters, stately trees, a tiny welcoming community, family lost and found, and a sweet as syrup happy ending.
Original Review April 2025:
Another lovely tale from VL Locey and her Laurel Holidays series, I haven't read them all but each one I have experienced, entertained from beginning to end and Easter Redemption was no different. The author wrote this story nearly 2 years ago and I'm not sure how it went unnoticed that long, especially factoring in the Easter element which I don't think is explored nearly enough in fiction.
Having been raised on a farm, I loved seeing how the farm and animals play a part in Frank's starting over and dealing with his recovery. I say "animals" but it really is down to little Hugo the pig Frank unofficially adopts as his own, or perhaps I should say Hugo is the one who adopted Frank😉. However you look at it, the connection Frank develops with the little guy is special and the scene where a name is chosen made me laugh at loud. I had a pet pig when I was about 5 while she grew before taking her to the stockyard and I named her Holly for my favorite doll, Holly Hobby. The relationship Frank has with Hugo brought all those happy memories back.
Some authors might have taken a dark turn putting Frank and Maalik together as they are both recovering and starting over(though in different places in their respective journeys) but the author didn't go there. Don't get me wrong, had she taken this story on that route, it would have been equally entertaining but it was nice to see a starting over story without a high level of over the top negative baggage. That statement makes it sound as if the men had it easy, that there journey of healing was all unicorns and rainbows, it certainly wasn't but the author didn't throw in every cliche speed bump and in doing so the reader is more able to connect, relate, and empathize with all those involved.
The Easter Redemption is an entertaining and enjoyable blend of drama, humor, friendship, family, healing, and romance. Simply put, this spring holiday story is just such a delight. I look forward to going back and catching up on the author's Laurel Holidays Xmas stories.
Summary:
Nick Williams Mystery #4
Thursday, July 16, 1953
It's just another Thursday morning in July of 1953 when the doorbell rings at 137 Hartford Street and it's bad news.
Carter's father has been murdered in Georgia and the local sheriff has no intention of finding out who really did it.
So, Nick and Carter borrow the first plane that Marnie, Nick's amazing secretary, can find for them and they zoom off back into the past to see if they can uncover the truth of what really happened before the wrong man is convicted. And, knowing the lay of the land under the moss-covered oaks, Carter is pretty sure that the color of a man's skin will figure heavily in who takes the fall.
In The Laconic Lumberjack, the best Nick can do is stand by Carter's side as he confronts an awful past, uncovers some surprising secrets, and deals with the unsavory reality of small-town hypocrisy.
In the end, Nick and Carter discover more about themselves than they ever expected to find.
Original Review August 2024:
The Laconic Lumberjack finds Carter faced with his father's murder and the police back in Georgia don't have any plans to make sure the right suspect is apprehended so despite Carter's feelings about his father he knows he needs to get answers. Unfortunately, many things throw a wrench or two into Nick & Carter's plans, one big one being Nick's PI license is not valid in the state of Georgia. As it turns out Nick's money doesn't turn too many heads or help uncover any answers the way it has before.
I won't delve into the mystery too much so as not spoil the who done it. I will say that for some authors multiple twists and turns can bog down a mystery and for others heighten the suspense. Frank W Butterfield falls into the heightens category. One thing that never leaves readers wondering is the passion and love between Carter and Nick but if you are one of the few with doubts Laconic Lumberjack shows how far Nick is willing to go for his guy.
Friendships, family, murder, rampant Old Southern racism, good-bad-indifferent cops, humor, love, hurt, comfort, healing, and mystery. The Laconic Lumberjack has all of this and so much more. Whether you're cheering, booing, swooning, or swearing at the characters one can't deny every factor is needed to tell this leg of N&C's journey. So much amazing storytelling in this series entry that you better make sure you have time to finish because once you start you'll find a desire, a need to know everything will blossom inside.
RATING:
Fly by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Summary:Railers Legacy #4
A legacy he never chose. A love he never expected.
Jari Lankinen never asked to inherit his father’s sins, but the name alone is enough to poison every room he walks into. The Railers haven’t forgotten the brutal hit Aarni Lankinen delivered to Tennant Rowe, and they sure as hell don’t want his son wearing their jersey. Jari is a gifted forward with the skill to change games, but his last name makes him a target before he even skates his first shift. Earning respect means pushing through hostility and suspicion, fighting every day to prove he isn’t his father. To the fans, he’s the son of a villain. To his teammates, he’s a reminder of the past. To himself, he’s a man trapped in a shadow he can’t escape.
A steady force in the high-pressure world of professional baseball, Cameron Blackburn has built his career on focus, discipline, and keeping his head when others lose theirs. He isn’t flashy, but he’s respected, trusted, and known for bringing balance to every team he’s played on. When their paths cross at a shared training facility, Cam is drawn to Jari’s restless energy—the fight in every move, the loneliness in his silence, the way he carries his past like armor. Where others feel only wariness at Jari’s name, Cam sees someone worth knowing, worth trusting, worth holding onto. And while opening his heart to Jari may test the limits of his own control, Cam has never been afraid to stand firm when the storm comes.
Fly is a legacy, redemption, and opposites-attract romance set against the backdrop of professional sport. Featuring a hockey forward fighting to escape his father’s shadow, a disciplined baseball player who refuses to be shaken, the clash of storm and calm, and a love that proves sometimes the biggest risks are the ones worth taking.
Original Review April 2026:
Yet another great story in the continuing Scott & Locey Hockey Universe. So much to love here and for those who have been riding this train from the very beginning, waybackwhen in Harrisburg Railers, you will recognize the last name of one of the MCs, Lankinen and you're probably not remembering it kindly. To paraphrase the old adage, you can't judge the son by the father's sins. This is perfect example of just that. Unfortunately, Jari punishes himself, after all he's had a lifetime of facing his father's sins and sharing the name that went along them. I won't say anything more specific for those who are new here but just know, Aarni Lankinen is not a good man but Jari is nothing like him.
There is actually two things about Fly that puts this higher up on my list than others, which says a lot because the difference between every book I've read in the authors' hockey world is so infinitesimal that if they were a row of cars lined up on the street I would be afraid to stick my hand between them. So the 2 things that stood out: baseball and MS.
Last year in the Railers Legacy second entry, Blitz, we got to see a dual sports relationship when one MC was nearing the end of his football career, well here we get to see a baseball player who is set in his own career and very much drawn to Jari. When it comes to sports, I'm much more a baseball fan than I am hockey and unfortunately I have not had a chance to read too many baseball stories in the LGBTQ genre so this was a very nice surprise.
As for why the MS is important to me? My grandfather lived with MS for 42 years before he was called home and was in a wheelchair by the time I came along so I grew up around MS, and find myself having a much tighter judgement scale where the condition is concerned. Here in Fly, it is Jari's mom who has MS and though we don't see a great deal of her on page and the MS is a minor part of the story scene/wordage-wise, it is a main focus on Jari's mind when it comes to why he puts up with his father's crap(for lack of a better word😉). Knowing the authors' work as I do, I knew they would give it the respect it deserves but I still held a much stronger magnifying glass to those parts while reading. The concern Jari has for his mother and getting the proper care is spot on in regards to how much it can wear on a person and his need to "leave it in the locker room". It's these details that can lift a wonderful story into great storytelling.
I've talked mostly about Jari here but I can't forget Cam, the baseball player. He has his own struggles that he still maneuvers around, especially his need to want to help people. Now on the surface that is not much of a struggle but what makes it an issue is his want to jump in and fix things without asking the other party(Jari in this case) if they want his fixes. What I loved about this part of his character is he sees what he's doing and faces it before he lets it get out of hand.
I'm going to end there before I start giving away too much. Fly is an emotionally charged and still fun incredible piece of storytelling that keeps you hooked from beginning to end. There is character growth on both sides of the couple coin but more than "growth" its accepting those parts of themselves that has caused pain that helped me connect with them. Can't wait to see where their hockey universe travels to next.
RATING:
Blitz by RJ Scott & VL Locey
ONE
Cole Patrick Harrington III AKA “Trick"
I’d been called a lot of things in my career—cocky, cold, un-coachable—but this was a new one: Kid.
“Jesus, kid!”
“Smile more, kid.”
“You look like someone pissed in your Wheaties, kid.”
The man with the camera was talking to me as if I were some fresh-faced rookie and not a twenty-five-year-old professional who’d survived two concussions, a torn MCL, and had cultivated a reputation so toxic even my agent flinched when my name came up. Any minute now, I was going to launch this chirpy, caffeine-fueled photographer from the top floor of the Railers practice facility and act as if it was a training accident.
I gritted my teeth and resisted the urge to lose my shit, mostly because I’d been warned—again—that this PR stunt was a chance for me to play nice. Apparently, how I got myself traded from Atlanta had been way too effective. I may have overplayed my hand at my old team when I tried my hardest to make myself the bad guy to escape the specters that loomed large in Georgia. The Railers had scooped me up like a clearance-sale gamble, hoping maybe a change of scenery would fix whatever was wrong with me—as if I was just some glitchy piece of tech needing a reboot. But instead of skating drills or hitting the weights to prove I still had game, I was stuck posing with a golden-boy football player in a sponsored shoot for BoltFuel—oiled up, half naked with shorts the only thing hiding skin, and gritting my teeth while trying not to explode at everyone in sight.
Worth it to get out of my dad’s way. Right?
“We are smiling,” Tom said beside me, his voice bright enough to make my teeth ache as he elbowed me with what I assumed was solidarity.
His default setting was probably grin-and-glow, the kind of guy who thought the world could be fixed with a good attitude and an extra scoop of protein powder. He wasn’t only smiling—he was radiating PR-friendly charm as if it was his job. And maybe it was. Meanwhile, I was trying not to set the BoltFuel banner on fire with my eyes.
“This way, Trip! Smolder for me, Trip! Love that protein drink, Trip!” the camera guy shouted.
“It’s Trick,” I corrected. Everyone wanted to call me Trip for the III, but no, I was Cole Patrick Harrington, and people had better remember that it was Trick from Patrick.
My dad was Cole Harrington—Pastor Cole—slick with charm, polished by the spotlight of his Temple of the Radiant Truth ministry, and backed by generations of old Southern money.
“Trick, then. Smile!”
According to Layton Foxx, the Railers PR guru, sunshine-football-guy and I were good for BoltFuel, the team, and hell, even the league. I was surprised he didn’t tell me it would lead to world peace, but apparently, the optics were perfect: hockey’s most controversial problem child standing next to football’s favorite son. I gritted my teeth and forced my trademark golden-boy grin. This was good for image and cross-market promotion, and excellent for a company trying to prove their product wasn’t just for gym bros and weekend warriors.
BoltFuel’s directive had been front and center in the email thread leading up to this shoot—DON’T LET HARRINGTON FUCK IT UP FOR US. All caps. Bolded. Message received loud and clear. Be good, be agreeable, and sell the shake. Keep your attitude on a leash and your mouth shut. That was all they needed from me: a warm body and a winning smile.
The camera flashed, and I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms. I focused on my breathing, slow and controlled. One… two… three. My jaw ached from clenching, and my shoulders were so tight my head hurt. Ten seconds of pretending. Ten seconds of not messing up in front of BoltFuel, the team, and the one guy in the room who seemed untouched by the circus. Ten seconds of being someone I wasn’t—I could do that. Hell, I did it every day.
Tom I’m-fucking-perfect Fulkowski, carved out of golden light, good intentions, and twenty million a year, stood beside me as though he didn’t have a care in the world, flashing his perfectly white teeth and charming everyone from the interns to the assistant GM. He even smelled good, like sunshine and cinnamon. I smelled like sweat and frustration.
We both smelled of oil.
Taller than me by a couple of inches, he was broad-shouldered and stupidly photogenic. He wore his Philadelphia Pumas shorts as if he belonged in a magazine ad instead of a football stadium.
“Trick? A word,” Layton said from the sidelines, all pleasant PR charm until I got closer, and he pulled me aside like a cop about to read me my rights.
“What! I’m doing it! I’m smiling, aren’t I? I didn’t swear, flip anyone off, or smash a camera. That’s practically sainthood.”
God, it was hard to turn off the asshole side of me.
“I swear, Trick, if you don’t pull it together and act like you’re even vaguely enjoying yourself, I will personally staple that BoltFuel logo to your forehead. This campaign is already hanging by a thread, and if you tank it, you’re not just screwing yourself—you’re screwing me, the team, and everyone who still thinks there’s a PR miracle waiting to happen here.”
Message received. Loud and clear. Again.
“Act like you’re happy we plucked you off the waiver wire. Smile, nod, and for the love of god, Trick, look like you’re thrilled to be standing next to America’s sweetheart and holding a protein shake like it’s your golden ticket back into hockey heaven.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, letting the PR-approved smile drop like dead weight. I didn’t want to be told what to do. I’d escaped Atlanta to be my own man, and here was this guy shouting at me.
“Even if I’m not happy?” My voice was flat; the kind of tone that said I was two seconds from lighting the whole BoltFuel banner on fire to see who’d scramble first.
Layton’s eyes darkened, and I could see the vein in his temple starting to throb. “I swear…” he began. “Do your job and pretend you want to be part of the Railers.” Then, he gently encouraged me, aka shoved me, back out onto the rooftop where Perfect-Tom-the-football player was chatting to the photographer and smiling so damn hard I was surprised his face didn’t break.
“Here he is,” Tom said, throwing me the same smile.
Fuck. My. Life. Happy to be with the Railers? I wish. After the reputation I had—the one I’d created to escape—no one really wanted me here. Hell, I didn’t want to be in Pennsylvania—I’d wanted Vancouver or LA—anything to get as far away from Atlanta as possible.
I need to try and smile. I need to look unaffected. But I need to smile.
My head!
Tom leaned in. “You good, dude?”
Dude? Who the fuck said that anymore? And no, I wasn’t good. I hadn’t been good in years.
“Peachy,” I muttered, forcing a tight smile for the next shot. The camera clicked again, and I caught sight of my expression on the monitor. Yeah. Real sunshine and rainbows.
“Okay to post to my socials?” Sunshine asked.
The photographer nodded, and before I knew it I was being hugged super close, skin on skin, and Tom’s phone caught my automatic media smile before I extricated myself and made a show of wiping myself down.
“So, onto the interview,” the camera guy said, standing aside for the slip of a girl who couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. The questions were generic. Layton wanted us to banter about hockey vs. football, even after I pointed out that I was earning seven million a year, which was less than half of what Sunshine-Tom pulled in. Was that the banter he wanted me to focus on?
Tom was chatting about the many charities he was involved with, from dogs to kids to mental health. He was all over everything: fun runs, ultra marathons, kicking balls through holes.
“… charities?” the interviewer asked, looking at me expectantly.
“I prefer to keep my charitable endeavors private,” I threw out, rude as fuck, and pointedly raising an eyebrow. Why the hell did I do that? Oh yeah, because I didn’t do charity work. I gave half my freaking salary to my dad.
Silence. I could feel Layton’s gaze boring into the back of my neck. “Apart from the dogs,” I added after a pause. “I do a lot with dogs.” I wondered if anyone could tell I was lying. Again, no one would call me on it, and I resolved to donate to the closest dog rescue place.
“You do?” Tom asked, “That’s so cool. I love dogs! I have this cute pup… look!” He’d picked up his cell and was now waving it under my nose.
I was motion sick but managed to at least murmur something that got him to stop waving it at me.
When the interview was over, I was free to leave, but Tom wouldn’t let me. Oh no, he wanted to talk to me.
“Do you want to get a coffee?” he asked with a grin, as if we were old friends and not two strangers thrown together for a PR campaign no one had asked for.
Did I want to spend time with another man—a gorgeous, sexy, muscled, oiled man—where my urges might spill over and I did something stupid.
Nope.
Don’t look at his body. Mask down.
Scrappy miserable defensive shield up.
“Why? So, you can add rehabbing hockey player to your list of charity cases?”
He didn’t flinch, but he did frown. “Just an idea,” he said. “No biggie.”
Anyone would notice Tom the second he walked into a room. He was tall and had a lean, but powerful, football player’s build—one of the top defensive ends in the league. He was clean-cut American perfection, with hair cropped short and neat, blue eyes that probably melted cameras, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
He turned slightly to talk to the photographer, and the view from the back didn’t disappoint. Broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, and his ass—well, it was ridiculous in those Pumas shorts. That was some fine award-winning bubble butt he had going on there. His whole body looked as if it had been designed in a lab to torment me.
And those lips—Christ. Full, plush, shaped like sin and confidence. The kind of lips that made you think of things a man shouldn’t, especially in front of half a dozen cameras. I could imagine tracing them with my fingers, feeling them against my neck, and yeah… his lips would be gorgeous wrapped around my—
My cell buzzing interrupted my thoughts—not my normal cell phone, but the tiny handset I kept tucked in a zipped pocket of my bag. It only had one number programmed into it. My father’s.
I didn’t want that man anywhere near the real life I was trying to build. He didn’t deserve even the ghost of a presence in it. Everything I’d clawed my way toward—every minute on the ice, every hard-earned scrap of control over my own goddamn story—I’d done in spite of him. Not because of him.
But I couldn’t make myself leave the phone behind. Not ever. Because I knew him. Knew the way he operated. He’d wait until the perfect moment—until I was almost happy, until I was steady—and then, he’d throw a curveball that’d knock me sideways. He’d done it before. Enough times that the idea of missing one of those calls, of not being ready, left a knot of barbed wire in my gut.
The phone was my warning system. My fire alarm. I didn’t pick it up to talk. I picked it up to survive.
The message was simple. A lone photo, forwarded from Tom’s Instagram. His arm slung casually around me, my head tipped slightly toward his. It wasn’t anything.
Below it, my father had typed: The cameras have caught you touching sin!
My stomach dropped.
Classic him. No context. No conversation. Just a warning dressed up as scripture, like he thought he was standing at a pulpit instead of slinging shame over text. Like he had any right to say a damn thing about my life after our contract.
I stared at the message, my grip tightening on the tiny phone until the plastic creaked. This was the curveball. I’d felt it coming. He always found a way to remind me that he was watching.
“Trick! Security just called,” someone said, cutting through my spiral. Now what? “There’s someone downstairs for you.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know. Greg said it’s personal.”
I blinked, heart thudding as if I’d been caught doing something illegal. I turned back to the photographer. I was thankful for the interruption, even if my chest was tight—I didn’t do anything personally. “Are we done here?”
He nodded, distracted by adjusting some lighting rig.
I didn’t say goodbye. I shoved my hands deeper into my hoodie pockets and walked off the set without glancing back, using the stairs to get down, and stopped just before exiting the lobby. My breath hitched and my heart punched against my ribs as if it were trying to escape. Panic curled in my gut, sharp and sudden, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. My palms were slick, my vision narrowing as thoughts raced—who was out there wanting me? Did they want a golden boy hockey player or an asshole wanting to be punched? What character would I have to play? Not knowing was kinda shit, and I didn’t do surprises. Tension flooded my veins, thick and hot, locking up every joint until I couldn’t move or think without spiraling into worst-case scenarios.
“Hey, you okay?” a voice said behind me, and I whirled to face a half-smiling, half-concerned Tom.
I focused on his stupidly pretty face and sneered. “Oh, fuck the hell off,” I snapped, and pushed out of the door, my anger at being spotted enough to snap my daydream. I didn’t think he followed me, and I strode to the main desk, seeing an empty lobby apart from some kid sitting on the sofa.
“What?” I asked Greg, who pointed at the young girl without saying a word. “We don’t let fans in.”.” I moved to leave, but the girl had moved—damned fast—and blocked my way.
She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, eighteen maybe—but then, what the hell did I know—and she smiled up at me. She was in jeans and a simple T-shirt, the kind you could pick up in a three-pack at Target, and her hair was scraped back into a no-nonsense ponytail. There was no makeup I could see, but she didn’t seem plain—just real. Her dark eyes were wide, curious, and maybe a little nervous, like she wasn’t sure if she was about to get yelled at or hugged. There was something familiar in how she stood too—shoulders back, chin lifted as if she’d practiced this moment in the mirror a dozen times and wasn’t about to flinch now.
“Hi, Cole Harrington the Third.” She extended her hand to shake.
I ignored it.
“You shouldn’t be in here; there are scheduled times for meet and greets,” I said. “Give Greg your name, and he’ll add you to the list.” I stepped back so Greg could see her and me in case I got accused of something awful; I mean, Jesus, she was a young woman, and I was the bad boy of hockey, and I’d been accused of unfounded shit before.
“My name is Rebecca Jensen.”
“Okay. Tell Greg.”
“I’m here to see you.”
“As I said, we have meet and greets.”
“I’m your sister.”
“Fuck off.” My mouth moved before my brain could catch up. Sister? No. That word didn’t belong to me. That word wasn’t part of my life. My entire world had always been me—solo, closed off, self-contained. No siblings, shared birthdays, hand-me-downs, or late-night whisper fights across a hallway. Just me and the silence I’d made peace with. And now? This stranger wanted to rewrite my entire history with a few words. That was a new one. I’d had four pregnancy accusations—two of them from women I’d never even met, one from a former one-night stand who’d forgotten she was married, and one who thought wishful thinking made it real. I’d punched a photographer in Vegas after he’d tried to shove a lens up my nose during a hangover. I’d been accused twice of getting too handsy in public—both dismissed, but the stain lingered. I’d been called every name in the book by commentators and sports pundits alike. But this? A long-lost sibling showing up out of the blue in the Railers lobby? That was a first.
“No, you’re not,” I scoffed. If there’s one certainty I have, it’s that I don’t have siblings. “Greg, can you get over here and deal with this.”
“Cole Harrington, the second, was your father, same as mine,” she said, her voice steady, like she’d rehearsed this a hundred times. “My mom, Georgie Jensen, was your dad’s PA for a couple of weeks. She never told me about him—not until last year when she was diagnosed with cancer.” She paused then, grief in her expression. “She told me to stay away, that it was safer that way, until I turned eighteen at least. And I’m eighteen now, I mean… look, when she passed away there was a lawyer explaining everything.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope, which was thick and official judging by its weight. “There’s a genetic match, an affidavit, photos… the whole kit and caboodle.” Then, she smiled—wide and awkward—and added, “Hey, big brother.”
“Is this a scam? Because if it is, save us both the time and get the hell out now. I’ve seen enough people try to angle in with a sob story and some paperwork. You want money—there’s a line forming behind my last three fake cousins and a guy who swore he babysat me once in kindergarten and said I told him my dad would give him money. So, unless you’ve got more than a manila envelope and a smile, I suggest you turn around.”
“She said you’d be like this,” she muttered, then sighed. “Take this, asshole.” She thrust the envelope at me. “Call me.”
Then she turned smartly on her heel and walked out of the arena, leaving me in the lobby like an idiot. An idiot holding a sealed envelope and a hundred questions I didn’t want to ask. My fingers itched to tear it open, but my feet stayed rooted to the floor. What the hell was I supposed to do with this? What if she was right?
She’s not right. Jesus Trick, pull yourself together.
I shoved the envelope into my hoodie pocket as if it were radioactive. Greg was staring, and I snarled. He scampered off to do whatever he was supposed to be doing, like not letting a random stranger in here.
This day was officially fucked.
Stormhaven by Jordan L Hawk
An array of probes lay on the table in front of it, some of whose use was made obvious by their shape. Bile stung my throat, and I glanced at Griffin, whose empty-eyed gaze had locked on the probes.
If he slipped into a fit now, we’d be caught for sure. I had to get him out of here. “Griffin,” I said, low and urgent. “Hang on. We’re almost there. I know you can do this.”
He swallowed convulsively, then nodded. “Yes. Just…lead the way.”
I did so, trying not to think of him locked in one of those cribs or chairs, let alone receiving shocks from the instruments. I wanted to take him far from here, wrap my arms around him, and shield him from every possible harm. But I couldn’t.
I led him further down the ward, wondering how many men might be confined here. Unlike the first floor ward, these walls weren’t painted a cheerful yellow. Instead, strange, swirling lines and symbols covered the raw plaster. I stopped to look at them, certain I’d seen many of the sigils in the Arcanorum and other occult tomes. A symbol hung above every cell, with sigils and lines twisting out from it, both inside the cell and to tangle with its neighbors.
What the devil was Zeiler doing with these men?
Griffin tugged at my hand. There was no time to gawk, I reminded myself. As we hurried down the ward, I shone my lantern into each cell, hoping for a glimpse of Allan. The wretched patients were little more than huddled shapes, for the most part, with the occasional gleam of eyes. The low moaning grew louder, and I realized it came from a cell halfway down the ward. Through some trick of the ventilation, the scent of the sea strengthened as we approached, drowning out the foulness of human effluvia. The air grew heavy and damp, smelling of salt and rot, dead fish and cold, cold mud.
My footsteps turned sluggish, as if mired in sludge. I needed to keep walking…and yet for some reason I felt compelled to look into the cell. Everything seemed to move very slowly, as if I’d slipped into some strange dream.
My feet came to a halt altogether, and I shone the beam of my lantern on the moaning man. The occupant of the cell crouched with his back to me. Unlike the shabbily-clothed patients I’d seen thus far, he seemed to be naked, his vertebrae strung like stones beneath his skin. Tattoos of strange design covered his arms and part of his back. Had he been a sailor, perhaps? Even one of the cultists?
The moaning fell suddenly silent. When the madman spoke, his cracked voice lilted strangely, like a child half-singing the words of a taunt. “You hear its song.”
My breath caught in my throat. “I d-don’t know what you mean,” I lied.
A low laugh started…then spread to the other cells, until we stood in the midst of a whole ward of laughing, cackling, giggling lunatics. “Don’t you?” the sailor asked. “It sings to you as it sings to us. In our dreams.”
“Whyborne,” Griffin said urgently, but he seemed very far away. On the other side of the world, or at the bottom of a well.
I took a step closer to the cell, fascinated by the tattoos on the sailor’s back. Was it a trick of the light, or had they begun to move?
The lunatic sprang to his feet, slamming into the bars, mere inches from my face. “It sings to you!” he screamed, spittle flying everywhere.
No, not spittle—sea foam. Somehow—I didn’t know how—the ocean had risen into Stormhaven, an inch of water splashing beneath my feet, the scent of the murky depths filling my nose. It wasn’t possible—it would take a cataclysm indeed for the ocean to rise so high, and surely the building would have been swept away. But where did the water come from?
What was happening to me?
“It’s coming!” the madman howled, shaking the bars of his cage. “The dweller in the deep is coming! The god is coming, singing; don’t you hear it, don’t you hear it?”
A hand touched my arm.
If he slipped into a fit now, we’d be caught for sure. I had to get him out of here. “Griffin,” I said, low and urgent. “Hang on. We’re almost there. I know you can do this.”
He swallowed convulsively, then nodded. “Yes. Just…lead the way.”
I did so, trying not to think of him locked in one of those cribs or chairs, let alone receiving shocks from the instruments. I wanted to take him far from here, wrap my arms around him, and shield him from every possible harm. But I couldn’t.
I led him further down the ward, wondering how many men might be confined here. Unlike the first floor ward, these walls weren’t painted a cheerful yellow. Instead, strange, swirling lines and symbols covered the raw plaster. I stopped to look at them, certain I’d seen many of the sigils in the Arcanorum and other occult tomes. A symbol hung above every cell, with sigils and lines twisting out from it, both inside the cell and to tangle with its neighbors.
What the devil was Zeiler doing with these men?
Griffin tugged at my hand. There was no time to gawk, I reminded myself. As we hurried down the ward, I shone my lantern into each cell, hoping for a glimpse of Allan. The wretched patients were little more than huddled shapes, for the most part, with the occasional gleam of eyes. The low moaning grew louder, and I realized it came from a cell halfway down the ward. Through some trick of the ventilation, the scent of the sea strengthened as we approached, drowning out the foulness of human effluvia. The air grew heavy and damp, smelling of salt and rot, dead fish and cold, cold mud.
My footsteps turned sluggish, as if mired in sludge. I needed to keep walking…and yet for some reason I felt compelled to look into the cell. Everything seemed to move very slowly, as if I’d slipped into some strange dream.
My feet came to a halt altogether, and I shone the beam of my lantern on the moaning man. The occupant of the cell crouched with his back to me. Unlike the shabbily-clothed patients I’d seen thus far, he seemed to be naked, his vertebrae strung like stones beneath his skin. Tattoos of strange design covered his arms and part of his back. Had he been a sailor, perhaps? Even one of the cultists?
The moaning fell suddenly silent. When the madman spoke, his cracked voice lilted strangely, like a child half-singing the words of a taunt. “You hear its song.”
My breath caught in my throat. “I d-don’t know what you mean,” I lied.
A low laugh started…then spread to the other cells, until we stood in the midst of a whole ward of laughing, cackling, giggling lunatics. “Don’t you?” the sailor asked. “It sings to you as it sings to us. In our dreams.”
“Whyborne,” Griffin said urgently, but he seemed very far away. On the other side of the world, or at the bottom of a well.
I took a step closer to the cell, fascinated by the tattoos on the sailor’s back. Was it a trick of the light, or had they begun to move?
The lunatic sprang to his feet, slamming into the bars, mere inches from my face. “It sings to you!” he screamed, spittle flying everywhere.
No, not spittle—sea foam. Somehow—I didn’t know how—the ocean had risen into Stormhaven, an inch of water splashing beneath my feet, the scent of the murky depths filling my nose. It wasn’t possible—it would take a cataclysm indeed for the ocean to rise so high, and surely the building would have been swept away. But where did the water come from?
What was happening to me?
“It’s coming!” the madman howled, shaking the bars of his cage. “The dweller in the deep is coming! The god is coming, singing; don’t you hear it, don’t you hear it?”
A hand touched my arm.
The Easter Redemption by VL Locey
Chapter One
“Thank you, sir,” I shouted to be heard over the booming exhaust system on the rusty red Studebaker pickup.
The old man in the John Deere ball cap yelled something at me then sped off, speeding in this instance being a roaring twenty miles per hour. A black ball of choking exhaust exploded out of the rotted muffler. There I stood in the middle of a dirt road, my old Yale duffel bag on my shoulder, hacking up a lung. Thankfully there was a soft breeze moving past and it lifted the fumes away. I stared at the lone mailbox sitting on the right hand side of the road and had to smile a little. The black box sat atop half an old telephone pole, which was about as rural as one could get, you’d think. But no, someone—and I suspected I knew who that someone was—had painted little farm animals on the sides of the battered postal box.
I stood in the spring sun, chilled in my thin jacket, staring at the black mailbox as if it held some ancient secrets. I even went so far as to open it and stare inside. The damn thing was cavernous. The flag a little weak. There were bills inside waiting to be picked up by the mailman. Mailperson. Postal carrier. Ugh. Being PC was tiring. Life was so much easier when I was cranked up on coke and plastered on Jim Beam. I could just be a raging asshole and everyone was willing to accept it because I was ripped. And since I had been high on something since I was in boarding school, I’d had lots of practice being a raging asshole. Which meant lots of amends to make. Starting with the most important one.
“You’re stalling,” I said, closed the box, and turned to face the long dirt drive that would lead me to Happy Laurel Farm. Hefting my duffel higher on my shoulder, I took a few steps, pausing at the foot of the drive to cock my head and listen. There was no traffic noise. The only sounds were the soft rustle of a cool wind moving through trees about to bud and the distant blats and moos of farm animals.
Farm animals. I still could not wrap my head around the fact my younger brother, Decker, lived on a farm. If ever there was a man who was not cut out for farm life it was my baby brother. He was the picture of urban gay chic. Or had been. I’d not seen or spoken to him for close to two years. Fifteen or so months to be precise. A lot had gone down in that time. My brother had left the family business, punched my father in the face—Christ, I wish I had been there to see that—and had moved out here to Hick Town, Pennsylvania, to settle down with a vegan liberal. Of all the things. Father had been outraged. Mother had been mildly upset and so had gone out to get a new lover on the side. Which was how she handled things. Sex and booze to numb the misery of a life unfulfilled.
Sound familiar, Frank?
Oh yeah, it really did. The only difference was that Mother had enough sense to keep her addictions well-hidden whereas I kind of made a splash with mine. Maybe splash was the wrong word. More like I did an Icarus and flew so high and close to the sun that my wings melted and I crashed back to earth with such a resounding thud that the tremors were felt from Pittsburgh all the way to a certain resort in Florida where my father had been playing golf and whoring. Oh, sorry, not whoring. Spending time with clients.
“Whatever,” I mumbled then began the walk up the driveway. Fencing ran along the drive, and several muddy goats came waddling to the woven wire fence to gape at me with their funny goat eyes. They were all colors and incredibly fat. None of them seemed to like me, which was pretty judgmental on their part but, to be fair, I had enjoyed chevon a few times. My lower back and thighs ached. I’d walked for I didn’t know how long to reach the end of this road. Then my cell service died off. I mean, what the hell was wrong with this county? How could there be places in America that didn’t have cell phone service? What the hell was the government spending money on if not for infrastructure?
Since when do you care about internet service for the rural folk?
“Point to you,” I mumbled to my inner Frank. Sometimes I really hated my inner Frank. He made me drink. No lie. Of course that was just one of many reasons I soaked in a bottle or sniffed up anything able to be sniffed. Monty, my sponsor, had told me I shouldn’t hate that inner voice as it was my conscience trying to tell me to wake the fuck up. Which, yeah, it was probably that. I’d spent over thirty-five years trying to bury that little shitty whisper inside my head because facing the truth it spoke was simply too damned painful.
A big black goat trotted up to the fence and made rude noises at me. The spring winds carried a funky musky smell. A stink that had not been there before the big black goat had arrived to flop his lips at me.
I paused, took a step closer, and stood on this side of the fence, a half-melted bank of snow keeping me from getting any closer.
“You don’t scare me. I grew up in the Fitzgerald mansion.” I folded my arms over my chest and waited for the goat to reply. He blatted and gave me another round of rubber lips. Then it hit me I was having a conversation with a goat. A. Goat. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” I sighed to no-one in particular before stalking back up the drive, my sight touching on the abundance of trees everywhere. Not just pines either. All kinds of trees and big blue skies. What I knew about trees could fit into a thimble. Mr. Willings had taught us trees made oxygen so that was good. And yeah, that was about all I knew about trees.
My feet ached. They were cold and wet. The walk from the bus depot outside Miller’s Lake had been rough on a body that only knew how to laze around and get glazed like a damn donut. My stomach rumbled at the thought of a doughnut. I’d not eaten since last night when the bus from Charlotte had pulled into Philly and we’d had to change companies. Seemed the big bus lines didn’t travel this far into the boonies so I’d had to hop a smaller bus after a quick stop at a gas station. I’d dropped the last ten bucks to my name to buy a bottle of water and a questionable tuna sandwich that had a blurred best before date on the back. I’d not shit myself on the ride from the City of Brotherly Love to the tiny drop-off by a lake in town, so all was good on that front.
The back of my neck was sweaty despite the chill in the air. March was iffy still on the east coast. Spring was trying to force its way to the fore but winter wasn’t sure if it was done being a cold-hearted bitch yet. There were signs of both seasons everywhere. Snow plowed up along the drive for instance while a patch of purple crocus pushed through the lingering frost to brighten the otherwise wet and sloppy ground.
Coming up on the barn, I felt a flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with a lack of food. Decker was somewhere around here with his new husband, Acosta Melios, the owner of the rescue. I’d not been kind to my brother the last time we had spoken. After stopping dead in the center of the drive I stared at the old barn. Red chickens were out in the yard, digging in the mud. A big ginger rooster crowed, the sound carrying down the valley and bouncing off the thawing mountains. It really was quite nice here. I situated my duffel bag nervously, wondering if I’d be greeted by a loving family member or a shotgun. It could go either way. Rural folks were known to have guns for hunting and shooting bears. I threw a fast look around at all the woodland surrounding me. Shit. I’d not thought about bears as I’d been wandering along country roads with no means of self-defense besides half a stale tuna sandwich. I should hang onto that. I could use it as a means to distract the bear or clobber it over the head, although the bread was too soggy to make a good bludgeon.
“You lost, friend?” a man called from the door of the barn, shaking me from my bear concerns.
I blinked and took a slow step forward. This man had longish hair, a lean face, and was eying me with careful concern. I’d seen him on the rescue website standing with my brother, arm-in-arm, with a goat in a racing harness or some sort of contraption. They’d both appeared to be crazy in love and I’d felt a tiny thrum of pleasure knowing my brother was happy. God knows I’d not done much to bring him any joy.
Amends, Frankie. We’re here to make amends and find a better life. A clean life.
There were times my inner Frank was okay. Like right now. One day at a time. Right. I could do this.
“No, I’m at the right place. I’m looking for Decker?” That made him tense up just a bit. “Decker Fitzgerald? Well, I guess he’s not using that last name anymore not that I blame him.”
“What do you want with him?” my brother-in-law asked, folding his arms across a green and blue checkered flannel shirt.
I mulled that over before speaking. Something that rehab and AA had been quite helpful in teaching me. Actions and words matter so think before speaking or doing. I bit back the snarky answer that popped to life on my tongue. It was a tacky quip so it really didn’t need to see the light of day. I shoved my hands into my front pockets to find my hard-earned tokens. Rubbing them when I felt anxious helped me center. Centering. Also a new thing rehab and group meetings had taught me. You’d think a man with an Ivy League education would be super smart, but nope.
“I’m his brother,” I called as I held my ground.
A tractor sat by the barn; some big cart thing backed into the second floor. The smell of animals was growing richer the closer I got to the building.
“I know who you are,” Acosta shouted back, his legs now braced for a scuffle maybe? Yeah, probably. I sighed but held my ground.
“I’d like to talk to him if I could,” I yelled as a cat and duck walked past, the duck giving me a dark look. Who knew ducks could glare?
“I’m not sure that you really should,” Acosta called, his tone firm. “From what I hear you’ve been nothing but a rotten bastard to my husband for most of his life.”
“Yeah, I have been,” I replied, fingers moving over my tokens so quickly they were starting to warm from the friction. “And I want to make amends. I need to. It’s part of the journey.”
Acosta eyeballed me just like that big black goat had. He began shaking his head when Decker walked out of the barn, cradling a tiny baby goat.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” Decker said, the little brown goat in his arms trying to suckle on his chin. It was really pretty cute and I wasn’t an animal person. “Why are you here, Frank?”
That was a long and heavy tale to tell. One that required a good stiff…ginger ale.
“Because I’m working a twelve-step program and making amends to those I have wronged is the ninth step,” I replied candidly. No point in trying to gild the lily. The whole world had seen my descent from the heavens. Might as well let my brother in on my plummet. Decker, Acosta, and the baby goat were staring at me, weighing my words. I blew out a breath. “I know my addictions and actions had a bad effect on you. I have a list in my bag of things that I want to apologize for, if you’ll let me?”
Decker shared a look with his husband. I waited, trembling inside, praying my brother would be the better man and let me talk with him. Just for an hour. Then I’d leave if that was what he wanted.
“Follow me to the cabin. It’s time for Prissy’s bottle,” Decker said then walked off, following a muddy path leading away from the barn.
I let out a huge breath. Acosta glowered at me as I shuffled along behind my brother. I kept my eyes on Decker’s stiff back as we made our way to their home while I rehearsed my speech in my head. The list of apologies in my duffel was as long as my arm.
The Laconic Lumberjack by Frank W Butterfield
137 Hartford Street
San Francisco, Cal.
Thursday, July 16, 1953
Just before 10 in the morning
I was walking downstairs, thinking about the three important things I needed to do that day when I heard a knock on the front door.
It was another bright day and the air was a little on the cool side, as summer days can be in San Francisco. Sinatra was crooning on the hi-fi. I was feeling better than I had felt in a while.
I could hear Carter Jones, my tall, muscled, ex-fireman husband, whistling along with Sinatra and, as always, he sounded handsome. I smiled at the oddness of that thought as I opened the door to see Marnie, the best secretary a guy ever had, and her mother, Mrs. Wilson, standing on the front porch looking sad and apologetic at the same time.
"Come in," I said as I stood back to let them pass.
They both walked in. Marnie was dressed for work. I knew she was going to be meeting Robert, our new boy wonder, at the office later to go over some new ideas about managing my real estate properties. I had hired him over a month ago, and he was working out fine. Better than fine. He was pretty sharp, that kid.
Marnie reached out a gloved hand and said, "Oh Nick! This is terrible!"
They were both standing in the entry hallway. I asked, "Can I get you some coffee?"
Mrs. Wilson said, "No, thank you. I just received a call from Carter's mother."
I was surprised. I knew they had been keeping in touch. Carter's mother was supposed to be visiting San Francisco in a little over a week. Plane tickets had been purchased and arrangements had been made for her to stay with Marnie and Mrs. Wilson, who lived one block up and two blocks over on Collingwood. Mrs. Jones didn't feel comfortable staying with us and, to be honest, the feeling was mutual.
I looked at Marnie, who was dabbing her eyes with one of her lace handkerchiefs.
"What's happened?" I asked.
"Oh, Nick! Carter's father is dead and they think it was murder!"
Mrs. Wilson bustled in an irritated way. "No one knows anything yet other than we're here to help you and Carter pack your bags and get you on a plane."
I shook my head. I wasn't about to go to Albany, Georgia. In July.
"No. There must be a mistake. She's coming here next week." I knew that sounded idiotic but it was what popped out of my mouth.
Mrs. Wilson took me by the elbow and pushed me into the sitting room. "You have to go upstairs and tell that man about his father. We'll be down here if you need us."
I shook my head. "Maybe—"
Mrs. Wilson was firm. "No maybe. He's dead. You have to go. Today."
It finally got through to me. I could hear Carter still whistling upstairs. I looked over at Marnie whose face brimmed over with concern.
I took a deep breath, crossed the sitting room, and began to walk up the stairs. They felt long and steep. I wasn't looking forward to this.
When I got to the landing at the top, I said, "Carter?"
He replied, "Yeah?"
"I need to talk to you."
"Can it wait? I'm on my way to meet Martinelli. We have that arson case down in San Mateo."
"No, honey, it can't wait."
"Honey? Since when—" He was quiet for a moment. "Is something wrong? Who was at the door?"
I entered the room carefully, stopping just inside the doorway, and watched him fiddle with his tie. He was looking at me through the mirror. As usual, he was stooping over to see his reflection. We really needed to get a bigger mirror. But, obviously, not today.
"Marnie and Mrs. Wilson are here."
"Why?" he looked confused.
"Sit down."
"I really—"
"Carter, your father is dead and someone murdered him."
He stood up straight, stopped fidgeting with the tie, and looked forward, without any further movement.
"Are you sure?"
I shrugged. "Yes."
"If you're sure, why are you shrugging? Besides everyone who ever knew him, who would want to kill Daddy?"
I sighed. "We're gonna go find out."
Fly by RJ Scott & VL Locey
ONE
Jari
The first thing I did when I got into the cab was check the time in Finland. It was afternoon there, which meant Mom would be awake. I didn’t call her. I never did before games, meetings, or travel days. If I heard her voice and something was wrong at her end, I wouldn’t be able to leave the room, let alone skate. Instead, I opened the care app the private facility used—the one with the neutral colors and smiling stock photos—and scanned the overnight notes for Abigail Martinson.
Stable. No falls. Fatigue marked moderate. She had a visitor last night, but, per privacy policy, no names were included in the report. It wouldn’t be family—she had none in Finland, and it certainly wouldn’t be Aarni Lankinen, her husband in name, and the man she hated.
The man I hated.
I let out a breath and closed my eyes. Maybe she had a new friend? I’d ask her when I next called, but I was glad for it. Finland was supposed to feel like home for her—lakes and pines and silence. Instead, on mornings like this, it felt like distance measured in euros and contracts and whether I was still worth the price of keeping her comfortable.
I told myself—as I did every day—that as long as I kept playing, my asshole father would ensure she was looked after. That was the only way I could think.
The cab pulled into the Railers’ practice facility just after seven on a bright September morning.
I stayed seated longer than necessary, watching my breath fog the window, counting the seconds between inhales. The building loomed low and wide—glass, steel, banners snapping in the cold. RAILERS across the front in block letters. Not intimidating. Not welcoming either. Just… there. Waiting.
My flight from Detroit had been last-minute, rushed, chaotic, me leaving training camp at the drop of a hat, but it spat me out at Harrisburg airport in the dead of an early morning, and I tried to tell myself I was ready. I wasn’t.
“You okay back there?” the driver asked.
Not even close. Of all the teams that could’ve wanted me—and why would they—it had to be the Railers. I apologized, paid, and thanked him, then clambered out with my gear bag dragging at my shoulder, sticks awkward and unbalanced until I cleared the curb. I waited until the cab pulled away, until there was nothing left to hide behind.
And for a split second—one sharp, terrifying heartbeat—I wondered what would happen if I just… stopped. Stopped trying. Stopped skating. Stopped existing inside this machine that never let me breathe. If I started with the Railers, then walked into the next game and coasted. I could crash headfirst into the boards. One bad hit. One mistimed stride. One skate slipping out from under me on purpose. A skate to the chest, a fall at the wrong angle—it would all look like an accident. Hockey was dangerous. Careers end every year.
A clean exit, an insurance payout.
Stopping wasn’t an option.
Stopping meant unpaid invoices and polite emails that grew less polite. It meant Finland turning colder, quieter, less forgiving. It meant my mother apologizing for things that weren’t her fault and pretending she didn’t need help because help came with conditions.
And worse—it didn’t scare me the way it should have.
Because I hated this. I hated that this was the fourth new team in four years because I didn’t fit anywhere. I hated my name. I hated waking up every day, wondering if I was playing for myself or just trying to outrun the monster who’d raised me.
The Railers bench surging to its feet. The crowd—eighteen thousand voices howling for blood. Sticks, gloves, bodies colliding in a chaotic knot at center ice. Tennant Rowe jumping in without hesitation, trying to haul one of the Raptors off a teammate. Then hands went up. Someone pawed at his helmet in the crush. Accidental, they’d say later. Frame by frame, slowed down on a thousand replays. But in the moment, all I saw was his helmet ripped free, skittering across the ice.
And my father moving.
He launched himself into the mess as if he’d been waiting for an invitation and even then, as a kid, I knew what that look meant. My father reached him, slapped a hand onto Tennant’s shoulder, and yanked him backward over his extended leg. Rowe went down hard; his head struck the ice with a sound I still hear in my sleep. He crumpled into the churning skates, bodies still shoving, fists still flying. When the pile shifted, he was still there.
Unmoving.
His head rested in a spreading pool of blood, dark against the white ice, skates dancing around him as if he were already invisible.
My father stood over him.
Not checking. Not calling for help. Just looming there, bent slightly at the waist, grinning as Tennant gasped for air. As if this was the point. As if hurting someone that badly meant he’d won at something.
The crowd had been roaring. I remembered that part too. Noise swallowing the sound of Tennant’s breath, the way officials were slow to intervene, the way my father skated off without looking back.
I swallowed hard.
Every real Railers fan hated Aarni Lankinen.
But none of them hated him as much as I did.
A man waited inside the door; a tablet tucked under one arm.
“Jari Lankinen?”
I nodded.
“Layton Foxx,” he said, smiling. “Director of Player Relations, Community Outreach, and—depending on the week—everything else that falls through the cracks.” He stuck out his hand. Firm. Grounded. “Welcome to Harrisburg.”
Something in his tone—warm without being fake—threw me. I shook his hand before I could think too hard about it.
“You’re just in time for orientation,” Layton continued, walking with me through the doors. Coach Morin’s expecting you.”
Coach Morin's office was smaller than I expected—not intimidating, not flashy. Just a desk, two chairs, and a wall covered in Railers history. Banners, photos, and newspaper clippings. Legacy everywhere I looked. Coach wasn’t the tidiest guy. His desk was a mess of gum wrappers, empty coffee mugs, and playbooks stacked in uneven piles. Photos lined the back of the desk, half-hidden under notes. Layton lingered by the door as Coach Morin stood to greet me.
“Jari Lankinen,” Coach said, offering his hand. “Glad you’re here.”
“I'm glad to be here,” I lied. What I really wanted to say was that I couldn’t believe they'd traded me here, that they were stupid, that the optics were shit, and worse, that it exposed me to a million more horrors than I'd seen at my three other teams.
I sat when he pointed at a chair, my hands pressed flat against my thighs to stop them from shaking. Coach Morin lowered himself into his chair, folding his arms, studying me in silence long enough that I wondered if this was the real test—whether I could handle stillness.
Finally, he spoke.
“So, Jari,” he said, “you’ve had quite a journey since draft.”
My stomach clenched.
“Minnesota. Seattle. Detroit.” He ticked them off with three fingers. “Three teams in four years. That’s a lot of packing.”
I swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
He leaned back. “I spoke to each of your coaches.” My breath caught. He held my gaze. “And you know what they said?” I didn’t. I was scared to. Coach lifted a shoulder. “Some bad things, lack of focus sometimes, lack of self-belief.” He paused and I nodded—I'd heard that before. “But also, good things.”
Wait. What? I blinked. “Good things?”
“Good skill. Good instincts. Good work ethic.” He paused. “That you’re a kid who never settled and had a real shot because something kept pulling the rug out from under him. Damaged.”
My throat constricted. Something? Or someone. Hope filtered into me. He didn’t say my father's name. He didn’t have to.
Then he asked it—the question no one had ever asked me directly. “Are you too damaged, Jari?”
The words hit like a slap, but not cruelly. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “No, Coach,” I said.
Coach Morin nodded once, as if that were the correct answer. “Good. Because what I’ve watched you do is far from damaged, and for the record, I don’t give a damn what your father was.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, voice steady. “That’s in the past. And this”—he motioned to the Railers logo behind him—“is different.”
Something in me drew taut, then loosened. “Thank you, Coach.”
“I'm not saying it will be easy—we have players here with family connections and not everyone wanted you here…” He didn't have to mention anyone's name. “But we run things differently,” he continued. “You’re not going to be thrown into the deep end with sharks and then be told to sink or swim. You’re going to have support. Real support.”
“Okay,” I murmured, not trusting my voice.
“You’ll be talking to our team psychologist,” he said matter-of-factly. “That’s not optional. It’s part of being here. You’re not alone in any of it.”
I didn’t know if that scared me or relieved me. “Okay, Coach.”
Coach’s tone softened—just a little.
“Jari, listen to me. You’re talented. But talent isn’t why I pushed for this trade.” He tapped the desk lightly. “I traded for you because every coach you’ve had said the same thing: ‘He’s a good kid. He needs a place where leadership groups don’t expect him to fail.’”
A knot formed in my chest. Something old. Something I didn’t usually let myself feel.
Coach Morin let the silence stretch, then finished: “You’re a part of the Railers now. You get a clean slate, okay?”
I nodded. “Yes, Coach,” I’d never said anything at all, never done anything wrong, I’d just been a ghost on every team. But if it made people feel better to think badly about me, then I didn’t fucking care anymore.
Coach grinned up at Layton and rolled his eyes. “Your turn.”
Layton set a packet of information on the desk and slid it toward me, and I opened it to scan the index.
The usual welcoming information, emergency numbers, banking forms, but lower down, Community and League-Mandated Outreach. Mental Health Resources and Mandated Counseling. My jaw went rigid.
The outreach was my favorite bit—I'd volunteered off-the-record at kids’ skating schools, early mornings, and late nights when no cameras were around. I’d helped sharpen skates and tie laces, stayed after to clean up cones, slipped equipment vouchers into parents’ hands, and pretended it was nothing. If I kept it a secret, then my father couldn’t do anything about it. Hell, he’d keel over and die if he found out about the work I’d done behind the scenes with LGBTQ teens. In the public eye, I’d worked with a homeless charity in Detroit, unloading trucks and serving food. In secret, I’d done way more, keeping my head down and my name off sign-in sheets. I’d donated anonymously if I could, shown up when I wasn’t asked to, done the small, unglamorous things that didn’t earn photos or praise. Things my father never knew about, and the league never tracked.
It was the mental health resources that made me wince. Every single team demanded I get counseling—after all, with a father like Aarni-freaking-Lankinen, of course I must be a psycho as well? Fuck that noise. I must be guilty of on-ice violence, or abusing a partner, or hell, any of the shit Aarni had done.
“You have an issue with something there, son?” Coach asked.
Yes. I don’t want anyone to peel away the layers that keep me sane. “No, Coach.”
“Good. Layton?”
Layton glanced at Coach, then back at me. “I’ll keep it short, Jari,” he said. “You’ve been around the league long enough to know how this usually goes. New team, fresh start, same unspoken baggage particular to each new skater who joins us. There’s no easy way to say this, but you have things that come with you, and your name, and we want to nip those in the bud.” He rested his hands on the edge of the desk. Not casual. Focused. “Whatever animosity you’ve run into before—teammates, fans, management—it won’t be allowed to follow you here. We don’t pretend the league exists in a vacuum, but we also don’t let history poison the room.”
My shoulders tensed. He hadn’t said my father’s name. He didn’t mention the anti-queer rhetoric my father spewed. He didn’t have to talk about the articles appearing from him as my sperm donor moved further to the right. He didn’t have to.
“The Railers are a family,” Layton continued. “Not in the empty slogan way. In the sense that what one of us carries, all of us feel. You’ll get support and accountability here. No one gets frozen out. No one gets sacrificed to keep things comfortable. Kindness is paramount, and acceptance is key.”
Was he warning me? I guess he would, given he likely thought I carried my father’s hate with me. I froze again, just the same as with every other team. I couldn’t say what I wanted, I couldn’t be the real me, so everyone else filled in the gaps.
“Understood.”
“If there’s noise from you, the team, the fans,” Layton added, quieter now, “we deal with it together. Inside this building, you’re a Railer first, and you’ll respect the team, and in turn, we’ll respect you. That’s non-negotiable.”
I kept my face neutral. Inside, skepticism curled tight. Every team talked a good game. None of them meant it.
Coach nodded along with every word. “Okay, Jari, I’m not walking you into the locker room, that's all on you, okay?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“And the team is all there, and they're expecting you.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“And Jari?” he added as I turned to leave.
“Yes, Coach?”
“You don’t have to spend your life trying and failing to prove you’re not your father.”
Fuck that. I’m not trying to fail, I can’t stop what people think!
I bristled, but Coach held up a hand. “Just prove you’re you.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, but I nodded as Layton moved aside to let me out. I stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind me, waiting there for a moment, pushing down the anger curling in my belly. Foxx and Coach might talk a good talk, but every word was edged with warnings. They could surely imagine the mess I’d bring to the team, and fuck, I wanted it to be different.
Okay, let’s do this.
I headed for the locker room and stopped short of the door.
It wasn’t fear that held me in place, exactly. More like… momentum dying. Like everything Coach Morin had said was still echoing inside me, rattling around with all the parts of myself I usually shoved down. My hand hovered over the handle.
Three teams behind me. One father I couldn’t outrun. A fourth, and maybe final, chance staring me in the face. I wasn't convinced I'd be kept up here in the NHL team, probably a few practice sessions, and they'd send me to their AHL affiliate, but I had to fucking do this. I'd never been utilized in a single game versus the Railers, constantly pushed back, healthy scratched, or whatever the coach at the time thought was best, but I knew the team.
I could hear the muffled sounds through the door—voices, laughter, someone chirping to someone else about something stupid. Normal locker-room noise. Easy for most players. Familiar.
For me?
I exhaled slowly, pressing my palm to the cool wood. I didn’t know how to do this. But standing here doing nothing wasn’t going to get me closer. I told myself to move. I can’t move. My throat was tight. My chest too. What if the players looked at me and saw him? The name on my cubby was already a stain on the room, and what if I walked in and they hated me before I even said a word? My fingers curled around the door handle, grip hesitant.
“Move,” I whispered to myself. Nothing. Okay. “Management traded for you,” I tried again. “They want you here.” A beat. Two. I inhaled hard, forced the breath all the way down, and let the tension bleed out through my boots. Then I pushed the door open.
The noise hit me—the sharp, bright sounds of players in motion. Tape tearing, skates clacking against rubber flooring, someone snorting at a joke that clearly wasn’t funny. The room smelled of detergent, sweat, and dirty ice.
Heads turned. Not all of them. But enough. A few guys sized me up, eyes flicking to the nameplate on my Detroit gear bag slung over my shoulder, then back to my face. No one flinched. No one recoiled. But no one smiled immediately either. Neutral. Evaluating—same as every new room, but somehow this felt heavier. I took them in the way I always did—quick, stripped of anything unnecessary. Not bodies. Not faces. Threat assessment only. Who might test me? Who might ignore me? Who might already have a story written about me in their head. I didn’t register any curiosity or softness. That part of me stayed buried on purpose. Wanting things made you visible. Visibility got you hurt.
Jack O’Leary, team captain, was the first to approach me as I stood by the door. Rumor had it this might be his final year, but god, I idolized him. He was everything a captain was supposed to be—steady, confident, proud of his team without ever making it about himself. The kind of player kids grew up pretending to be on backyard rinks. I’d watched him at the Olympics, had fallen for his style and confidence, and watched avariciously when he and his partner announced they were together. He wasn’t the only queer man on the team, Noah was with that racing driver, Trick was with a football player, and hell, Noah might be a Legacy, but Trick had come to the Railers with his own baggage and a father who was even more of an asshole than my own.
“Lankinen?” Cap said, offering his hand. His voice was calm, even, nothing sharp in it. Not what I expected from the man whose leadership everyone in the league talked about.
“Jari, Cap,” I managed the correction—the thought of being known as Lankinen, or Lanky, or whatever they came up with here, terrified and disgusted me.
He huffed a gentle laugh. “Jari, welcome.”
To his left and right stood the alternates—Adam Carter and Gage Frost.
Carter stepped forward, grin easy, eyes sharp. “Adam Carter, Cap’s left wing,” he said, shaking my hand firmly. “Most people call me Carts.”
Gage Frost—Frosty—was quieter, arms folded, expression unreadable in that way elite defenders seemed to be born with. Then he stuck out his hand.
“Frosty, defense,” he said. His grip was solid, grounding. “Winger, right?”
“Left,” I confirmed.
“Hmm, okay then. Well, welcome to Harrisburg, Jari.” His welcome wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. Just… steady. As if he were reserving judgment, yet willing to give me the space to earn it. Or, fuck, was I just reading too much into this?
Jack clapped a hand briefly on my shoulder. “Glad you’re here, kid. Get settled. We start in ten, get out there as soon as you can.” He indicated an empty stall. “That one’s yours.”
I walked toward it, aware of every footstep, my fingers brushing the worn leather strap of the watch on my wrist—my mom’s last birthday gift to me. I flicked the catch without thinking, the way I always did when I needed to steady myself. My name was already up on the cubby—LANKINEN—dusky blue on white, my jersey with its 74, hanging there. Seeing the name and number made fear and shame ripple through my chest. I wished it said Martinson—my mother’s name—I wished I didn't have my father's number, but playing hockey and keeping both name and number was part of the deal I'd made with the devil.
Live with it.
“Hey,” someone said, and I turned sharply—I knew better than to give my back to a room, but somehow seeing my Railers blue jersey had stopped me thinking properly. Noah Lyamin-Gunnarson was right there, half in his gear. ”You made it.”
“Yeah.” My voice barely worked. “Coach wanted to talk first.”
Noah held out a hand, and I shook it. I slid my dark glasses off and hooked them on my collar—I'd kept them on after Coach’s office longer than made sense, using them to hide whatever was still raw on my face. Without them, I felt exposed, as if anyone here could see more than I wanted them to.
“Noah, or Gunny if you want,” he said, and waited.
“Jari,” I said.
We let go, and Noah looked me over as if he was trying to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do with me. No hate there—just a hint of uncertainty, maybe trying to match the real me to whatever story he’d read.
I’d heard a lot about Noah’s dads from mine—mostly spat out with hate. Stan Lyamin, Hall of Fame goalie. Erik Gunnarson, Swedish winger. Best friends of Tennant Rowe. According to my sperm donor, they were what was wrong with hockey: queer, soft, and weak. Noah had every reason to hate me before I ever stepped into this room.
But he shocked the hell out of me. “So… exactly how fast are you? Please be faster than Trick because he’s an asshole about being the fastest on the team.”
From across the room, Cole Harrington's voice—AKA Trick—came sharp but bored: “I heard that.”
“You were meant to,” Noah replied.
“I'm not as fast as Trick Harrington,” I said, then I glanced Trick's way. Could I land a joke without coming over as arrogant or entitled? “But maybe I’m sneakier in corners.”
Trick laughed, came over, shook my hand, and a few others followed, but mostly players sat in their cubbies and watched. The fact that even a few team members outside Cap and his two As had said hello was a win.
I set my bag down at my stall, my fingers automatically finding the leather bracelets on my wrist—twisting them, shifting them, working the familiar knots. It was a grounding habit, something I’d done since Juniors. The watch from my mom, the bands I’d collected over the years… they were the only things that ever settled my nerves when the room felt too big, and I felt too small. Removing them had its own routine, something steady when everything else felt off. I worked through it slowly while the room settled back into its usual noise—chatter, gear shifting, someone dropping a helmet. I let the routine of getting dressed for the ice take over, the familiar motions pulling my head back into a place where I could function. I could do this in my sleep, but I was last out because I was late to the room to start with.
And when I finally headed onto the ice, stick in hand, with the Railers logo everywhere, one quiet thought cut through the noise—maybe this time, I’ll be allowed to be someone new.
Writing 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.
Jordan L HawkJordan L. Hawk is a trans author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave him a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When he isn’t writing, he brews his own beer and tries to keep the cats from destroying the house. His best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook.
If you want to contact Jordan, just click on the links below or send an email.
Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
VL Locey
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
Jordan L Hawk
The Easter Redemption by VL Locey
The Laconic Lumberjack by Frank W Butterfield
Fly by RJ Scott & VL Locey
