Tuesday, April 14, 2026

March Book of the Month: Be My Monster by Davidson King



Summary:

Born without the ability to feel pain or fear, Pennsylvania has lived his life believing he’s a monster and a freak. Because most people either keep their distance or are cruel, Penn has spent the last few years wandering from town to town, never putting down roots, never letting anyone know who he really is. Then one night he steps out of the shadows and into the light to save children from a burning house, not knowing he’s saving a mob boss’s kids. That split-second decision changes everything for Penn.

Gideon is a dangerous and powerful man trying to keep his territory profitable and safe, and it’s been peaceful for the last couple of years. Though raising twins as a widower is hard, at least he has family to help him. Family is everything to Gideon, so when someone tries to take them away from him, the once quiet streets turn into chaos. Determined to find his family’s savior, Gideon discovers so much more. His heart, which has felt like it’s barely beat since his wife died, comes to life again when he looks into Penn’s eyes for the first time…the man who risked everything to save his family.

With a war on the horizon, Gideon and Penn have to navigate staying alive, figuring out if there’s a future for them, and destroying the real monsters trying to dismantle everything Gideon’s built.



Davidson King has once again proven she is the Queen of Mayhem. Be My Monster is danger personified and lets face it, despite what Gideon calls himself, it's a mafia setting, or at least maifa-ishπŸ˜‰. Now, there are several mafia-style books out there so you might be wondering what makes King's stories stand out? Honestly, it's the heart of the characters. If you live in that life, I think its safe to say you aren't reading this review so I think it's equally safe for me to say none of us can speak from personal experience and doubt any of us will ever face that kind of danger in our lifetime and she creates these characters we'll never meet in our daily lives and yet, you feel as if you could. Her characters are a mixture of OTT-can't-possibly-be-real and family-is-everything-could-be-my-brother-from-another-mother and it's that bat-crap crazy which makes King's mayhem stand above the rest.

I'm not going to talk specifics about the danger the author has created within the pages of Be My Monster so as not to spoil anything but know that it doesn't slow down at all, fast-paced, adrenaline-pumping, knee-bouncing grit that hooks you quick and doesn't let go. When I swiped the last page, I was not prepared to say goodbye.

How can one not love Penn? He is just so darn lovely, I want to wrap him in bubblewrap and never let him go. I think in general most people are inherently good and want to do the right thing with little to no recognition, or at least I'm that way. I would help others, as Penn does when coming across a burning home, and though my reasons behind it may differ, I'd be happy to slip away with my identity unnoticed as I'm definitely on the introverted side. This plays a huge part in what connected me to the character(I'll mention a little more on connecting to Penn further down) and added to the heart I stated above.  

As for Gideon, despite his penchant for provoked violence, and "provoked" is very important here and also adds to what I mentioned in the beginning of this review, I think he is also very freakn' lovely.  Family seems to control his every action, or reaction in some cases, and I can certainly relate to that aspect of his character.  Don't get me wrong, he is no pushover and he has no qualms about letting his monster side out when it needs exercising but he is not fueled by power for the sake of power.

Throw these two guys together and the result is explosive, a well balanced journey.  I just learned this morning there are plans for further Penn/Gideon stories and I'm ready to reserve my seat to hitch a ride whenever they let the author in on more of their tales.

As for the supporting cast, well the kids are super uber adorable. Kids can be tricky to write, too often they either come off as spoiled brats who need a hard timeout or sugary sweet they should be living in the dentist's waiting room. Olivia, Owen, and Mateo are definitely the kind of kids you wished you saw more of in stores and restaurants, energetic but respectful. Little Olivia is a spitfire and I have a feeling she'd be the sure fire fit to take over Gideon's position if it really was a mafia household, which we all know it's notπŸ˜‰πŸ˜‰.

I can't mention this next part without a little personal backstory so #sorrynotsorry. I have no experience with the very rare no fear & no pain gene mutation, FAAH-OUT, Penn lives with, I do however have extensive experience with peripheral neuropathy, which is not "no pain" and certainly not "no fear" but it does come with similar warnings. Both of my parents deal/dealt with neuropathy(my mother who passed away last year lived with it for 20+ and my dad only the past couple) where the limbs, legs and hands, are numb so even though there is technically no pain there is more accurately "no feeling" or complete numbness. Most recently my dad, for example, was testing the softness of the pasta I was cooking for him and his fingers came out wet. Luckily I had turned the temp down so there was no lasting damage but he never felt the near boiling temp or even the wetness. We all wish we didn't feel pain, it sounds like a very good thing actually but what most of us don't think about is pain is how our bodies tell us something is wrong so having no feeling of pain is in fact a very bad thing. I mention this, probably wordier than needed to be, because I want to commend and thank the author for getting this danger behind no pain concept spot on. I also want to talk about a scene towards the end, Penn has a memory flashback of sitting at Tenny's bedside telling her he wished he could take her pain away and Tenny responding "I wouldn't let you", it's as if the author was inside my head because I can't begin to guess how many times I said that to my mother over the years with her chronic pair and that was always her response as well, “I wouldn’t let you, Heather”.  I mention this because, yes, that simple line made the tears fall uncontrollably at the memories it brought to mind, it also speaks to the realism behind the characters and helped me connect to them. So thank you, Davidson King for a great story but more importantly, the research and respect you put into the "little details" that connect readers and characters.

RATING:




PROLOGUE
Past
“This is not a typical situation, Tenny. His parents clearly know people and have the money to make this happen so easily for them.”

“I don’t understand, sir. Why would they put their five-year-old son up for adoption? Has he done something? Have they?”

I sat on the bed, my back to them as I stared out the window. My focus was on the pond across the way and the group of ducklings swimming in circles around their parents. Did they love their ducklings?

“The file I was given says very little, Tenny. It does say he isn’t dangerous, just…different. They couldn’t deal with him.” That last part was said under the older man’s breath.

I’d glanced at the two adults as they’d come in. One was older like my grandpa before he died. The other was a real pretty Black lady with braids and a friendly expression. She was older than Mommy but not by much.

“And you want me to talk with him?”

“Please, Tenny. You have a way about you.”

She sighed. I was used to that sound—Mommy and Daddy did that anytime I did something I wasn’t supposed to do.

Footsteps approached, and I dropped my gaze to the floor. A pair of Mary Janes came into view, but I didn’t look up.

“Hey there, Mitchell. My name is Tennessee. It’s real nice to meet you.” She held out her hand. Daddy always said that was a polite way to greet people, so I took her hand and shook it.

“May I sit down?” She motioned to the spot beside me, and I shrugged. I didn’t care.

She was quiet for a bit, and then she finally spoke. “This feels like an unfair situation, doesn’t it, Mitchell?”

Slowly, I turned my head to peer up at her. Honey-brown eyes glimmered, and a small smile played on light-pink painted lips.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I bet you’re feeling all sorts of ways, am I right?” I nodded and she hummed. “I have no doubt about that. I can’t imagine all that’s buzzing around that head of yours, but you know what, Mitchell?”

“What?”

“I’d like to find out. I know you don’t believe this, or me, and likely all trust for everything has been thrown out the window, but I want you to know I’m here for you, and I’ll wait as long as I have to for you to believe me.”

I didn’t believe her. I didn’t believe anyone. Mommy and Daddy would tell me they loved me; then I’d hear them tell people I was a monster, a freak. I didn’t understand why. I was sure Tennessee would find out soon enough.

I looked out the window once again. The ducks were gone, and even though Tennessee sat beside me, I felt alone.


“Go on now. Lift your shirt and let me see your back—you know the routine.” Tennessee spun me, forcing me to laugh. I lifted my shirt as she’d ordered, and she hummed. “Good, good. Okay, go wash those filthy hands and help me snap these green beans.”

“Okay, Tenny.” I rushed up the stairs. I’d lived at Sunshine House for five years, and in all that time Tennessee had been right beside me.

She was determined to get inside my head, and she asked a lot of questions. I didn’t know why my parents stopped loving me or why they thought I was a monster. It had taken time for her to break the mold with me, but eventually she did, and she’d always reiterated to me that I wasn’t a monster but that I was special.

She never gave up on me and dragged me to more doctors than I’d ever cared to see again. It wasn’t until I was eight years old that we’d gotten some answers about why I was so weird.

“He has a gene mutation called FAAH-OUT. It’s extremely rare and was quite hard to determine” a doctor had diagnosed, and immediately I’d thought I was one of the X-Men, and how cool was that?

Then came the serious talk. We’d gotten back to Sunshine House, and Tennessee told me to join her at the kitchen table.

“I didn’t really notice it all before. I knew there was something unique about you, Mitchell. You don’t get scared about anything. Thunder, loud noises—heck, that bonfire last summer got crazy, and you didn’t even flinch. Last year you fell from that tree house, broke your arm. You didn’t cry, promised it didn’t hurt. You even healed faster than the doctor thought you would. Now I understand why.”

Apparently, this gene mutation allowed me to feel virtually no pain, and no fear, and I healed faster than others. This mutation was so rare that there were only a few cases worldwide…like seriously, only a few.

Tennessee explained things that I should be wary of—like fire, things that could potentially harm me. And because I felt no pain, she made sure I checked myself over every day, twice a day, and any time I did something that could hurt me.

She told me all the time that I wasn’t a monster or a freak. Mostly, I believed her. But the kids in school thought I was weird. I guess my mutation showed or something, I dunno.

I was sitting at the table, helping Tennessee with dinner, when I got up the nerve to ask her a question that had been poking around my brain.

“Hey, Tenny?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Remember that time you told me all the people in your family were named after states?”

She smiled. “I did say something like that. Not everyone, though. My brothers Dakota and Montana, yes, and then me, Tennessee. All because my daddy’s name was Washington. But my mama, her name was Charlotte.”

“I like that. Um…I was wondering…if it’s okay with you, and if you say no, I understand.”

She dropped her green beans onto the towel and took my hand. “Whatever it is, Mitchell, you go on and say it. You know there’s nothing you can’t ask me.”

“Ok, maybe once I’m eighteen, and I’m an adult, I can change my name.”

She cocked her head. “You want to get rid of your name, Mitchell?”

I nodded. “My parents named me that, and they didn’t want me. I hate hearing my name.”

She pursed her lips and smirked. “What name were you thinkin’?”

She wasn’t saying no yet, but as soon as she heard the name and why, would she reject it, not wanting me to be part of her family traditions?

“I was thinking Pennsylvania? Penn for short, like people call you Tenny.”

“You want to…” She covered her mouth with her hand and I braced for rejection, but it didn’t come. A single tear fell down her cheek. “Why do you want that name, dear boy?”

I took a deep breath. “I want to be your family, Tenny, and it makes me feel like I am every time I think of my name as Pennsylvania.”

She wiped her cheek and beamed. “When you turn eighteen, if you still feel that way, I’ll help you change your name. I’d be honored…Penn.”

She never called me Mitchell again. Only Penn—or if I was in trouble, Pennsylvania. And two days after my eighteenth birthday, she kept her word. Soon enough, Mitchell was officially dead and Pennsylvania was born.



Davidson King
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.

She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.

If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she’d tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you’re afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.


FACEBOOK  /  BLUESKY  /  WEBSITE
RB MEDIA  /  AUDIOBOOKS  /  CHIRP  /  PODIUM
INSTAGRAM  /  AUDIBLE  /  LINKTREE
BOOKBUB  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com


Monday, April 13, 2026

Monday's Memorial Moment: Cigars in the Parlor by Shane Michaels




Summary:

When Kit Walker’s leg is shattered at the Battle of Manassas, he finds himself on Doctor Wallace Sanger’s operating table. Wallace saves his life but removes his leg. As his wounds mend, the two men find more than comfort as they explore each other's hidden desires.

From the battlefields of Manassas, Virginia, to the Union prison in Elmira, New York, author Shane Michaels explores the hidden world of men loving men during the American Civil War. In this erotic tale of lust, love, and sacrifice, two men find solace in each other’s arms - and other's arms - as they are caught between the splintered world of the Union and the Confederacy.

Explicit dark romance for men who love men. This novel was previously released on Amazon in a serialized format. This version is the complete novel.





Original Review April 2021:
Cigars in the Parlor has been on my Kindle for a few years and just kept getting buried but I finally had a chance to read it.  I've never read this author before, which can always be a bit of a scary thing for some but for me it just adds to the adrenaline rush of discovery and possibilities.  I wasn't disappointed.  Cigars is a lovely blend of reality and fiction with the perfect balance of drama and sexy times.  It's easy to feel for Kit and his new found reality after losing his leg and the pull between him and Wallace, the doctor who saved his life, is believable and entertaining. As a historical lover it is always important when authors use little details to keep the era real, or as real as possible for dramatic fiction.  I'm not looking for a history lesson but those realistic elements help to not only set a scene but also sucks the reader into the story.  For those who don't think about LGBT in history terms, it's stories like Cigars in the Parlor that can open eyes and even though it's fiction it can pique a readers fascination and lead them to discover the truths of the era, I know that was one of the things that made me a history lover when I was in junior high.  As I hit the last page I was entertained and that is what is important, making this a worthwhile read.

RATING:





1. AFTER MANASSAS 
The storefront was hot. Dr. Wallace Sanger had been working all day, the pile of limbs growing with every soldier that was brought into the room. It was a senseless war. He grew angrier with every stroke of the saw – so many men in their prime hobbled before they had even lived. Dr. Sanger didn’t understand why Lincoln was insistent on keeping Virginia in the Union. Every one of the poor souls on his table had been chasing some inane vision of the South that they did not really understand. Freedom. Slavery. States Rights. Self-determination. These words meant very little when there was a bone-saw your hand. 

Two soldiers brought in one last patient on a stretcher, placing him on the operating table. 

“Doc… I don’t want to lose my leg. Please.” 

The man was clearly in great pain. His head was warm and he was covered in sweat. Fever coursed through him. 

“It’s infected. You’ll die if I don’t.” 

Wallace looked at his patient wearily. He noticed the man’s deep blue eyes. “What’s your name?” 

“Kit… Kit Walker.” 

“I’m Doctor Wallace Sanger.”

The man was shaking. Wallace spoke in a low voice. “I wish we could have met under different circumstances,” he said, “I’m sorry to have to do this but it’s for the best.” 

“Doc, please.” 

“You do want to live don’t you?” 

Kit said nothing. 

Wallace and Kit were about the same age. If he had not gone to the university, the doctor realized that it might have been him on that table. Wallace studied the soldier. Kit seemed familiar, like an old friend. Wallace guessed that he had once been quite handsome – but it was clear that his body had been ravaged by cold nights in tents and meager rations. Only his beard showed signs of life - bushy and red. 

Wallace cut the hem of Kit’s trousers and then ripped the fabric up the length of his leg, revealing gangrene already above the knee. Kit had been shot, his bone shattered. Wallace removed the filthy bandage and examined the limb closely. He needed to cut above the knee instead of below. He picked up the bottle of chloroform. “Is this all we have left?” 

Kit had fear in his eyes as he stared at the brown bottle. 

His nurse answered him, “Yes. I asked them to bring more but they said that’s all we’ve got.”

Wallace nodded. “Kit, I’m going to put you under to do this. I don’t want you to worry. We’re going to take good care of you. You’re going to live. I promise. Hear me?” 

“What happens to my leg?” Kit asked. 

“We bury it with the rest of them. Now, just lean back and close your eyes.” 

Kit sobbed gently. His life was about to change, but at least he could leave the war. Wallace took a clean piece of cotton and turned the bottle upside down over it until it was saturated. He took the rag and held it over Kit’s face until the man was unconscious. 

Wallace had a routine now. He had learned to do the job quickly before the men awoke. He knew to leave a flap of extra skin. He would cut through the muscle until he found the bone and then use strong, firm strokes to saw it in two. He sweated as he did this, the nurse wiping his brow. It took less than a minute to separate the flesh from its owner, tossing the heavy limb onto a table next to him with a thud. One of the soldiers picked it up and took it outside as the nurse helped him to stop the bleeding. He sewed quickly until the flap of skin was neatly sealed over the wound. She helped him dress the stump with clean cotton and a compression bandage to control the bleeding. 

“Take him into the church,” Wallace said, motioning to the soldiers. 

They picked up the stretcher and carried Kit out the front door of the storefront, across the street, up the steps of the church, and into the nave of the church where he was laid on a cot among the dozens of other men.

Wallace took a deep breath. When he went to medical school, he thought he would be dealing with old men having cases of gout and young women having their first child. He never dreamed his first year after medical school would be spent in the fields of Virginia sawing the limbs off young men. He was happy to be away from the warfront, working in town where bullets did not fly. As difficult as it was, it seemed much kinder here. 

The nurse had filled a pan with water for him to wash; the blood on his hands immediately stained it red. His apron was covered with many men’s blood; he carefully undid the knot at his back, folded his apron, and placed it on the table. He took the pan and threw the water outside into the street and then poured fresh more to wash his face. He hated to walk into the church covered in blood; his patients needed to forget what they had lost. 

He went outside into the street. He could already hear men wailing in agony inside the church. He pulled his pocket watch out and looked at the time; he was starving but knew he had to make his rounds first. There was much to do. 

Wallace walked up the steps into the church where row after row of men lay on cots. He proceeded to visit one and then the next, stopping to see if any infections had taken hold. The room was crowded and the air still. Women from town fretted to and fro, wiping one man’s brow, feeding another, emptying a bed pan. Each nodded as the doctor passed. 

Wallace noticed Kit lying on a cot in the last row, under a stained glass window of Adam reaching out to God. Kit was beginning wake, looking about the room groggily. The light shone on his face, his hair glowing like a bonfire. Wallace was compelled to sit with him. 

“Shhh… Kit. You’re okay. Just lie still,” he said. 

Kit’s eyes opened. 

A woman walked by. “Nurse, this man needs morphine.” 

“We don’t have any,” she said, “We don’t have much of anything left.” 

Wallace could tell Kit was overwhelmed by the pain. He took his hand. “I know it hurts. I’m here for you. Just like I promised.” 

Kit looked up at the man. Dr. Sanger was tall and handsome. His face was silhouetted in the light; Kit thought he might have some Cherokee in him, his hair thick and black and his jaw strong. The light poured over the doctor, shining through the thin cotton shirt he wore, damp with sweat. 

As the chloroform wore off, the pain grew worse. Wallace wiped Kit’s brow. 

“There now, squeeze my hand when it gets bad.” 

* * * * *

Wallace was exhausted but he sat with Kit for hours. He had so many patients that day, but Kit called to him. When Kit finally fell asleep, the room was dark, lit only by candles hung on the wall. A few nurses still shuffled about. 

“Doctor, shouldn’t you go home?” a nurse asked, “You’ve been here for hours.” 

Wallace nodded his head. His new friend was finally asleep. He got up from his stool and made the walk through town back to his room.

Betsy Marple was renting him a room in her home. She was two year’s a widow – and he suspected that she was trying to find a second husband. He was terrified that he had given her the wrong impression – that he was smitten with her. “Where have you been?” she said as he entered, “I was worried about you.” 

“I had a very bad day. There were so many today.” 

Betsy had saved dinner for him. It sat on the table, covered with a napkin. “Here. Eat something,” she said, “You need your strength.” 

Wallace did as she asked. The beef was cold but filling. 

“Just leave the plate. I’ll get it in the morning,” she said. 

Betsy went up to her room. He quickly finished eating and pulled himself up the stairs to his bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. He found a handkerchief and put it on the nightstand. His clothes stank and he threw them to the floor before blowing out the lamp. The room was too hot; the mattress, hard. He was tired but could not sleep. 

He saw Kit as he closed his eyes. He imagined what the man had looked like before the war started – his muscles strong, his smile full of white teeth, and his red hair full and clean. He was certain that Kit had been quite popular with the ladies – and maybe the men. It had been so long since he held another man. 

A year earlier the doctor might have exchanged glances with Kit on the street. They would have chatted about the weather and asked each other if they were courting a lady. One would have said no; the other, likewise. They would have laughed and looked at each other, stealing glances until their glances coincided and melted together into a single pool of acknowledgement. 

Kit’s eyes flashed again. Wallace felt his cock grow hard. He imagined himself running his hands along Kit’s strong chest, feeling muscle beneath his fingers, silky smooth. Kit would pull him close, pushing his head onto his nipple. 

Wallace wrapped his hand around his cock as he imagined finding Kit standing in an alley with him, the two pawing at each other like animals. The doctor would fall to his knees, his pants getting stained on the filthy cobblestone. Next, he would unbutton Kit’s fly, freeing the soldier’s cock and the tangle of his red bush. He would nibble at it gently, teasing him, until the man could take no more. Kit would grab his head and shove his cock deep into Wallace’s mouth. Wallace imagined the saltiness of it, his hands wrapped around Kit. He would pull the soldier’s pants down and feel the hard muscles of his calves and the soft fur of his ass. 

Wallace imagined all this, jacking his cock with urgency. He needed release. 

He pictured Kit standing there, continuing to pound away at his mouth. Kit would moan softly as he came. Wallace increased his pace, his eyes closed, picturing the fantasy in his head, until he felt the world wash over him. He felt his own warm cum pulse onto his chest and his mouth. 

He sat there motionless, covered in sweat as his breathing slowed. He stared at the blank ceiling. Finally, Wallace reached for the handkerchief and wiped his skin clean. Only then did he realize how long it had been since he had climaxed.

Wallace cringed when he realized the source of his fantasy – the man whose leg he had dismembered hours earlier. As he fell asleep, he wondered what would happen to this beautiful man.



Shane Michaels

With a passion for untold history, Shane Michaels looks for details that hint at the hidden lives of gay men in days past. Though he now lives in a remote community in the northeast, his roots are in the South. His first erotic romance, 'Cigars in the Parlor', delves into life in Virginia during the American Civil War. The story tells of a doctor and soldier that fall in love under tragic circumstances. His second novella, 'TransAlaska' tells of a trans-woman who falls for a hunky gold-miner in rural Alaska in the 1990s. His 2023 release of 'The Milkman', tells the story of two men trying to find love in a small town during the lavender scare of the 1950s. ‘Kushtaka’ is the story of two desperate goldminers finding love during the Yukon Goldrush while enduring a jealous ghost. Shane has also published a number of short stories.








Sunday, April 12, 2026

⚾️🎭Week at a Glance🎭⚾️: 4/6/26 - 4/12/26

















⚾️Sunday's Sport Stats⚾️: 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.





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 wordπŸ˜‰). 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:






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.



Saturday's Series Spotlight
Harrisburg Raptors
Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3  /  Part 4

Owatonna U
Part 1  /  Part 2

Arizona Raptors
Part 1  /  Part 2

Boston Rebels
Part 1  /  Part 2

Chestorford Coyotes

LA Storm
Shield  /  Spiral

Railers Legacy
Speed  /  Blitz  /  Powder  /  Fly

Hockey Universe
Xmas Edition
Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Family First

Road to the Stanley Cup Edition
Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3

Father's Day Edition

Caregivers Edition
Part 1  /  Part 2

Valentine's Day Edition





RJ Scott
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.







VL Locey
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)

She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.

When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.




RJ Scott
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com



Fly #4

Harrisburg Railers Series

Owatonna U Series

Arizona Raptors Series

Boston Rebels Series

Chestorford Coyotes Series

LA Storm Series

Sparkle #1.5(LA Storm)

Railers Legacy Series