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😉😍.
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.
Saturday's Series Spotlight
RJ ScottWriting 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.
Blitz #2
Harrisburg Railers Series
Owatonna U Series
Arizona Raptors Series
Boston Rebels Series
Sparkle #1.5(LA Storm)
Railers Legacy Series
