Deep EdgeSummary:
Harrisburg Railers #3
Harrisburg Railers #3
One man’s passion, another man’s lies. Can love fix even the darkest of hearts?
Trent Hanson is a figure skating phenom adored by millions around the world. His whole life has been dedicated to the sport he loves even when the sport - and his own family - have turned against him. From the playground to the Olympics to his parent’s living room, Trent has fought against bullies and homophobes to be the out and proud gay man he is. But the constant fighting has left Trent tired, lonely, and skittish. All those fears will have to be shelved though when he’s hired to spend the summer working with the Harrisburg Railers ice hockey team. Who would have guessed that the man fate has decided to pair him off with is Dieter Lehmann, all-around sex god and a man who seems to have everything to prove and doesn’t care who he hurts to get what he wants.
Dieter has spent too many years languishing in the minors and a secret addiction to prescription painkillers means his career is in a downward spiral. His ex is blackmailing him and he’s close to walking away from it all. But when he’s called up in the run for the Stanley Cup to cover injuries he has a taste of what it’s like playing in the NHL and he realizes that a place on the Railers roster is what he wants more than anything. More than listening to his heart, and even more than caring for the infuriating figure skater who gets under his skin. When he crosses the line to get what he wants, he knows he has lost his way. He has to change, but is it too late for both his career and any chance he might have at love?
Trent Hanson is a figure skating phenom adored by millions around the world. His whole life has been dedicated to the sport he loves even when the sport - and his own family - have turned against him. From the playground to the Olympics to his parent’s living room, Trent has fought against bullies and homophobes to be the out and proud gay man he is. But the constant fighting has left Trent tired, lonely, and skittish. All those fears will have to be shelved though when he’s hired to spend the summer working with the Harrisburg Railers ice hockey team. Who would have guessed that the man fate has decided to pair him off with is Dieter Lehmann, all-around sex god and a man who seems to have everything to prove and doesn’t care who he hurts to get what he wants.
Dieter has spent too many years languishing in the minors and a secret addiction to prescription painkillers means his career is in a downward spiral. His ex is blackmailing him and he’s close to walking away from it all. But when he’s called up in the run for the Stanley Cup to cover injuries he has a taste of what it’s like playing in the NHL and he realizes that a place on the Railers roster is what he wants more than anything. More than listening to his heart, and even more than caring for the infuriating figure skater who gets under his skin. When he crosses the line to get what he wants, he knows he has lost his way. He has to change, but is it too late for both his career and any chance he might have at love?
Last DefenseSummary:
Harrisburg Railers #5
Two men afraid to feel, have to make choices that could end up breaking down their defenses and leading them back to love.
Every time Max Van Hellren steps on the ice he knows it could be his last time. At thirty he’s past his hockey prime but he’s also hiding a life-threatening injury that private doctors warn could kill him. This is his last season, and there’s a chance he could lift the Stanley Cup after fourteen years in the NHL. He just needs to stay safe and healthy; difficult when he’s known for his heavy hitting and with a propensity for dropping the gloves and putting his body in the way of pucks to keep his team safe.
A one night stand with a sexy man was just what he needed, dangerous and hot, but what if it turned into more? Would he actually have to share the secrets he so desperately tries to hide?
Ben Worthington had it all. A fulfilling job running the CrossRoads Shelter, his loving aunts, and a husband that understood his devotion to animals. Then, the love of his life left him, succumbing so quickly to an unexpected sickness that Ben never had time to say goodbye. The violent loss scarred him.
Unable to move past his fears, he moves from lonely encounter to lonely encounter, slaking a desperate need that is eating away at him, but never making a connection that could lead him back into love. One night with Max makes him want more, but will giving into the temptation open the door to feelings he can’t contain?
Can these two broken men ever find a way to be together?
Every time Max Van Hellren steps on the ice he knows it could be his last time. At thirty he’s past his hockey prime but he’s also hiding a life-threatening injury that private doctors warn could kill him. This is his last season, and there’s a chance he could lift the Stanley Cup after fourteen years in the NHL. He just needs to stay safe and healthy; difficult when he’s known for his heavy hitting and with a propensity for dropping the gloves and putting his body in the way of pucks to keep his team safe.
A one night stand with a sexy man was just what he needed, dangerous and hot, but what if it turned into more? Would he actually have to share the secrets he so desperately tries to hide?
Ben Worthington had it all. A fulfilling job running the CrossRoads Shelter, his loving aunts, and a husband that understood his devotion to animals. Then, the love of his life left him, succumbing so quickly to an unexpected sickness that Ben never had time to say goodbye. The violent loss scarred him.
Unable to move past his fears, he moves from lonely encounter to lonely encounter, slaking a desperate need that is eating away at him, but never making a connection that could lead him back into love. One night with Max makes him want more, but will giving into the temptation open the door to feelings he can’t contain?
Can these two broken men ever find a way to be together?
School and Rock
Summary:Arizona Raptors #5
When Colorado Penn finds an unexpected package on his front step, his life will be changed forever.
Colorado Penn is living the dream. Starting goalie for the Arizona Raptors when in season, lead singer for a hard rock band when summer rolls around. He’s the quintessential free spirit who’s making sure he enjoys all the carnal blessings of his athleticism, and gritty singing voice. Now the Raptors are moving into their first playoff appearance in years, but the arrival of an unexpected package means that hockey may have to take a backseat to something way more important. Instead of the usual undergarments from adoring fans, he finds a newborn baby with a small note tucked under her carrier, naming him as the father. He refuses to give up his daughter and is determined to be the kind of father he’d dreamed of having. But to keep Madeline, he’ll need help, and he’ll need it fast. Enter handsome emergency manny, Joseph. They may be opposites, but Colorado starts to see that Joseph’s stable, calm influence makes his chaotic lifestyle choices seem less appealing. There’s something about the man that soothes not only his infant daughter but also the wild child inside Colorado.
Joseph is one year away from getting his degree in planetary science, working cover shifts at the planetarium, and pulling in income with short term manny gigs. Stars collide as he provides emergency childcare for the wild man of hockey, a man who moves so fast through life that he doesn’t know how to stop. Homeless, and caring for his niece, Emma, fate brings Joseph into Colorado and baby Madeline’s life. Madeline is a sweetheart, and Colorado is trying his hardest to make the best decision for his baby girl. He offers his home and an indecent salary, to keep Joseph in his life until summer’s end. Colorado brings mysticism and metal to Joseph’s sanctuary of science, but somehow Joseph needs to tame this shooting star and create a family. Nothing in the contract said Joseph had to fall in love to make that happen, but when it’s time for him to leave, will the void in his heart ever heal, or will it remain as cold as space itself?
Boston Rebels #6
A steamy romance between a player and a referee breaks all the rules but will it destroy their careers?
Five different cities in eight years — Logan’s never had the chance to settle in one place. He’s the guy who fills in gaps on teams as a temporary fix and is traded at year’s end because no one wants to keep a thirty-year-old rental after he’s outlived his usefulness. When he’s called up to the Rebels, he knows it’s his last run in the NHL. Now, he must decide if it’s worth carrying on with the weight of his secrets around his neck for one more year. He’s never had a love that mattered, his career is nearly done, his ex-wife is remarrying, his sex life is drier than a desert, and abruptly, Logan’s had enough. He craves one night to ease the frustration, and hooks up with someone tall, dark, and dangerous in the bathroom of a club. The sex is off the charts, but it’s one and done, until Logan realizes exactly who he slept with and understands how dangerous it is to play games with secrets.
Being a referee is in Webber’s blood, and it’s a job he loves. Sure, sometimes he’s called dirty names—by fans, coaches, and players—or must insert himself between two massive men trying to pummel each other. Some nights, he’s knocked on his ass. Other times, he might take a puck to a tender spot. But despite all the hazards and name calling, there is no place he wants to be than on the ice. If only his love life was as settled. It’s hard to find someone willing to put up with his travel schedule, and even if he found Mr. Right, how would he juggle a romance when he’s never home? A chance hookup while officiating a game in Boston should be a simple matter of scratching that itch, but he couldn’t be more wrong. Unfortunately, that one-night stand—while memorable—turns his sedate life upside down in ways he could’ve never foreseen. When the penalty for love is losing everything he’s worked hard for, is it a price he’s willing to pay?
Original Review December 2017:
Olympic skater Trent Hanson lost nearly everything due to his stepfather's gambling debts so when a chance to keep his rink and his mother's home comes along he takes it, even if its a reality show involving hockey players. Dieter Lehmann, the newest Railer is fighting an addiction of his own, painkillers so he can play but when the team is signed to do a reality show with a figure skater to learn some basics to improve their game, he's less than thrilled. When Trent and Dieter meet on the ice, will they let the attraction that lingers grow or will their individual demons be too much to overcome?
I'm going to start out by once again saying that I am not a hockey fan. I don't hate the sport but if all the hockey rinks were to disappear tomorrow I wouldn't miss them. Truth is that my feelings on hockey and my love of this series speaks volumes as to the authors' ability to spin a yarn and give the readers a journey they can't put down. Followers to blog/reviews know that I am a huge RJ Scott fan well after reading this series I am quickly becoming a VL Locey fan as well. Their love of the sport is obvious within the pages of Harrisburg Railers series but their love of a good story with intriguing characters is even more apparent.
Dieter and Trent's attraction is pretty instant but its their ongoing connection throughout that really ignites the passion and had me hating to put my kindle down for such mundane chores such as eating and sleeping. I love how they realize that they both need to face their individual demons before they can truly move forward. Truth is, there is so many aspects of this story(and series) that made me smile, laugh, cry, frankly pretty much every emotion out there. I know I use the words a lot in my reviews but it doesn't make them any less true, Deep Edge will warm your heart from page one till the end.
They may not be characters you would meet every day but Scott and Locey present Dieter and Trent in a way that if you ran into them in the grocery store or the gas station you wouldn't look twice. In my opinion, creating characters that are definitely original and yet have that "every day" element to them takes talent and that is what you will find within the pages of Deep Edge and the Harrisburg Railers: talent and plenty of heart.
Olympic skater Trent Hanson lost nearly everything due to his stepfather's gambling debts so when a chance to keep his rink and his mother's home comes along he takes it, even if its a reality show involving hockey players. Dieter Lehmann, the newest Railer is fighting an addiction of his own, painkillers so he can play but when the team is signed to do a reality show with a figure skater to learn some basics to improve their game, he's less than thrilled. When Trent and Dieter meet on the ice, will they let the attraction that lingers grow or will their individual demons be too much to overcome?
I'm going to start out by once again saying that I am not a hockey fan. I don't hate the sport but if all the hockey rinks were to disappear tomorrow I wouldn't miss them. Truth is that my feelings on hockey and my love of this series speaks volumes as to the authors' ability to spin a yarn and give the readers a journey they can't put down. Followers to blog/reviews know that I am a huge RJ Scott fan well after reading this series I am quickly becoming a VL Locey fan as well. Their love of the sport is obvious within the pages of Harrisburg Railers series but their love of a good story with intriguing characters is even more apparent.
Dieter and Trent's attraction is pretty instant but its their ongoing connection throughout that really ignites the passion and had me hating to put my kindle down for such mundane chores such as eating and sleeping. I love how they realize that they both need to face their individual demons before they can truly move forward. Truth is, there is so many aspects of this story(and series) that made me smile, laugh, cry, frankly pretty much every emotion out there. I know I use the words a lot in my reviews but it doesn't make them any less true, Deep Edge will warm your heart from page one till the end.
They may not be characters you would meet every day but Scott and Locey present Dieter and Trent in a way that if you ran into them in the grocery store or the gas station you wouldn't look twice. In my opinion, creating characters that are definitely original and yet have that "every day" element to them takes talent and that is what you will find within the pages of Deep Edge and the Harrisburg Railers: talent and plenty of heart.
Last Defense
Original Review May 2018:
Max Van Hellren is in the run for the Stanley Cup and what a way to end his career. When Ben Worthington lost his husband he made a pact with himself never to open his heart again because he couldn't bare the risk of loss again. A chance meeting between Max & Ben occurs when Ben is visiting the Railers organizing a benefit for his Crossroads No-Kill Shelter changes everything for both men. When the shelter comes under attack and Ben's former brother-in-law wants what he feels is owed him could the two things be related and will it make Max and Ben realize what is truly important to them before its too late?
I can't lie, I usually have some problems with people like Ben. He suffered a true loss that breaks the heart, I get that I really do and I feel for him but to shut your heart off because the loss was too great bothers me because he's still here and yes, losing Liam hurt but Ben wasn't the one who was ill. By the time I was born, my grandfather was in a wheelchair due to his battle with MS, by 11 my mother was sick, three years later she was on disability, and by 19 I was her primary caregiver(which I still am and proud to do so). As you can imagine I have spent way too much time in hospitals and have seen much heartache within its halls but I've always believed that as hard as it is watching your loved one suffer I'm still alive and healthy which is why I tend to have issues with people like Ben. I'm sorry and maybe I'm not expressing myself very well, I mean no disrespect to the character, the authors, or to those who share Ben's feelings but I just can't let go of the idea that my grandfather(and mom when the time comes) would not want me to concentrate on my loss and shut my heart off when I'm still here.
Now I know this is fiction but the reason I included the above paragraph as part of my review is not because I hate or dislike Ben, quite the contrary, I enjoy Ben's determination to survive and keep the shelter he started with his deceased husband going. As with the whole "hockey thing"(see blogger note at the end of my review), being able to feel for Ben despite my issues speaks loudly to the talent and heart of the authors. Ben may feel his resolution to close himself off to the risk of loss is unwavering and lifelong but seeing him let Max in, seeing him care for his rebellious aunts, and his devotion to his animals only goes to prove just how big his heart truly is. It also goes to show that he continues to learn and grow, which not all people are open to. Max never expected to find someone like Ben but watching him open his heart to him is a beautiful journey. Both men are absolutely adorable, whether its as a one-night stand, friends with benefits, or something more they have this connection that only makes each one stronger.
I won't say much in regard of Ben's aunts other than the fact that they cracked me up. They may not be in many scenes but when they are in the room they own it. When they say they are going to "stick it to the man" with their latest rebellious protest, not only did I believe them but I also found myself laughing so hard that I got more than one odd look from the neighborhood kids playing in the street. As for Bucky the malamute, well what can one say other than his adorability is off the charts.
Put all these elements together, throw in a dash of Ten/Jared, a pinch of Layton/Adler, a smidgen of Trent/Dieter, a heaping dollop of Stan/Erik, and a sprinkling of the other Railers players and Scott & Locey have baked us a delectable dessert you just can't get enough of. Luckily for us Railer fans the next installment, Goal Line is scheduled for release later this summer.
As good as Last Defense is as a whole, what I really loved was how the authors took certain dramatic plot points(which I won't spoil) play out without concentrating on them. These moments showed me the authors were letting us know that angst happens in life but more times than not, the good far outweighs and overshadows the bad. Talk about storytelling talent and there is a difference between writers and storytellers. Writers bring us wonderful stories but storytellers take us on an amazing journey. Last Defense lives up to the excellence of the previous Harriburg Railers entries and does not disappoint.
Max Van Hellren is in the run for the Stanley Cup and what a way to end his career. When Ben Worthington lost his husband he made a pact with himself never to open his heart again because he couldn't bare the risk of loss again. A chance meeting between Max & Ben occurs when Ben is visiting the Railers organizing a benefit for his Crossroads No-Kill Shelter changes everything for both men. When the shelter comes under attack and Ben's former brother-in-law wants what he feels is owed him could the two things be related and will it make Max and Ben realize what is truly important to them before its too late?
I can't lie, I usually have some problems with people like Ben. He suffered a true loss that breaks the heart, I get that I really do and I feel for him but to shut your heart off because the loss was too great bothers me because he's still here and yes, losing Liam hurt but Ben wasn't the one who was ill. By the time I was born, my grandfather was in a wheelchair due to his battle with MS, by 11 my mother was sick, three years later she was on disability, and by 19 I was her primary caregiver(which I still am and proud to do so). As you can imagine I have spent way too much time in hospitals and have seen much heartache within its halls but I've always believed that as hard as it is watching your loved one suffer I'm still alive and healthy which is why I tend to have issues with people like Ben. I'm sorry and maybe I'm not expressing myself very well, I mean no disrespect to the character, the authors, or to those who share Ben's feelings but I just can't let go of the idea that my grandfather(and mom when the time comes) would not want me to concentrate on my loss and shut my heart off when I'm still here.
Now I know this is fiction but the reason I included the above paragraph as part of my review is not because I hate or dislike Ben, quite the contrary, I enjoy Ben's determination to survive and keep the shelter he started with his deceased husband going. As with the whole "hockey thing"(see blogger note at the end of my review), being able to feel for Ben despite my issues speaks loudly to the talent and heart of the authors. Ben may feel his resolution to close himself off to the risk of loss is unwavering and lifelong but seeing him let Max in, seeing him care for his rebellious aunts, and his devotion to his animals only goes to prove just how big his heart truly is. It also goes to show that he continues to learn and grow, which not all people are open to. Max never expected to find someone like Ben but watching him open his heart to him is a beautiful journey. Both men are absolutely adorable, whether its as a one-night stand, friends with benefits, or something more they have this connection that only makes each one stronger.
I won't say much in regard of Ben's aunts other than the fact that they cracked me up. They may not be in many scenes but when they are in the room they own it. When they say they are going to "stick it to the man" with their latest rebellious protest, not only did I believe them but I also found myself laughing so hard that I got more than one odd look from the neighborhood kids playing in the street. As for Bucky the malamute, well what can one say other than his adorability is off the charts.
Put all these elements together, throw in a dash of Ten/Jared, a pinch of Layton/Adler, a smidgen of Trent/Dieter, a heaping dollop of Stan/Erik, and a sprinkling of the other Railers players and Scott & Locey have baked us a delectable dessert you just can't get enough of. Luckily for us Railer fans the next installment, Goal Line is scheduled for release later this summer.
As good as Last Defense is as a whole, what I really loved was how the authors took certain dramatic plot points(which I won't spoil) play out without concentrating on them. These moments showed me the authors were letting us know that angst happens in life but more times than not, the good far outweighs and overshadows the bad. Talk about storytelling talent and there is a difference between writers and storytellers. Writers bring us wonderful stories but storytellers take us on an amazing journey. Last Defense lives up to the excellence of the previous Harriburg Railers entries and does not disappoint.
School and Rock
Original Review November 2020:
WOW!
Who knew you could still create amazing couples after so many books in this hockey universe the authors created? Okay, any fan of RJ Scott & VL Locey knew they could do it but to actually read the latest one and watch it unfold is, well, it's something special.
School and Rock is amazing, no simpler basic term that says it all than "amazing". I knew Colorado's story would be fun, he just has that way about him that makes you think he looks at life as one big smorgasbord where everything is up for whatever he desires. Let's be honest, it probably was and then one day a package arrives at his door. Little Madeline Celeste, or Maddie Boo as the big carefree goalie calls her. I think the minute he picks her up he knows his whole world has just slipped it's axis and is headed on a completely different course, he just doesn't know what that course will look like but he knows it's different than before he opened that door.
I'm going to take a minute to talk about Joseph. I'm not a sciencey kind of gal, if there was one subject in school I had to put in the hate column it would have been science, I trust it but I don't need to know the why or how. HOWEVER, though the subject matter would have been different I can certainly understand the predicament he finds himself in when we are introduced to the character. A subject you've spent your life loving and learning about and someone who should know it too gets something wrong and refuses to accept being corrected? Yeah, I would not only call them on it but I probably would have been even less tactful than Joseph was. Unfortunately, his boss sides with the other guy. That's okay because it puts him in an opportunity to meet Colorado.
I'm not going to go into much more than that, I don't want to spoil the pairs' journey that gets them from chaos to HEA. If you've been reading Scott & Locey's hockey universe(not sure what the universe name would be, perhaps Harris-tonna-ptors😉😉) you are well aware that a HEA is in the cards but the path that gets Colorado & Joseph there is where all the fun, all the meat and potatoes happens. Now if you are new to this world, I highly recommend going back and starting from the beginning with Changing Lines(Harrisburg Railers #1) if only for supporting/cameo character continuity, you won't be lost if you don't I just think you will have a helluva lot more fun experiencing it all.
One last note, I want to mention the supporting cast, the new members to this eclectic world: Simon, Colorado's bodyguard/problem-solver/keeping-things-in-line-minder and Natalie and Emma, Joseph's sister and niece. They each not only bring a bit of themselves to the story but they help to tell the boys' tale as well. Through them and their interactions with Colorado and Joseph we see sides of the men they maybe wouldn't let otherwise shine.
I guess what I'm saying is Scott and Locey have made everyone and everything play a part in School and Rock, none of it is page filler and that is what makes this story, this hockey universe so fun and delightful reading.
Rental
Original Review April 2023:
After a poll the authors took in their Facebook group I had a feeling we'd be seeing this trope sooner rather than later. It's an obvious trope that has potential to create intense drama and yet not as obvious as one might think because I never really gave much thought to it. After reading Rebel, I can see the lasting ramifications of a player/ref relationship and not just a current game/season scenario but it could put an unwanted spotlight on the ref's past games. RJ Scott & VL Locey do a wonderful job balancing obvious and "HOLY CRAP! I didn't expect that!"
I've said it before, I'll say it again, and I'm sure I'll say it even more in the future but I'm not a hockey person. I do love baseball and there are players who get traded from team to team wherever there is a need which I can't even begin to imagine how that screws with your psyche, your sense of belonging both as a team player and as a human needing a place to call home. Through Logan Mackie(who we first met in Blade briefly) as Moral "Dunny" Dunkirk's replacement we get to see just how difficult that can be for an athlete. It is definitely not easy but Logan just wants to help whichever team he's with the best way he can.
What can I say about Webber Kelty, NHL ref? Closeted, older, career ref, known for fairness, and now he suddenly finds himself at a crossroads when his masked club hook-up is on the ice at one of his games. Speaking of that masked club hook-up, what a way to start a story, an unforgettable experience for both men and the readers. *fanning self* I digress, back to Webber. All he wants to do is his job, a job that is often disrespected in all sports. Don't ask me my opinion of referees because let's just say it is not always favorable. We definitely need more Webbers in games/matches in the athletic world.
Put these two together and the chemistry, well it's off the charts which we learn very early on but there is more than just the physical chemistry. Their hearts, once opened up are so perfectly meshed you can't help but cheer for them. Did I want to smack them a few times and scream "JUST TELL SOMEONE!"? Of course, but where is the fun in that? We have to have some hiccups or Rental would be a very short pamphlet instead of a great piece of storytelling.
I think it's safe to say a few of those hiccups are just downright bad but they not only give insight to the main characters but the team, family, and the fans as well. I won't say more to the plot but I do want to say how much I enjoyed cheering for a ref for once instead of screaming at my television "oh come on! Are you blind or just stupid?"😉.
Rental is brilliant all the way around. Heat, drama, hockey, romance, friendship, more heat, familiar faces, passion, and just a touch of suspense(I won't spoil). Definitely worthy of Scott & Locey's Hockey Universe stamp. Rental may be their 30th story but there is not an ounce of tired storytelling within and I hope it continues for years because there is potential for many tales yet to be told.
Deep Edge
Chapter One
Trent
I studied the image of me at the Sochi games. I looked so happy with that silver medal around my neck, standing just a few inches lower than Connor O’Day, my teammate who’d grabbed the gold. Even though Connor – the bitch – had won the gold, I’d still been happy. I recalled that feeling. Happy was nice.“Trent?”
Two silvers in the past two Olympics. The upcoming one had been supposed to be mine. I’d been skating stronger than I ever had. Everyone had predicted that I’d finally get past Connor to win the gold. Happy would have been everywhere. I’d have been drowning in fucking happy. I would have been wearing happy and that gold around my neck like a cashmere coat from Neiman Marcus.
“Trent?”
Gayle’s touch pulled me from Envy Land. I spun from the newly hung imagery of Trent Hanson on the soft white walls of my new agent’s office. She smiled sadly at me. Gods. Everyone looked at me like that now. I hated it. And I hated not being happy anymore.
“Sorry, I was just admiring that costume. Isn’t that dark blue and silver to die for?” I moved around the short, dark-haired woman who was now in charge of my career. Or what was left of it.
“It is. It still amazes me that you design all your skating costumes. You’re such a talented young man. Why don’t we sit, and we’ll get to the reason I called you in?”
Ah, agents. They were so lovely – when they weren’t embezzling all your money and spending it on whores, vodka gimlets, and a particularly bad run over a week in Atlantic City. Note to the young and innocent – never let your stepfather manage your money, especially when he’s open about how much he dislikes your gay little ass. That way you won’t end up broke, shamed, and trying to figure out how to keep your mother and grandmother from being booted out of their house while your rink teeters on the edge of financial ruin. Where the fuck had all my happy gone? I wanted it back, dammit!
I moved past the windows that looked down on Philadelphia, my hometown. I’d been born and raised in the City of Brotherly Love. I adored this city, and it loved me in return. Or had. Now I was just the mincing and well-dressed queer who didn’t even have two pennies to rub together. How quickly love and adoration turned to titters and cold shoulders. Drawing my coat around me, I sat down in a plush beige chair and crossed one leg over the other, making sure my coat draped properly over my thighs. I hate wrinkles. And beige. Why were straights so afraid of a little color?
Gayle sat down behind her desk, smiled at me yet again, and folded her hands in front of her. I raised a freshly plucked eyebrow. She was still trying to get a handle on me. Tobey & Troy was the largest athletic representation firm in Philly. They handled most of the Eagles, Sixers and Flyers, as well as several tennis players. And now they had me. Trent Lawrence Hanson. Famed gay figure skater and next in line to be a Dickens character in real life. Please, sir, I want some more. Ugh. As if I’d eat gruel. What if I had to? The thought was too much to bear.
“I think that now that the legal issues with your father—”
“Stepfather,” I quickly reminded her.
“Yes, sorry, stepfather. Well, now that he’s been convicted and is serving time, I think this is the moment to start working on marketing you in a positive light.” She smiled again, nervously, and leveled light blue eyes at me. “Where are you in terms of returning to competitive skating?”
I glanced out the window at Ben Franklin standing atop City Hall. I began running my hands over the thin cotton flaps lying over my thighs.
“I have no money, my professional reputation is shot, and both my rink and my mother’s house are two months away from foreclosure. Do you honestly think I could find the mental clarity and focus to skate again?” As soon as I heard how bitchy I sounded, I placed a hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled into my fingers.
“It’s quite understandable,” she replied. She was far too nice to be saddled with a miserable cow-bag like me. I wanted to cry, but didn’t. I’d do that later when I visited Mom and my Lola. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Water would be lovely,” I coughed into my fingers. She rang her receptionist. “I’m better now. See.” I lowered my hand and smiled brilliantly at her.
Gayle nodded, but melancholy lingered in her gaze. A tiny blonde hurried in with a bottle of water and handed it to me. I was about to ask if she could possibly find a cold one, but I bit my tongue. Bitchy Trent had already escaped once today.
“Thank you.”
She nodded and scurried out, closing the door behind her slim backside. Her shoes were terrible. Who wears black flats with a peach dress in late June? Honestly, women, learn how to dress. I took tiny sips of the tepid water. Gayle waited. I capped the bottle and balanced it in my left hand so my coat didn’t get watermarked. I was a beggar now. I had to keep my wardrobe in good shape. Tears threatened again.
Gayle broke into the building weep-fest. “I understand that you’re not mentally ready to return to figure skating. To that end, we need to find you something to do that will bring in good money so you can get your assets back in sound fiscal shape.”
“You mean pull my rink and my mother’s house out of the snapping jaws of foreclosure?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have been quite that dramatic…”
“Few are.” I sighed as I returned to working out the crinkles in my duster.
“Right, well, I’ve been approached by GLBTQtv about a reality show with you as the star.”
My chin dropped to my chest. “Get. Out.”
“I’m very serious,” Gayle said, her smile spreading into a grin. “They’re waving a nice fat contract at us.”
“I’ll do it! Wait. Are there lots of zeros mentioned in the contract?” I was so excited I grabbed my duster and wadded it up in my right hand.
“There are several zeros,” she whispered as her grin grew even wider.
“I’ll do it!” My gods, I was such a whore. Wave a ten in front of me and down to my knees I went. But zeros meant money. Money that would keep my family safely housed and my rink operational. Rainbow Skate was my rink. I’d bought it and refurbished it. It was where I practiced. And it was where little gay and straight children who wanted a safe place to skate and express themselves and their art could come. No hateful slurs or brutes were allowed at Rainbow Skate. That was my rule. I hated bullies. I’d dealt with them from the time I was eight and discovered how fabulous I was on skates and how amazing my sewing skills were. By the time I was fourteen and came out officially, not one person was shocked. My stepfather was disgusted, but then again, he was a thieving twat.
“Wonderful! I’ve read over the contract and it’s pretty straightforward.” I bounced in my seat as Gayle talked. “They’re asking for six to eight weeks with exclusive access to you and the Railers as you work with them.”
The bouncing slowed. “I’m sorry…” I tapped my right ear. “Did you say Railers? What are Railers?”
“They’re the hockey team that’s expressed a pointed interest in working with you on this show.”
I couldn’t control the laugh that burst out of me. I roared so long and so heartily that I was close to hyperventilating when the laughter began to die down. Gayle sat behind her desk, staring at me as if I’d gone around the bend.
“Phew. Oh, my gods and garters,” I panted several minutes later. Dabbing gently under my eyes, I saw a blur of black on my fingertip. “And I thought this was waterproof eyeliner. Do you have tissues?”
She got up , grabbed a box from the edge of her desk, and handed it to me.
“Thank you.” I wiped my finger on a Kleenex, then gingerly pulled a tiny corner under my right and then left eye. “I hate this cheap stuff. I’m going to throw it out when I get home. Why did I even buy anything other than waterproof?”
“Is there a problem with you working with hockey players?” Gayle asked after she sat back down.
I tittered. “How much time do you have?” I asked.
She gawked at me.
“I do not do jocks.”
“But you’re a jock.”
“Uh, no, no, I am not. I’m an artist. I don’t go skating around hitting people in the face with sticks. No, sorry, this sweet thing,” I motioned to myself, “does not do hockey players, footballers, baseballers, basketballers, or those men who run around with nets to catch balls in. Lacrosse! I don’t do them either. I will do tennis players or an occasional fellow skater, but they can’t be on my team. Cat fights amongst team members are so ugly. I rather like Russian skaters. It’s the accent. I once did a Russian skater. He was delicious. I called it my Boris Godunov phase.”
I giggled at the witty, but Gayle simply continued to gape. I was so happy now – why was she being a prude?
“What?” I asked when she didn’t speak.
“Trent, this contract is contingent on you working with the Railers.”
“No, sorry. I don’t do hockey players. Didn’t we just cover that? They’re rude bullies who have never passed up an opportunity to shove me into lockers, dunk my head into toilets, or taunt me in front of everyone at the rink. Nope. Tell them I don’t do hockey players.”
“Trent, the contract is very specific. The Railers recently had a player come out.”
I passed the water bottle from my left to my right hand. “Good for him. I wish him all the success in the world. This impacts me how?”
“He and his coach…”
“Ew. His coach? Oh, yuck. Have you seen coaches? Ugh. They’re usually old Russian men with nose hair and breath that always reeks of potato soup and pickles.”
“Trent, what the man looks like isn’t important…”
“Maybe not to you.”
“They’re hoping to have this gay player and his teammates spend a few weeks with you at Rainbow Skate. It will show the world that gay athletes are caring, competitive, normal people.”
“If the nematodes out there in TV land don’t know that we’re normal people, then fuck them in the ass with a splintery wooden spoon. Again, I state that I do not do hockey players.”
“Then the show goes to Connor, since he’s recently come out as questioning.”
I shot to my boots. “There is no way in hell I get beat out by that simpleton again. How dare he try to out-gay me?! Gods above, I hate that little shithead. Fine. Fine! Tell the TV people I’ll work with the Cro-Magnons on skates, but the first time I hear one homophobic remark or one of them corners me in the bathroom, I am out of there!”
I slammed the water bottle on her desk and stalked to the door, my duster snapping around my leather ankle boots.
“Before you go, you need to read and sign the contract,” Gayle called, stopping my perfect diva exit, cold.
I glowered at the door, turned, and walked with purpose back to my seat. I snapped the contract from her and flopped down. Oh my. There were so many zeros. I needed zeros so, so badly. Why was nothing easy? Hockey players. I shuddered, read, and signed.
“I feel so cheap and dirty,” I mumbled ten minutes later when I was standing on Broad Street. I tied my coat around my waist. Some fool walked past and asked if I knew what fucking month it was. “Yes, I know it’s June. The outfit needed a coat. Don’t judge me.”
I hailed a cab. I don’t drive cars unless I must. I do have a scooter, but it had looked like rain when I left.
“2020 South 16th Street,” I told the driver after I was in and seated. He flipped the meter on and off we went to my mother’s house.
I was torn now. On one hand, I was the happiest I had been since my stepfather had run off with all my money. On the other hand, working with big, dumb hockey players was going to be dreadful, even if one of them was gay. I spent the ride staring out at the city and the narrow streets.
Newbold – or Point Breeze – was where I’d been raised. There was a nice Asian community there, with plenty of people from Laos, Indonesia, Cambodia, and the Philippines, which was where my Lola was from. Mom and my grandmother had been trying to keep their heads above water since the debacle with my stepfather. The taxes were overdue on her little brick rowhouse. I’d paid them for years, but now…now I didn’t have the cash to pay my own rent. Then there was the mortgage on Rainbow Skate.
“My life sucks,” I groaned when we pulled up in front of my mother’s place. There was no way the cab could get to the curb. Cars were parked bumper to bumper.
“Welcome to life, kid.”
“I’m twenty-three,” I told Mr. Cabbie. He shrugged. Someone behind us blew their horn. The driver gave them the finger. I paid, and tipped the best I could. I felt the dark look for the measly buck tip as I hurried out of the yellow cab and up the cement steps to blessed relief from the nasty old world.
Lola was in the kitchen when I blew in. She gave me one look and opened her arms. I ran to the short, round, silver-haired woman and pulled her close. She stroked my back and murmured to me in Pilipino. The room smelled of soy sauce. Maybe she was making chicken adobo. I really needed some of her cooking, but I needed her hugs more.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked during the embrace.
“At the shop,” Lola whispered.
I grimaced, then gently stepped away. “I thought she had today off,” I sighed, peeling my coat off and draping it just so over the back of the battered chair. I sat down and quickly had a platter of dark chicken thigh meat cooked in soy, garlic and vinegar served over rice in front of me. “She works too hard.”
“Not more or less than any day since he run off with money.”
I blew out a breath and forked up some rice. Mom needed rehab. But, again, rehab cost money.
“I got an offer to be on a TV show. They want me to star in it with hockey players,” I told my grandmother.
She stopped waddling around long enough to point to the bright orange shirt she was wearing. “You make TV with Flyers?!” She pointed at the logo on her boobs.
“No, not the Flyers.”
“Pah, then bad hockey team.”
“They’re from Harrisburg.”
“Almost as bad as Pittsburgh!”
Lola loved her Flyers. As did everyone in the city except me. I didn’t do hockey players. Ever. Except now it looked like I was. Curse my stepfather to hell and back.
“They’re going to pay me a lot of money to do the show, Lola. We need the money. I can pay off the house and the rink. I can help Mom financially so she’s not giving mani-pedis for dismal pay and tips seven days a week.”
She sat down across from me at the table that was as old and worn as she was. Hell, as the whole house was.
“You are good, sweet boy. Eat more.” She patted my hand.
Try maintaining a skating weight with two Pilipino women in your life. It’s almost impossible. But, since I’d probably never skate again, why not have more rice? Who cared? It wasn’t like one of the Railers would be looking at the delightful curvature of my ass. Shit, it had been ages since anyone had looked, commented on, or even patted the delightful curvature of my ass.
“May I have more rice?”
Trent
I studied the image of me at the Sochi games. I looked so happy with that silver medal around my neck, standing just a few inches lower than Connor O’Day, my teammate who’d grabbed the gold. Even though Connor – the bitch – had won the gold, I’d still been happy. I recalled that feeling. Happy was nice.“Trent?”
Two silvers in the past two Olympics. The upcoming one had been supposed to be mine. I’d been skating stronger than I ever had. Everyone had predicted that I’d finally get past Connor to win the gold. Happy would have been everywhere. I’d have been drowning in fucking happy. I would have been wearing happy and that gold around my neck like a cashmere coat from Neiman Marcus.
“Trent?”
Gayle’s touch pulled me from Envy Land. I spun from the newly hung imagery of Trent Hanson on the soft white walls of my new agent’s office. She smiled sadly at me. Gods. Everyone looked at me like that now. I hated it. And I hated not being happy anymore.
“Sorry, I was just admiring that costume. Isn’t that dark blue and silver to die for?” I moved around the short, dark-haired woman who was now in charge of my career. Or what was left of it.
“It is. It still amazes me that you design all your skating costumes. You’re such a talented young man. Why don’t we sit, and we’ll get to the reason I called you in?”
Ah, agents. They were so lovely – when they weren’t embezzling all your money and spending it on whores, vodka gimlets, and a particularly bad run over a week in Atlantic City. Note to the young and innocent – never let your stepfather manage your money, especially when he’s open about how much he dislikes your gay little ass. That way you won’t end up broke, shamed, and trying to figure out how to keep your mother and grandmother from being booted out of their house while your rink teeters on the edge of financial ruin. Where the fuck had all my happy gone? I wanted it back, dammit!
I moved past the windows that looked down on Philadelphia, my hometown. I’d been born and raised in the City of Brotherly Love. I adored this city, and it loved me in return. Or had. Now I was just the mincing and well-dressed queer who didn’t even have two pennies to rub together. How quickly love and adoration turned to titters and cold shoulders. Drawing my coat around me, I sat down in a plush beige chair and crossed one leg over the other, making sure my coat draped properly over my thighs. I hate wrinkles. And beige. Why were straights so afraid of a little color?
Gayle sat down behind her desk, smiled at me yet again, and folded her hands in front of her. I raised a freshly plucked eyebrow. She was still trying to get a handle on me. Tobey & Troy was the largest athletic representation firm in Philly. They handled most of the Eagles, Sixers and Flyers, as well as several tennis players. And now they had me. Trent Lawrence Hanson. Famed gay figure skater and next in line to be a Dickens character in real life. Please, sir, I want some more. Ugh. As if I’d eat gruel. What if I had to? The thought was too much to bear.
“I think that now that the legal issues with your father—”
“Stepfather,” I quickly reminded her.
“Yes, sorry, stepfather. Well, now that he’s been convicted and is serving time, I think this is the moment to start working on marketing you in a positive light.” She smiled again, nervously, and leveled light blue eyes at me. “Where are you in terms of returning to competitive skating?”
I glanced out the window at Ben Franklin standing atop City Hall. I began running my hands over the thin cotton flaps lying over my thighs.
“I have no money, my professional reputation is shot, and both my rink and my mother’s house are two months away from foreclosure. Do you honestly think I could find the mental clarity and focus to skate again?” As soon as I heard how bitchy I sounded, I placed a hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled into my fingers.
“It’s quite understandable,” she replied. She was far too nice to be saddled with a miserable cow-bag like me. I wanted to cry, but didn’t. I’d do that later when I visited Mom and my Lola. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Water would be lovely,” I coughed into my fingers. She rang her receptionist. “I’m better now. See.” I lowered my hand and smiled brilliantly at her.
Gayle nodded, but melancholy lingered in her gaze. A tiny blonde hurried in with a bottle of water and handed it to me. I was about to ask if she could possibly find a cold one, but I bit my tongue. Bitchy Trent had already escaped once today.
“Thank you.”
She nodded and scurried out, closing the door behind her slim backside. Her shoes were terrible. Who wears black flats with a peach dress in late June? Honestly, women, learn how to dress. I took tiny sips of the tepid water. Gayle waited. I capped the bottle and balanced it in my left hand so my coat didn’t get watermarked. I was a beggar now. I had to keep my wardrobe in good shape. Tears threatened again.
Gayle broke into the building weep-fest. “I understand that you’re not mentally ready to return to figure skating. To that end, we need to find you something to do that will bring in good money so you can get your assets back in sound fiscal shape.”
“You mean pull my rink and my mother’s house out of the snapping jaws of foreclosure?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have been quite that dramatic…”
“Few are.” I sighed as I returned to working out the crinkles in my duster.
“Right, well, I’ve been approached by GLBTQtv about a reality show with you as the star.”
My chin dropped to my chest. “Get. Out.”
“I’m very serious,” Gayle said, her smile spreading into a grin. “They’re waving a nice fat contract at us.”
“I’ll do it! Wait. Are there lots of zeros mentioned in the contract?” I was so excited I grabbed my duster and wadded it up in my right hand.
“There are several zeros,” she whispered as her grin grew even wider.
“I’ll do it!” My gods, I was such a whore. Wave a ten in front of me and down to my knees I went. But zeros meant money. Money that would keep my family safely housed and my rink operational. Rainbow Skate was my rink. I’d bought it and refurbished it. It was where I practiced. And it was where little gay and straight children who wanted a safe place to skate and express themselves and their art could come. No hateful slurs or brutes were allowed at Rainbow Skate. That was my rule. I hated bullies. I’d dealt with them from the time I was eight and discovered how fabulous I was on skates and how amazing my sewing skills were. By the time I was fourteen and came out officially, not one person was shocked. My stepfather was disgusted, but then again, he was a thieving twat.
“Wonderful! I’ve read over the contract and it’s pretty straightforward.” I bounced in my seat as Gayle talked. “They’re asking for six to eight weeks with exclusive access to you and the Railers as you work with them.”
The bouncing slowed. “I’m sorry…” I tapped my right ear. “Did you say Railers? What are Railers?”
“They’re the hockey team that’s expressed a pointed interest in working with you on this show.”
I couldn’t control the laugh that burst out of me. I roared so long and so heartily that I was close to hyperventilating when the laughter began to die down. Gayle sat behind her desk, staring at me as if I’d gone around the bend.
“Phew. Oh, my gods and garters,” I panted several minutes later. Dabbing gently under my eyes, I saw a blur of black on my fingertip. “And I thought this was waterproof eyeliner. Do you have tissues?”
She got up , grabbed a box from the edge of her desk, and handed it to me.
“Thank you.” I wiped my finger on a Kleenex, then gingerly pulled a tiny corner under my right and then left eye. “I hate this cheap stuff. I’m going to throw it out when I get home. Why did I even buy anything other than waterproof?”
“Is there a problem with you working with hockey players?” Gayle asked after she sat back down.
I tittered. “How much time do you have?” I asked.
She gawked at me.
“I do not do jocks.”
“But you’re a jock.”
“Uh, no, no, I am not. I’m an artist. I don’t go skating around hitting people in the face with sticks. No, sorry, this sweet thing,” I motioned to myself, “does not do hockey players, footballers, baseballers, basketballers, or those men who run around with nets to catch balls in. Lacrosse! I don’t do them either. I will do tennis players or an occasional fellow skater, but they can’t be on my team. Cat fights amongst team members are so ugly. I rather like Russian skaters. It’s the accent. I once did a Russian skater. He was delicious. I called it my Boris Godunov phase.”
I giggled at the witty, but Gayle simply continued to gape. I was so happy now – why was she being a prude?
“What?” I asked when she didn’t speak.
“Trent, this contract is contingent on you working with the Railers.”
“No, sorry. I don’t do hockey players. Didn’t we just cover that? They’re rude bullies who have never passed up an opportunity to shove me into lockers, dunk my head into toilets, or taunt me in front of everyone at the rink. Nope. Tell them I don’t do hockey players.”
“Trent, the contract is very specific. The Railers recently had a player come out.”
I passed the water bottle from my left to my right hand. “Good for him. I wish him all the success in the world. This impacts me how?”
“He and his coach…”
“Ew. His coach? Oh, yuck. Have you seen coaches? Ugh. They’re usually old Russian men with nose hair and breath that always reeks of potato soup and pickles.”
“Trent, what the man looks like isn’t important…”
“Maybe not to you.”
“They’re hoping to have this gay player and his teammates spend a few weeks with you at Rainbow Skate. It will show the world that gay athletes are caring, competitive, normal people.”
“If the nematodes out there in TV land don’t know that we’re normal people, then fuck them in the ass with a splintery wooden spoon. Again, I state that I do not do hockey players.”
“Then the show goes to Connor, since he’s recently come out as questioning.”
I shot to my boots. “There is no way in hell I get beat out by that simpleton again. How dare he try to out-gay me?! Gods above, I hate that little shithead. Fine. Fine! Tell the TV people I’ll work with the Cro-Magnons on skates, but the first time I hear one homophobic remark or one of them corners me in the bathroom, I am out of there!”
I slammed the water bottle on her desk and stalked to the door, my duster snapping around my leather ankle boots.
“Before you go, you need to read and sign the contract,” Gayle called, stopping my perfect diva exit, cold.
I glowered at the door, turned, and walked with purpose back to my seat. I snapped the contract from her and flopped down. Oh my. There were so many zeros. I needed zeros so, so badly. Why was nothing easy? Hockey players. I shuddered, read, and signed.
“I feel so cheap and dirty,” I mumbled ten minutes later when I was standing on Broad Street. I tied my coat around my waist. Some fool walked past and asked if I knew what fucking month it was. “Yes, I know it’s June. The outfit needed a coat. Don’t judge me.”
I hailed a cab. I don’t drive cars unless I must. I do have a scooter, but it had looked like rain when I left.
“2020 South 16th Street,” I told the driver after I was in and seated. He flipped the meter on and off we went to my mother’s house.
I was torn now. On one hand, I was the happiest I had been since my stepfather had run off with all my money. On the other hand, working with big, dumb hockey players was going to be dreadful, even if one of them was gay. I spent the ride staring out at the city and the narrow streets.
Newbold – or Point Breeze – was where I’d been raised. There was a nice Asian community there, with plenty of people from Laos, Indonesia, Cambodia, and the Philippines, which was where my Lola was from. Mom and my grandmother had been trying to keep their heads above water since the debacle with my stepfather. The taxes were overdue on her little brick rowhouse. I’d paid them for years, but now…now I didn’t have the cash to pay my own rent. Then there was the mortgage on Rainbow Skate.
“My life sucks,” I groaned when we pulled up in front of my mother’s place. There was no way the cab could get to the curb. Cars were parked bumper to bumper.
“Welcome to life, kid.”
“I’m twenty-three,” I told Mr. Cabbie. He shrugged. Someone behind us blew their horn. The driver gave them the finger. I paid, and tipped the best I could. I felt the dark look for the measly buck tip as I hurried out of the yellow cab and up the cement steps to blessed relief from the nasty old world.
Lola was in the kitchen when I blew in. She gave me one look and opened her arms. I ran to the short, round, silver-haired woman and pulled her close. She stroked my back and murmured to me in Pilipino. The room smelled of soy sauce. Maybe she was making chicken adobo. I really needed some of her cooking, but I needed her hugs more.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked during the embrace.
“At the shop,” Lola whispered.
I grimaced, then gently stepped away. “I thought she had today off,” I sighed, peeling my coat off and draping it just so over the back of the battered chair. I sat down and quickly had a platter of dark chicken thigh meat cooked in soy, garlic and vinegar served over rice in front of me. “She works too hard.”
“Not more or less than any day since he run off with money.”
I blew out a breath and forked up some rice. Mom needed rehab. But, again, rehab cost money.
“I got an offer to be on a TV show. They want me to star in it with hockey players,” I told my grandmother.
She stopped waddling around long enough to point to the bright orange shirt she was wearing. “You make TV with Flyers?!” She pointed at the logo on her boobs.
“No, not the Flyers.”
“Pah, then bad hockey team.”
“They’re from Harrisburg.”
“Almost as bad as Pittsburgh!”
Lola loved her Flyers. As did everyone in the city except me. I didn’t do hockey players. Ever. Except now it looked like I was. Curse my stepfather to hell and back.
“They’re going to pay me a lot of money to do the show, Lola. We need the money. I can pay off the house and the rink. I can help Mom financially so she’s not giving mani-pedis for dismal pay and tips seven days a week.”
She sat down across from me at the table that was as old and worn as she was. Hell, as the whole house was.
“You are good, sweet boy. Eat more.” She patted my hand.
Try maintaining a skating weight with two Pilipino women in your life. It’s almost impossible. But, since I’d probably never skate again, why not have more rice? Who cared? It wasn’t like one of the Railers would be looking at the delightful curvature of my ass. Shit, it had been ages since anyone had looked, commented on, or even patted the delightful curvature of my ass.
“May I have more rice?”
Last Defense
“Nice dog.” I paused just this side of the players’ entrance at the deep voice coming from behind me. There was something about that man’s voice…the timbre of the bass or the way he spoke. Not sure what it was, but the last time he’d spoken to me my body had had the same kind of reaction. A spear of latent heat low in my belly followed by a shiv of icy dread.
“Thanks.” I wanted to stare at the door. Or run. I couldn’t do either of those, though, so I turned to face the bearded man. Christ, but he was fierce-looking. Like a Viking, with piercing eyes and an aura that screamed berserker. He was bigger than me. Taller by at least four inches and probably sixty pounds. He was wearing a suit, as Stan and Erik had been, but his looked incredibly fine on his burly frame. Dark blue with a silver tie and a white shirt. His biceps strained the material trying to contain them.
“His name is Bucky.” There now, I had spoken to the man who made my heart leap around inside my chest like a frog on a highway.
“Like Captain America’s sidekick?” He looked down at my worn T-shirt with Cap’s shield on it.
“Exactly like that.”
He took another step, which put him into my little personal space bubble, his gaze and mine locked. I wet my lips and jerked my chin up a bit. I wasn’t going to let some hockey player intimidate me.
“Cute dog. Hot owner.” He gave me a long, slow look, petted Bucky, and stepped around the dull-witted man trying to digest the fact Mr. Fear had said he was hot. “Are you coming in, or are you teaching your dog to open doors mentally?”
“I’m here to see Layton Foxx.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m here to participate in morning skate.”
“I know who you are. Max van Hellren. You played for Washington four years ago.”
He tugged the door open and settled a kind of bored look on me. “Yeah, that was me. You like Washington?”
“Hometown team.” Bucky barked to back me up. Max smiled. All the ferocity that oozed out of him dissipated when he smiled. The man was seriously fine.
“Maybe I can change your mind about which team to cheer for, Mr. Washington Fan.”
“Ben. My name is Ben.”
He nodded just once, his hand still keeping the door open. “Ben. I like that. Suits you. So, are we coming in or are we going to flirt here in front of Pete?”
A security guard peeked around the door and winked at me. I wanted to die. Right there.
“I don’t flirt,” I snapped. I stalked around Max and Pete and went off to find Layton Foxx. Determination hot in my breast kept me from looking back to see if Max was checking out my ass. I hoped he was and I prayed he wasn’t.
“Thanks.” I wanted to stare at the door. Or run. I couldn’t do either of those, though, so I turned to face the bearded man. Christ, but he was fierce-looking. Like a Viking, with piercing eyes and an aura that screamed berserker. He was bigger than me. Taller by at least four inches and probably sixty pounds. He was wearing a suit, as Stan and Erik had been, but his looked incredibly fine on his burly frame. Dark blue with a silver tie and a white shirt. His biceps strained the material trying to contain them.
“His name is Bucky.” There now, I had spoken to the man who made my heart leap around inside my chest like a frog on a highway.
“Like Captain America’s sidekick?” He looked down at my worn T-shirt with Cap’s shield on it.
“Exactly like that.”
He took another step, which put him into my little personal space bubble, his gaze and mine locked. I wet my lips and jerked my chin up a bit. I wasn’t going to let some hockey player intimidate me.
“Cute dog. Hot owner.” He gave me a long, slow look, petted Bucky, and stepped around the dull-witted man trying to digest the fact Mr. Fear had said he was hot. “Are you coming in, or are you teaching your dog to open doors mentally?”
“I’m here to see Layton Foxx.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m here to participate in morning skate.”
“I know who you are. Max van Hellren. You played for Washington four years ago.”
He tugged the door open and settled a kind of bored look on me. “Yeah, that was me. You like Washington?”
“Hometown team.” Bucky barked to back me up. Max smiled. All the ferocity that oozed out of him dissipated when he smiled. The man was seriously fine.
“Maybe I can change your mind about which team to cheer for, Mr. Washington Fan.”
“Ben. My name is Ben.”
He nodded just once, his hand still keeping the door open. “Ben. I like that. Suits you. So, are we coming in or are we going to flirt here in front of Pete?”
A security guard peeked around the door and winked at me. I wanted to die. Right there.
“I don’t flirt,” I snapped. I stalked around Max and Pete and went off to find Layton Foxx. Determination hot in my breast kept me from looking back to see if Max was checking out my ass. I hoped he was and I prayed he wasn’t.
School and Rock
One
Colorado
There were quite a few ways to wake up that ensured a day would be a good one.
Not being able to roll over due to the hot, nude bodies sharing a bed was one of my favorites, hands down. Speaking of hands…
I touched a thick leg, a thigh, quite hairy. Tossing my left hand outward, the back of my fingers rested on a substantial breast. I breathed in the smells of warm skin and sex, and rubbed my whiskery cheek against the firm belly my head was pillowed on. A little purr bubbled out of me when my nose bumped a soft cock. Shifting one leg back, I found a hard, muscular body with a meaty calf. I smiled as my eyes remained shut to block out the blazing Arizona sun. Three to one. Yeah, that sounded about right. Even though I was pan I did tend to prefer dudes. That didn’t make my orientation any less valid though. My bed and heart were open to all.
Taking a moment to center and listen to the gentle sounds of so many sleeping lovers, I let my mind wander to the party last night. It had been one hell of a blowout. My place had been packed with fans, groupies, my fellow musicians, and even a couple of the Raptors. The braver ones. A lot of the team shied away from the rock parties.
Which I respected. I didn’t do drugs and drink. Ever. I had few rules in my life but drugs and booze were totally off limits. If others wanted to toke up, snort a line, or dive into a bottle of Jack that was on them. Live and let live. My days were all about pleasure, penning songs, and playing hockey. Oh yeah, and the occasional party like last night’s…
The Chaotic Furballs had signed a record deal with Black Crack Records after the rep, Dilly Andrews, had wooed us fucking hard. And we were more than pumped to sign on the dotted line. Black Crack was one of the biggest and hottest recording companies on the metal scene. They’d risen from obscurity over the past two years by signing new hard rock bands that the other companies were scared to take on. While most places were lusting after K-Pop bands and anyone who sounded like Taylor Swift, Black Crack was all about the metal. They were my kind of people. The band was looking at a massive influx of cash and prestige, something we had worked our asses off for. Now that we’d signed, we’d have to produce. But all that had to wait for hockey to end after we’d just clinched a wild card slot in the playoffs. It was hard balancing two great loves. I’d have been hard-pressed to pick which I adored more, hockey or rock. Both were fundamental to my soul. Both were the most important things in my life. I wasn’t going to turn my back on my band or my team. A real man didn’t walk away from responsibility.
Whoever was playing my pillow was hungry. His belly rumbled in my ear. I kissed his navel, opened my eyes, and snickered to see it was Dilly whose stomach was making so much noise. Right, the record exec had wooed us hard and I’d fucked him twice as hard. And the pink-haired dude, and the blonde chick with the nice tits, and the big roadie who’d been carting drums for us over the past few months. Love was meant to be shared. I should’ve gotten that inked on my ass cheek.
“Rock and roll,” I mumbled, wiggling free of the arms and legs, knotted blankets, and stuffed emu tangled around a skinny dude with pink hair and the lone female in my bed. Pouting when I saw my stuffed Kricker— I missed my fucking emu, stupid wildlife laws— I stumbled around my bedroom naked. A warm wind blew through the open sliding doors carrying the heady scent of desert lavender. Nice.
I found my jeans, a retro pair with huge bell bottoms, and pulled them up over my bare ass. Then I spied the sheer zebra-print kimono the busty blonde sleeping under the roadie had worn last night. I pulled it on then padded out of my room on bare feet. The satiny robe rubbed my neck and I winced. Stopping by a mirror on the wall, I tipped my head to the right. The new ink I’d gotten last night was tender. The redness had gone down and the musical notes were fucking intense. My gaze fell to the tattoo of Kricker wearing a bowler hat on my pectoral.
“Always in my heart, bruh,” I mumbled then patted my chest.
As I ambled through my airy desert home I stopped to check on people, my bandmates in particular, who were all curled around a woman, or two, sleeping off their well-deserved celebrations. I was the only Furball who liked cock, or at least the only one who would freely admit it. Yawning and scratching my belly, I stopped to use the bathroom and stepped over a dude in a kilt sleeping with a red bong in one hand and a green dildo in the other.
“Looks like you had a good night,” I said then relieved myself, flushed, and washed my hands. I took a closer look at myself in the mirror, smiled at the man I saw, and then pattered downstairs, taking care to avoid the empty bottles of booze, a few random kegs, and assorted people I knew and didn’t know. Not to mention there was a drum set in the living room that someone had filled with water and the four fat koi from the cement pond out back. Sniggering at The Beverly Hillbillies reference, I cruised into the kitchen, blinked at the brightness, and glanced around for the electric tea kettle as I wondered where my phone had gone. I found the kettle in the fridge filled with prawns. My phone was sandwiched between the massive cookstove that I never used, and the counter.
“Dudes,” I sighed then washed out the kettle and turned it on.
I always started my day with two cups of ginseng tea sweetened with honey. It was one of a dozen things that my grandmother Alchemy did every morning that I’d incorporated into my routines. Most of my grandmother’s habits were pretty righteous and aimed at taming the beast inside my breast. I missed her company but she was living in Vermont now, heading a co-op of hippie seniors. Soon as hockey was over and the band had laid down some tracks, I was heading to Vermont— the land of Ben & Jerry’s.
While the kettle heated, I dropped my phone into the charger and whispered, “Alexa, play ‘Dude (Looks Like a Lady) by Aerosmith’ on the whole house system. Volume setting concert level.”
I threw my head back, spun in a circle, and started belting along with my idol Steven Tyler. My voice was similar to his, and my stage screams were close. Not that anyone could possibly recreate the majesty of his voice, of course. Shaking my ass through Joe Perry’s guitar solo— if I had a fucking buck for every time I spanked my meat to the fantasy of being wedged between Tyler and Perry I’d own the motherfucking Grand Canyon— I sang along as I filled a mug with hot water, dunked my tea bag, and stirred in some clover honey that Alchemy had sent me last week.
I got a sip in when I thought I heard the doorbell ring. Hard to tell with Aerosmith rocking so loud the windows were humming, but it sounded like the bell. I jumped over two half-naked Asian dudes sleeping on the Italian marble in the foyer curled around each other like a couple of cats. Dio’s “Holy Diver” fired up next. I dropped to my knees, silky kimono fluttering out like wings, and offered up a rock prayer to the dearly departed legend.
The guys behind me giggled. I gave them a wink and then passed my tea along to them to warm themselves before getting to my bare feet and yanking the door open. I expected to see a dude with a brown truck asking me to sign for a delivery. Furball fans and Raptors backers were always mailing me shit. I looked out at the sweeping driveway but there was nothing to be seen but cactus, a roadrunner, and a well-tended flower garden that I never paid any attention to. Gardeners took care of it, just like a cleaning service would come in after I was on the plane to tidy up the house. My agent took care of all that. Who had time?
“Colorado, we’re cold,” one of the dudes— they might have been twins— behind me called in a sing-song voice.
Assuming someone from the party had pranked my ass, I was about to slam the heavy front door shut and warm up the two chilly groupies when a small little mewl, like that of a kitten, drew my attention downward. Thank all the fucking gods I’d passed along that scalding cup of tea to those guys. My whole mental state went blank as I gaped at the tiny baby staring up at me from within its carrier-tote thing. It had a big head with soft, dark peach fuzz and blue eyes. It was all in pink so I figured it was a girl, but why not be more gender-neutral? Come on people. The edge of an envelope stuck out from the base of the carrier, so I wiggled it free.
“Yo,” I said to the baby. It gurgled. “Where’s your mother, little person? Is she around back sleeping it off with Buick? He’s into MILF’s.” Drummers were horn dogs. Proven fact. Just like goalies are weird. I totally owned my shit.
Ripping open the wrinkled letter as a breeze ruffled my stolen kimono and the baby’s soft fuzz, I sat down cross-legged beside the infant and shook open the incredibly short missive.
Colorado,This baby is yours. I named her after my grandmothers Madeline and Celeste.
My gaze flicked to the kid chewing on her fingers. “Grandmothers are cool,” I told her and she gabbled around her fist. I gave her a lopsided smile then the first line of the note sank in and my gut flipped. I focused back to the note written in purple pen.
Raise her well. You can afford her, I can’t. Next time use a condom you slutty man whore.One of a thousand
“Shit,” I whispered, the note fluttering off in the morning wind. Madeline Celeste and I started at each other for a millisecond. Then I dove into what could only be described as a major freak-out. Like I lost it biblically. Snapping up the carrier with the baby I then raced back into the house, a banging tune by Tenacious D blaring throughout the sixty-seven thousand square foot Mediterranean-style mansion. The baby, Madeline, began wailing, which really didn’t do a damn thing for my mental state or Jack Black’s ripping vocals. The twins took one look at me and the screaming infant and melted into the shadows.
I raced into the kitchen, placed the baby on the counter, barked at Alexa to shut the hell up, and then pounced on my phone. There was no way to be sure Madeline was mine without a blood test, but she had some impressive pipes so maybe she was my kid. Although she had blue eyes and mine were a greenish-brown hazel so maybe she wasn’t?
I called Alchemy but her answering machine— honestly, who the hell used an answering machine anymore other than hippie octogenarians— informed me she was on a spirit quest and would not return to this realm until Friday so please leave a message.
In lieu of saying anything, I held out my phone so she could hear my kid… the kid… screaming bloody murder. Allegedly my kid. Right. Allegedly. No proof. Just a letter from someone who thought they were a member of the Borg collective. One of a thousand. Did she hang out with Seven of Nine?
Colorado, stop with the Star Trek shit and focus on the problem before I kick your fucking ass.
“So yeah, this is happening. Can you please call me when you’ve returned to your mortal shell?!” I shouted at my grandmother then immediately felt terrible. “Sorry, just a bit stressed. Please call me, okay. I really need to talk to you. Love. Peace out. Oh my shit, she’s like red in the face!”
I hung up, unfastened the little belt holding the raging baby in the carrier, and slid a hand under her. Recalling holding a teammate’s new baby at a social function last month, I cradled Madeline’s head and placed her against my chest. She quieted instantly. Snot and drool coated my shoulder. Not that I was freaked out by that. Life wasn’t worth living if you didn’t have some sort of bodily fluid on your skin.
“Okay, yeah good,” I mumbled, rocking side to side as I made another frantic call. “Yeah, that’s a good girl. Not everyone can relate to Tenacious D in the bright and early. Come on, Vlad, pick up the mother… loving phone before I— Vlad! Oh man, I have a small issue here. Like, really small. Maybe seven pounds and… no, dude, it is not a baby emu. It’s a baby.” Madeline nuzzled my collarbone, sucking madly. Shit. Was she hungry? When had she eaten last? What kind of person dropped a kid off at the door of a notorious asshole rock and roll goalie without some grub? “What do you feed a baby? What? No, dude, I told you it’s not a baby animal. Seriously? Why would I buy a tiger cub? Okay, yeah, it would be cool and does kind of sound like something I’d do. I’ll grant you that one. Vlad, listen, some chick dropped a baby off at my front door and— Yes! A real baby. A human baby. Note said it’s mine.”
My whiskery cheek rested on her soft head as we waltzed around the kitchen. She smelled good, like sunshine and warm kitten fur. A rush of Russian flowed into the room from Vlad. I rolled my eyes as we danced around my phone lying on the counter. All I’d wanted was some tea, some food, maybe one quick round with the four people still snoozing in my bed, and a shower before I left for the airport. Was that asking too—?
“Stay there. I will be over quickly,” Vlad said then hung up.
The panic attack backed off a bit, just enough to jar me into motion. Someone in this mansion had to know what to do for a baby. Every chick I woke up to feed Madeline got super pissy and called me a sexist asshole for asking only women how to care for a baby. Who was I going to ask? Buick? My best buddy in the band could barely feed himself let alone an infant. A mewling, whining baby cleared out the house fast. I suspected she may have shit herself as well if the stench I was smelling was coming from her and not my unwashed skanky man whore ass. I was never so happy to see the arrival of my team captain in my whole life. I was less happy to see Coach Carmichael and his boyfriend.
“Dude, why the hell did you call them?” I barked at Vlad as soon as they entered the house.
“He called because I’m your head coach,” Coach C snapped.
Mark, one of the owners of the Raptors, slid between us with bags of stuff dangling from his fingers. “Take these,” he said and reached to take Madeline from me. I jerked to the side, holding her little body tightly to my chest. Mark gave me a look that screamed irritation. “Take the bags. There’s formula, bottles, and diapers for her.”
I glanced from Vlad to Coach to Westman-Reid while my… Madeline nuzzled my clavicle.
“Thanks.” I hooked the shopping bags on my fingers then carried Madeline into the white living room. There were two. One was white and the other was… sort of an off-white.
“What the hell happened in here?” Coach asked as I laid the baby on a loveseat and sat there staring at her. She really stank.
“We signed a record deal and got a wild card slot,” I replied as Madeline stared holes into my soul.
“Ah, did you party all night?” Mark asked in a tone that immediately sent his comment to my mental trash bin. The owners had never liked me. There were days I wasn’t sure Coach did, but he’d headhunted me, so here I was, in all my Penn family glory.
“I’m clean. I’ll go piss in a jar when we arrive in Vegas, but right now the band and the team kind of take a back seat, yeah?” They all nodded sheepishly. Vlad muttered something about calling Child Services just as I’d worked up the courage to unsnap the tiny pink sleeper Madeline was wearing to check for a diaper disaster. The stench that rolled up from inside her sleeper made us all choke. “No,” I said as my eyes watered and Coach took a step back. “We are not sending my kid to foster care.”
“Colorado, you don’t know she’s yours,” Coach pointed out. I gagged a bit. How could a person so small make such a massive stink? “We’re due in Nevada in five hours for the first round of the playoffs. You cannot travel with that baby. The wise thing to do would be to call Child Services, have the blood test, and if you’re determined to be the father then you can search for the mother. Don’t shake your head, there are legalities that need to be—”
“No. I am not turning my back on her. She’s mine until it’s proven otherwise. Good parents do not leave their kids for other people to raise!” I yelled.
Coach glowered but he didn’t call me out. Mark and Vlad stood in the distance like golems for several seconds until Westman-Reid said something that was actually useful.
“My sisters-in-law use nannies all the time. They might be able to help us out.” Mark glanced around. I nodded. Coach nodded. Vlad nodded. “Okay, so change that diaper and we’ll figure out the formula so she can eat.”
Mark turned his back on us while he rang up a sister-in-law. I peeled open the diaper, just one side, and drew back in total horror. Coach and Vlad left the room like Satan was nipping at their balls. Madeline kicked and giggled.
“Yeah, you think it’s funny but it ain’t,” I mumbled as my eyes watered. “I got you though, baby girl.”
Rental
“Samuel Adams, please, draft, and a menu?” I asked. He nodded, moved off to pull me a beer and grab a menu. Raking my fingers through my short, damp brown hair I settled in, looked to the left, and saw one of the most gorgeous men I’d ever seen before, staring at me as if I were a bacon cheeseburger and he was just coming out of a meat-free Lent drought. Gorgeous lower half of his face, anyway. He wet his lips. My pecker perked up instantly. I barely noticed the beer and menu that appeared in front of me. The bartender, who was probably used to seeing men drooling on his bar, moved off to tend to his other customers. “Evening,” I said because I was smooth and suave that way.
“Hey,” he replied, his voice deep as the ocean depths. He was dirty blond, big, and inked. Also, a little younger than me. Not by eons or anything, but maybe early thirties. He had a rugged face, a nose that was wider and perhaps a wee bit crooked. Incredibly lush lips and one hell of a strong jaw. Dark blue eyes. That nose/jaw combo was a real standout. His face was rough and masculine, but he’d not be appearing on the cover of any high-fashion magazine. The man was not a fashionable waif. He was a bruiser. And just my type. His mask was purple with sequins. Very flashy for a man who didn’t strike me as the flashy type, but then again, what did I know about him other than my dick was into his vibe. “You here for food or something else?”
My dick was standing at attention. Okay then, the straightforward type. “I’m here for whatever the night brings me.”
He gave me a smile that could have jarred Satan. Talk about sinful. “Yeah, same.” With that announcement, he slid from his stool, adjusted his cock, which looked like a thick hunk of meat pressing against the zipper of his jeans, and then sauntered off. I sat there overwhelmed, not only at the quickness of finding a willing fuck, but at the potential sheer size of that man’s cock. His ass was a work of perfection. Meaty as hell. Damn this bar was a treasure trove! Why had I not googled gay bars in Boston when I was here before?! He paused at the end of a dark hallway, bathroom signs lit above his head, and gave me that look. That look that scorched all my nerve receptors aside from the ones that led to my crotch. He walked off into the dimly lit corridor.
The bartender cleared his throat. I glanced at him, waiting with a pencil and pad in his hand.
“I have to go wash up first,” I lied like a motherfucking rug.
“Uh-huh.” He placed the pad back into his front pocket and went to make cocktails.
Saturday's Series Spotlight
Road to the Stanley Cup Edition
🏒👨❤️👨🏒💖👬💖🏒👨❤️💋👨🏒
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.
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
VL Locey
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
Deep Edge #3
Last Defense #5
School & Rock #5
Rental #6
👀Scott & Locey Hockey Universe
will be leaving KU on July 10, 2023👀
Harrisburg Series
Owatonna U Series
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