Powder #3
Summary:Two weeks. No promises. Just passion… until the Winter Games change everything.
Jack O’Leary, veteran defenseman and captain of the Railers, isn’t sure where his life’s headed. Fresh off a painful divorce and staring down the end of his career, he books a vacation to clear his head—romance not included. But when he meets a fiery young snowboarder who refuses to let him hide behind his walls, Jack finds himself falling hard for the first time in years. When their paths cross again at the Winter Games, Jack must decide if he’s brave enough to chase the future he never expected.
Tian-Lei Cai-Wilder’s living the dream—endorsements, medals, and the bright spotlight of snowboarding fame. His reward? Two weeks in the sun to finally breathe. Meeting Jack wasn’t part of the plan, but the gruff, gorgeous hockey legend is impossible to resist. Their vacation fling burns hot and ends clean… or so Tian thinks. When they’re both chosen for Team USA, sparks fly all over again—only this time, the whole world is watching.
Powder is a steamy age-gap, opposites-attract, second-chance sports romance featuring a brooding hockey veteran, a golden-boy snowboarder, and a fling that refuses to stay in the past.
Fly #4
Summary:A legacy he never chose. A love he never expected.
Jari Lankinen never asked to inherit his father’s sins, but the name alone is enough to poison every room he walks into. The Railers haven’t forgotten the brutal hit Aarni Lankinen delivered to Tennant Rowe, and they sure as hell don’t want his son wearing their jersey. Jari is a gifted forward with the skill to change games, but his last name makes him a target before he even skates his first shift. Earning respect means pushing through hostility and suspicion, fighting every day to prove he isn’t his father. To the fans, he’s the son of a villain. To his teammates, he’s a reminder of the past. To himself, he’s a man trapped in a shadow he can’t escape.
A steady force in the high-pressure world of professional baseball, Cameron Blackburn has built his career on focus, discipline, and keeping his head when others lose theirs. He isn’t flashy, but he’s respected, trusted, and known for bringing balance to every team he’s played on. When their paths cross at a shared training facility, Cam is drawn to Jari’s restless energy—the fight in every move, the loneliness in his silence, the way he carries his past like armor. Where others feel only wariness at Jari’s name, Cam sees someone worth knowing, worth trusting, worth holding onto. And while opening his heart to Jari may test the limits of his own control, Cam has never been afraid to stand firm when the storm comes.
Fly is a legacy, redemption, and opposites-attract romance set against the backdrop of professional sport. Featuring a hockey forward fighting to escape his father’s shadow, a disciplined baseball player who refuses to be shaken, the clash of storm and calm, and a love that proves sometimes the biggest risks are the ones worth taking.
Original Review March 2026:
This has been on my kindle longer than I care to admit and I'm embarrassed by the fact that I hadn't read the blurp closer because had I, I would have read this before the Winter Games a couple of weeks ago instead of after. Though, TBH, with the Paralympics about to start it is still Olympic season so I guess it's okay😉.
Gotta admit something else, I am not much of a snowboarding follower, I watched a couple of the runs during the Games while waiting for sledding & curling events but that's it, so I can't speak to the accuracy the authors gave it but knowing their work as I do, I'm guessing they did their research to give it the respect it deserves.
Onto Powder . . .
This is the third entry in the authors' next generation in their hockey universe, Railers Legacy and I found it interesting to see an older member of the team as the focus(or half of the focus😉) of this story. When people think of next generations in entertainment, they tend to expect younger characters, so this was a nice surprise. Jack and Tian go together so perfectly, and the fact that their age difference really didn't come into lay other than some minor brother/sister dialog, and I love the fact that it wasn't their shared goal of medal aspirations that connect them(ie their first meeting but I won't go beyond detail-wise😉). Don't get me wrong, an actual Olympic meet would have been great too but IMO, this made for an even better story.
If I'm 100% honest, as much as I love the guys, it's Jack's relationship with his sister that really jumped out at me. I'm an only child but having read this near my uncle's(who is no longer with us) birthday(finished it on the day actually) and barely a year past losing my mom, I couldn't help but think of what they were like as kids. They grew apart after he got married but I think there was an unexpected snarkyness to them growing up(going by stories Mom told) and Jack & Fiona spoke to those story memories. For that, I want to thank RJ Scott & VL Locey, giving me a chance to picture them in Jack & Fi's place, it brought more than a few tears but they were all happy tears. Thank you 💓
I won't go further so as not to spoil anything. I will add that Jack and Tian are great together and though they are seemingly at different places in their sporting careers, they both give it everything they have but they manage to not let it get in the way of their growing co-journey. They are both characters I would be happy to know in my daily life which helped me connect to and root for them. There is some build-up to the authors' next Legacy entry, Fly, which I have a feeling will be more angsty/dramatic than Powder but that won't keep me away.
Powder is a lovely heartwarming and enjoyable gem and though it may be less dramatic than many of their entries, its not all laughs either, a great blend of romance, humor, healing making for an all around gem that will make you smile, we all need more of them in our lives.
Fly #4
Original Review April 2026:
RATING:
RJ Scott
VL Locey
Boston Rebels Series
Rochester Copperheads Series
Yet another great story in the continuing Scott & Locey Hockey Universe. So much to love here and for those who have been riding this train from the very beginning, waybackwhen in Harrisburg Railers, you will recognize the last name of one of the MCs, Lankinen and you're probably not remembering it kindly. To paraphrase the old adage, you can't judge the son by the father's sins. This is perfect example of just that. Unfortunately, Jari punishes himself, after all he's had a lifetime of facing his father's sins and sharing the name that went along them. I won't say anything more specific for those who are new here but just know, Aarni Lankinen is not a good man but Jari is nothing like him.
There is actually two things about Fly that puts this higher up on my list than others, which says a lot because the difference between every book I've read in the authors' hockey world is so infinitesimal that if they were a row of cars lined up on the street I would be afraid to stick my hand between them. So the 2 things that stood out: baseball and MS.
Last year in the Railers Legacy second entry, Blitz, we got to see a dual sports relationship when one MC was nearing the end of his football career, well here we get to see a baseball player who is set in his own career and very much drawn to Jari. When it comes to sports, I'm much more a baseball fan than I am hockey and unfortunately I have not had a chance to read too many baseball stories in the LGBTQ genre so this was a very nice surprise.
As for why the MS is important to me? My grandfather lived with MS for 42 years before he was called home and was in a wheelchair by the time I came along so I grew up around MS, and find myself having a much tighter judgement scale where the condition is concerned. Here in Fly, it is Jari's mom who has MS and though we don't see a great deal of her on page and the MS is a minor part of the story scene/wordage-wise, it is a main focus on Jari's mind when it comes to why he puts up with his father's crap(for lack of a better word😉). Knowing the authors' work as I do, I knew they would give it the respect it deserves but I still held a much stronger magnifying glass to those parts while reading. The concern Jari has for his mother and getting the proper care is spot on in regards to how much it can wear on a person and his need to "leave it in the locker room". It's these details that can lift a wonderful story into great storytelling.
I've talked mostly about Jari here but I can't forget Cam, the baseball player. He has his own struggles that he still maneuvers around, especially his need to want to help people. Now on the surface that is not much of a struggle but what makes it an issue is his want to jump in and fix things without asking the other party(Jari in this case) if they want his fixes. What I loved about this part of his character is he sees what he's doing and faces it before he lets it get out of hand.
I'm going to end there before I start giving away too much. Fly is an emotionally charged and still fun incredible piece of storytelling that keeps you hooked from beginning to end. There is character growth on both sides of the couple coin but more than "growth" its accepting those parts of themselves that has caused pain that helped me connect with them. Can't wait to see where their hockey universe travels to next.
RATING:
Powder #3
ONE
Jack
“Not to be unkind, but is this really all your stuff?” I stared around the last two boxes of hockey memorabilia at my sister, Fiona. She was the prettiest thing, and no, that wasn’t me being biased because I’m her older brother. Long strawberry blonde hair, bright blue eyes, slim and fit, and the owner of two dimples that flashed when she smiled. I nodded as I put the boxes of old sweaters, milestone pucks, and skates as old as Fiona onto the kitchen counter. “Christ, Jack, that’s fucking depressing.”
Oh, and she was also brutally honest, but thank the saints she’d learned to curb that, or her job as a private flight attendant would have ended on day one.
“I wanted Paula to be well-settled,” I mumbled, knowing full well my darling sister would come unglued over that comment.
“‘Settled’ is one thing. Giving her the house, the cars, the dog, and everything else she demanded is another.”
I’d heard this all before. A hundred times. Maybe five hundred. And while I loved that my sibling was on the defensive about me even though she was a hundred pounds lighter and eight inches shorter than me, she was known to get in a person’s face to stick up for me. My ex-wife Paula was one of the biggest examples. Fiona and Paula had never gotten along. The divorce had not improved that strained relationship. Fiona called my ex a horse, and my ex called Fiona an ogre. The two of them fought way more than Paula and I did throughout our marriage. You have to care to fight, and Paula didn’t care how it turned out.
“Fi, please, I’m not in the mood,” I said, then sighed as I looked around my brand-new bachelor pad. One bedroom, one bath, a spacious but empty living room, a kitchen, and a tiny laundry room. All very nice, quite expensive, and overlooking the Walnut Street Bridge, a famed bridge that’d been closed in the seventies but was now used by pedestrians and bikers for access to City Island. It was home now. Not exactly the sprawling three-bedroom, two-bath, two-thousand-two-hundred-square-foot with a two-car garage I’d bought for Paula after our wedding ten years ago in Elizabethtown. I mean… not even close. But it was mine. Empty. Which was kind of how my chest felt whenever I thought about how I’d failed my wife.
“Do keep in mind that she did cheat on you so that should have earned her nothing over the fifty-fifty split the state says she was owed,” Fiona fired back as she shimmied up to sit on the smooth white counter, her long red/gold ponytail sliding over her shoulder. A nice summer breeze blew in through the window over the sink. May was already warming up nicely. “Not sure why you felt that she deserved so much in the settlement when all she did was sit around, and sleep with her yoga instructor.”
I rolled my eyes. “For the last time she wouldn’t have gone looking for another man if I’d been home more,” I repeated clearly and slowly in the hopes she would absorb it.
She reached out to flick my forehead. With a porcelain nail painted soft pink. It stung. “Jonathon Patrick Killian O’Leary, you’ve taken too many hits to the head if you really believe that. Loads of spouses are faithful when their men or women are on the road. She was just using that as a reason to do a double down dog split up the ass with Sage Happy Hatha for three years while you were out bleeding all over the ice.”
“I rarely bleed all over the ice, Fiona Katherine Margaret Shillelagh O’Leary. I make other men bleed all over the ice.”
She flicked my brow again. “Do not add that walking stick moniker to my name. The three plus the surname are bad enough.” I snickered. “And it will not dissuade me from talking about the nag who now owns your dog and drives your cars.”
God, she was tenacious. “The dog was hers, a gift, and the car was also hers. I have my truck. I don’t need or want a pink Audi. How would it look for the captain of the Railers to pull up to the barn in a bright pink car with fake eyelashes over the headlights?”
“Seriously, why does she have to be such a real-life Barbie?”
I didn’t have an answer for that. Paula had been a few years younger than me, yes, and so stunningly beautiful that I’d never quite felt fit to be with a young woman of such incredible beauty. She’d modeled in New York before we got married. I’d never found her fondness for pink or her affinity for tiny purse dogs odd. She’d been bubbly and fawned over me. For the first few years. Then it all started to go wrong. I was away too much, she was lonely, life wasn’t as glamorous as she’d expected, and on it went.
“You’re too nice.”
I shrugged. Yeah, maybe so, but when I loved someone, I showered them with affection. That was how men were supposed to act around their heart’s desires. Our father had spoiled our mother terribly. Forty years of wedded bliss they’d had before they’d lost their lives to a drunk driver one dark winter night back home in Montpelier. God, I missed them. They would have been heartbroken and so disappointed in me for allowing my career to ruin my—
“Ow, fucking hell, stop doing that,” I snapped after another hard flick to my forehead. “I’m going to dunk you in the Schuylkill if you do that again.”
Fiona gave me a soft push on the chest. She knew I was full of hot air. I’d throw myself into the river that flowed through Harrisburg before I chucked her in it. Now, when we were kids…
“Okay, I’ll drop it. For now. Do you want me to call a designer to come in and add some life to this place? It has nice bones, Jack, it just needs some color and maybe a picture on the wall that isn’t of a hockey rink?” I leaned my ass on the counter. The place was sparse, but I really didn’t care about all that silliness. “Right, I see that pucker on your forehead so what I’m going to do is make sure you have things like drapes, a nice bedding set, as you left all the sheets and towels in the house for your horse of an ex—”
“Fiona…”
She flipped her ponytail, then winked. “Sorry, it’s her teeth.”
“Her teeth are fine.” They should be. I’d spent tens of thousands of dollars on them. Not that she had modeled again once we’d gotten married, but she liked to be pretty. I liked to look at pretty women, and some men on occasion, and I had the cash, so why not give her what she wanted?
Fiona waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll outfit the place for you because I love you and know that if I don’t get you set up properly, you’ll be drying yourself on paper towels after a shower.”
You do that one time in college, and your sister never forgets.
“I also wanted to talk to you about taking a vacation.” I must have made a noise as she tsked me instantly. “No, no, do not make that Dad sound. He always did that when he disliked something. Sucked air between his teeth. You need to get out into the world, Jack, meet new people, maybe have a wild affair.”
“Nope, I… no, I do not want to have a wild affair with anyone.” I walked out of the kitchen to the living room, folded my arms, and planted my feet. This was my captain’s stance. Next, I locked my jaw. My captain’s expression. Men of great size and meaty fists would see me like this and not push.
Fiona, on the other hand…
“Honey,” she cooed as she followed me into the cavernous room. I really did need a couch to soak up the sound. “I’m not saying you have to propose to anyone. Please, don’t. But just get your willie wet with some bouncy beach babe or surfer dude. Flush that rancid memory of Trigger from your mind and heart.” She came around in front of me, tipped her head back, and met my glower with a loving look before snuggling close for a hug. I kept my arms crossed for about a millisecond before opening them and embracing her. She smelled like vanilla and a flowery scent. “I want you to be happy again. You’ve been so sad since the divorce decree. I know it was a letdown for the team to get knocked out in the first round, too, so all of this is sitting on your chest. Let me see if I can find a nice sunny destination for you. Somewhere packed with singles, where you can lounge on a beach, sip drinks with paper umbrellas, and reacquaint yourself with how damned charming and handsome you are.”
I tucked her head under my hairy chin. I’d yet to shave my red playoff beard. I tended to cling to things for far too long. My marriage, for example. My beard. My old running shoes. My ten-speed. My skates and sticks from my days at Bowling Green. My ragtag collection of Timmy Horton hockey cards. Several pairs of boxer shorts.
“Not sure I’d say handsome,” I mumbled as we hugged it out. My nose was off-center from being broken in a game against Pittsburgh five years ago, then again against the Raptors two years ago. I had surgery scars on my left shoulder, a knee that swelled when the atmospheric pressure dropped, and a jagged white line on my jawline from an errant stick to the kisser that had resulted in ten stitches just this year. Hockey was a tough game.
“See, that right there is your ex talking.” She gave my side a pinch then tilted her head up to gaze at me. “You’re very handsome. Some would say rugged. Beefy, tough as nails, sweet as a honey roll—”
“Do not say that honey roll crap anywhere near the barn or the Railers locker room. The kids like Gunny and Trick need to know that I’ll grind them into paste if they don’t play up to their potential.”
She smiled up at me. “I think they know that you’re a goober belly.” She jabbed my gut, which was not goober-bellied at all but nice and tight. I worked out every day. I even had abs under the thick pelt of reddish-blond hair on my belly. “But I’ll be sure to extoll your pasting abilities when I see them next.”
Which wouldn’t be until September. The season was over, our lockers cleared out, our hopes dashed. Sure, we’d made it to the first round, but then we’d tanked. I’d told the press I was sorry for letting the team and the city down. I’d been so into my own personal shit that I’d not given the team my full one hundred percent on the ice. Our failure was on me. I was the captain. It was down to me to talk the guys up, keep the locker room pumped, and ensure the team stayed mentally on track. I’d failed at that. Just like I’d failed to keep my wife happy and—
“Ow!” I winced at the nail flick.
“You had that I-suck-and-want-to-wallow-in-my-suckiness look on your face.” She reached up to rub my brow. “Sorry, but you need someone to keep you from sliding into that pit of self-loathing that your ex kicked you into with her infidelity. And since we only have each other now, that person is me.”
“I love that you’re my pit person,” I confessed. She nuzzled in for another hug. “I’ll think about a vacation.” I couldn’t see it as her nose was smushed into my chest, but I knew she was smiling her smug smile of success. “I said I’ll think about it. Do not make reservations.”
A week later, I was rolling my boxer shorts that didn’t have elastic showing into tight little logs because Fiona had made reservations and lined up a round-trip flight to Belize. Caye Caulker to be exact. She listened about as well as the Yorkie Paula toted around in oversized bags and called Bapsi-Boodles.
After hurriedly shoving my clothes into my suitcase, I sat on it and shouted at it because I was in a bad mood and couldn’t bring myself to yell at Fiona. Deep down, I knew she was only trying to pull me out of my funk. She loved me and thought a couple of weeks on a Caribbean island would help me feel better. Which, sure, it probably would to some extent, but if she thought I was going to go wild and jump into bed with the first man or woman who looked at me, she was very wrong. Yes, it had been over eighteen months since I’d been with someone intimately. My hand didn’t count, although even using that had started to decline.
I just wasn’t interested. Mom used to say that I loved with my whole being. I guess that was true because ever since Paula and I split, my sex drive has been pretty low. I’ve never been the type to go for one-night stands. I prefer some emotion, or at least for the person I was with to know my name, as silly as that sounds. I’ve had two girlfriends, and I married one. In college, I also dated a man for a few months, but the pressure from school and hockey was just too much. Plus, it was much easier to ask out girls. Not that I did that much. That first girlfriend was my steady from junior year through graduation. Then she moved west, and I got drafted by the New York team, where I met Paula. I fell pretty hard.
We’d gotten married, and she had packed up to move several times before we settled in Pennsylvania when the Railers picked me out of the reduced-for-quick-sale bin. Turned out to be the best thing for me, and the Railers, as I thrived on the ice and was named captain in my third year. The move to the Keystone State did not do my marriage any good. Paula was dour by then, complaining steadily about the dullness of this state, how she longed to return to Manhattan, and how I was unable to meet her emotional needs when I was away so much. Obviously, I wasn’t satisfying a few other of her needs. And if that wasn’t a kick in the balls to a man’s ego, I don’t know what was.
The alarm on my phone rang out, pulling me from the memories of the past. I latched my suitcase, grabbed the handle, and made my way out of the bedroom to the living room. Over the past week, Fiona had flown to Paris with a wealthy businessman in a private jet and had been tipped five grand for her exemplary service. Seemed she knew how to make a dry martini just the way the rich dude’s mistress liked them. Guess no one really cared about vows or fidelity anymore. Anyway, the tip had been blown on my condo. I now had furnishings, plates, pots, a few plants that I would kill sure as hell before the snow flew, and a TV set with a PlayStation. Among all the things delivered here, I used the TV and game console the most. And the bed. The new sheets and duvet were nice; I had to give my sister that.
A text arrived while I was shoving my wallet into my back pocket. Fiona reminded me not to miss my flight, or she would hire a boat to float me to Belize. I hit her back with a kind and loving reply.
I’m 37 yrs old. I know where the airplanes are. – J
I got a row of big eyeballs as a reply. Yeah, yeah, she was always watching me. Shouldn’t I be the one keeping an eye on her? I was the oldest after all. Not sure how our dynamic had changed so drastically. I made a last check of the condo, patted my ass for a wallet check, stuck my cell into the front pocket of my jeans, and grabbed my suitcase. Down the elevator I went to the lobby to find the ride Fiona had arranged—she wasn’t taking any chances that I would not get to the airport—waiting outside the tall tower I now called home. No one waved goodbye, no one kissed my cheek, no one wished me a safe flight at the door.
Being single sucked.
The ride to Harrisburg International was pleasant enough. I’d left my beard on my face, just neatened it a bit, so fans would be thrown off if they spied me at the airport. Not that I didn’t love our fans, I did, but man they could be rough. If one more dude bro came up to me to inform me we’d shit the bed last month I just might run out onto the I-83 and be done with it all. My driver was pleasant but not overly chatty. I arrived with two hours until boarding, checked my bag, went to the bathroom, and bought a soda that I downed. I took my time, no rushing, and made my way with ease through the TSA checkpoint. On the other side I found a seat facing the runway, my sight locked on the planes being readied for their flights. I’d flown a lot in my years. I mean a lot. I had no idea how many miles a hockey player logs in his life, but it was enormous. I’d flown into snowstorms, thunderheads, and the tip of a hurricane. I’d landed on ice strips where the plane went sideways after landing. Once we were blown off-course on a takeoff from Chicago-O’Hare. One time we lost an engine and had to turn around over the Canadian wilderness.
As my group was called to board I ambled forward, carry-on resting on my shoulder, without a care in the world. While some others around me were chatting nervously. I was plotting out my nap. When you’ve flown into a flock of birds and lived to tell the tale there was little that was going to make this flight to paradise anything other than mundane. Since Fiona had booked me in first class—on her—I settled into the large seat in the middle with a seat on my right and one across the aisle. I loved it. Seriously, a guy of my size did not do well in coach. Knowing I could stretch out without getting dirty glances from the people in front of me was everything.
The plane filled quickly. I texted Fiona a selfie of me all tucked into my fancy nook. The doors were closed then, and I found myself scanning the cover of the book I’d picked up in the airport when there was a commotion up front. The door was reopened. Glancing up from my phone, I watched as a man hurried onto the plane, his dark hair windblown as if he had raced through the airport. When the guy glanced my way, my stomach dropped. His dark brown gaze locked with mine for a second. He nodded at the flight attendant and then made his way to his seat. On my right. The smell of citrus and sweat curled around me as he rushed to stow his carry-on down by his feet. I stared. I couldn’t help it. He was perhaps the handsomest man I’d ever seen.
He flashed me a smile that made that turbulent feeling reappear. I hurried to buckle my belt before I did something stupid like gasp and tumble into the aisle. Team captains didn’t gasp at sexy men.
Fly #4
ONE
Jari
The first thing I did when I got into the cab was check the time in Finland. It was afternoon there, which meant Mom would be awake. I didn’t call her. I never did before games, meetings, or travel days. If I heard her voice and something was wrong at her end, I wouldn’t be able to leave the room, let alone skate. Instead, I opened the care app the private facility used—the one with the neutral colors and smiling stock photos—and scanned the overnight notes for Abigail Martinson.
Stable. No falls. Fatigue marked moderate. She had a visitor last night, but, per privacy policy, no names were included in the report. It wouldn’t be family—she had none in Finland, and it certainly wouldn’t be Aarni Lankinen, her husband in name, and the man she hated.
The man I hated.
I let out a breath and closed my eyes. Maybe she had a new friend? I’d ask her when I next called, but I was glad for it. Finland was supposed to feel like home for her—lakes and pines and silence. Instead, on mornings like this, it felt like distance measured in euros and contracts and whether I was still worth the price of keeping her comfortable.
I told myself—as I did every day—that as long as I kept playing, my asshole father would ensure she was looked after. That was the only way I could think.
The cab pulled into the Railers’ practice facility just after seven on a bright September morning.
I stayed seated longer than necessary, watching my breath fog the window, counting the seconds between inhales. The building loomed low and wide—glass, steel, banners snapping in the cold. RAILERS across the front in block letters. Not intimidating. Not welcoming either. Just… there. Waiting.
My flight from Detroit had been last-minute, rushed, chaotic, me leaving training camp at the drop of a hat, but it spat me out at Harrisburg airport in the dead of an early morning, and I tried to tell myself I was ready. I wasn’t.
“You okay back there?” the driver asked.
Not even close. Of all the teams that could’ve wanted me—and why would they—it had to be the Railers. I apologized, paid, and thanked him, then clambered out with my gear bag dragging at my shoulder, sticks awkward and unbalanced until I cleared the curb. I waited until the cab pulled away, until there was nothing left to hide behind.
And for a split second—one sharp, terrifying heartbeat—I wondered what would happen if I just… stopped. Stopped trying. Stopped skating. Stopped existing inside this machine that never let me breathe. If I started with the Railers, then walked into the next game and coasted. I could crash headfirst into the boards. One bad hit. One mistimed stride. One skate slipping out from under me on purpose. A skate to the chest, a fall at the wrong angle—it would all look like an accident. Hockey was dangerous. Careers end every year.
A clean exit, an insurance payout.
Stopping wasn’t an option.
Stopping meant unpaid invoices and polite emails that grew less polite. It meant Finland turning colder, quieter, less forgiving. It meant my mother apologizing for things that weren’t her fault and pretending she didn’t need help because help came with conditions.
And worse—it didn’t scare me the way it should have.
Because I hated this. I hated that this was the fourth new team in four years because I didn’t fit anywhere. I hated my name. I hated waking up every day, wondering if I was playing for myself or just trying to outrun the monster who’d raised me.
The Railers bench surging to its feet. The crowd—eighteen thousand voices howling for blood. Sticks, gloves, bodies colliding in a chaotic knot at center ice. Tennant Rowe jumping in without hesitation, trying to haul one of the Raptors off a teammate. Then hands went up. Someone pawed at his helmet in the crush. Accidental, they’d say later. Frame by frame, slowed down on a thousand replays. But in the moment, all I saw was his helmet ripped free, skittering across the ice.
And my father moving.
He launched himself into the mess as if he’d been waiting for an invitation and even then, as a kid, I knew what that look meant. My father reached him, slapped a hand onto Tennant’s shoulder, and yanked him backward over his extended leg. Rowe went down hard; his head struck the ice with a sound I still hear in my sleep. He crumpled into the churning skates, bodies still shoving, fists still flying. When the pile shifted, he was still there.
Unmoving.
His head rested in a spreading pool of blood, dark against the white ice, skates dancing around him as if he were already invisible.
My father stood over him.
Not checking. Not calling for help. Just looming there, bent slightly at the waist, grinning as Tennant gasped for air. As if this was the point. As if hurting someone that badly meant he’d won at something.
The crowd had been roaring. I remembered that part too. Noise swallowing the sound of Tennant’s breath, the way officials were slow to intervene, the way my father skated off without looking back.
I swallowed hard.
Every real Railers fan hated Aarni Lankinen.
But none of them hated him as much as I did.
A man waited inside the door; a tablet tucked under one arm.
“Jari Lankinen?”
I nodded.
“Layton Foxx,” he said, smiling. “Director of Player Relations, Community Outreach, and—depending on the week—everything else that falls through the cracks.” He stuck out his hand. Firm. Grounded. “Welcome to Harrisburg.”
Something in his tone—warm without being fake—threw me. I shook his hand before I could think too hard about it.
“You’re just in time for orientation,” Layton continued, walking with me through the doors. Coach Morin’s expecting you.”
Coach Morin's office was smaller than I expected—not intimidating, not flashy. Just a desk, two chairs, and a wall covered in Railers history. Banners, photos, and newspaper clippings. Legacy everywhere I looked. Coach wasn’t the tidiest guy. His desk was a mess of gum wrappers, empty coffee mugs, and playbooks stacked in uneven piles. Photos lined the back of the desk, half-hidden under notes. Layton lingered by the door as Coach Morin stood to greet me.
“Jari Lankinen,” Coach said, offering his hand. “Glad you’re here.”
“I'm glad to be here,” I lied. What I really wanted to say was that I couldn’t believe they'd traded me here, that they were stupid, that the optics were shit, and worse, that it exposed me to a million more horrors than I'd seen at my three other teams.
I sat when he pointed at a chair, my hands pressed flat against my thighs to stop them from shaking. Coach Morin lowered himself into his chair, folding his arms, studying me in silence long enough that I wondered if this was the real test—whether I could handle stillness.
Finally, he spoke.
“So, Jari,” he said, “you’ve had quite a journey since draft.”
My stomach clenched.
“Minnesota. Seattle. Detroit.” He ticked them off with three fingers. “Three teams in four years. That’s a lot of packing.”
I swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
He leaned back. “I spoke to each of your coaches.” My breath caught. He held my gaze. “And you know what they said?” I didn’t. I was scared to. Coach lifted a shoulder. “Some bad things, lack of focus sometimes, lack of self-belief.” He paused and I nodded—I'd heard that before. “But also, good things.”
Wait. What? I blinked. “Good things?”
“Good skill. Good instincts. Good work ethic.” He paused. “That you’re a kid who never settled and had a real shot because something kept pulling the rug out from under him. Damaged.”
My throat constricted. Something? Or someone. Hope filtered into me. He didn’t say my father's name. He didn’t have to.
Then he asked it—the question no one had ever asked me directly. “Are you too damaged, Jari?”
The words hit like a slap, but not cruelly. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “No, Coach,” I said.
Coach Morin nodded once, as if that were the correct answer. “Good. Because what I’ve watched you do is far from damaged, and for the record, I don’t give a damn what your father was.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, voice steady. “That’s in the past. And this”—he motioned to the Railers logo behind him—“is different.”
Something in me drew taut, then loosened. “Thank you, Coach.”
“I'm not saying it will be easy—we have players here with family connections and not everyone wanted you here…” He didn't have to mention anyone's name. “But we run things differently,” he continued. “You’re not going to be thrown into the deep end with sharks and then be told to sink or swim. You’re going to have support. Real support.”
“Okay,” I murmured, not trusting my voice.
“You’ll be talking to our team psychologist,” he said matter-of-factly. “That’s not optional. It’s part of being here. You’re not alone in any of it.”
I didn’t know if that scared me or relieved me. “Okay, Coach.”
Coach’s tone softened—just a little.
“Jari, listen to me. You’re talented. But talent isn’t why I pushed for this trade.” He tapped the desk lightly. “I traded for you because every coach you’ve had said the same thing: ‘He’s a good kid. He needs a place where leadership groups don’t expect him to fail.’”
A knot formed in my chest. Something old. Something I didn’t usually let myself feel.
Coach Morin let the silence stretch, then finished: “You’re a part of the Railers now. You get a clean slate, okay?”
I nodded. “Yes, Coach,” I’d never said anything at all, never done anything wrong, I’d just been a ghost on every team. But if it made people feel better to think badly about me, then I didn’t fucking care anymore.
Coach grinned up at Layton and rolled his eyes. “Your turn.”
Layton set a packet of information on the desk and slid it toward me, and I opened it to scan the index.
The usual welcoming information, emergency numbers, banking forms, but lower down, Community and League-Mandated Outreach. Mental Health Resources and Mandated Counseling. My jaw went rigid.
The outreach was my favorite bit—I'd volunteered off-the-record at kids’ skating schools, early mornings, and late nights when no cameras were around. I’d helped sharpen skates and tie laces, stayed after to clean up cones, slipped equipment vouchers into parents’ hands, and pretended it was nothing. If I kept it a secret, then my father couldn’t do anything about it. Hell, he’d keel over and die if he found out about the work I’d done behind the scenes with LGBTQ teens. In the public eye, I’d worked with a homeless charity in Detroit, unloading trucks and serving food. In secret, I’d done way more, keeping my head down and my name off sign-in sheets. I’d donated anonymously if I could, shown up when I wasn’t asked to, done the small, unglamorous things that didn’t earn photos or praise. Things my father never knew about, and the league never tracked.
It was the mental health resources that made me wince. Every single team demanded I get counseling—after all, with a father like Aarni-freaking-Lankinen, of course I must be a psycho as well? Fuck that noise. I must be guilty of on-ice violence, or abusing a partner, or hell, any of the shit Aarni had done.
“You have an issue with something there, son?” Coach asked.
Yes. I don’t want anyone to peel away the layers that keep me sane. “No, Coach.”
“Good. Layton?”
Layton glanced at Coach, then back at me. “I’ll keep it short, Jari,” he said. “You’ve been around the league long enough to know how this usually goes. New team, fresh start, same unspoken baggage particular to each new skater who joins us. There’s no easy way to say this, but you have things that come with you, and your name, and we want to nip those in the bud.” He rested his hands on the edge of the desk. Not casual. Focused. “Whatever animosity you’ve run into before—teammates, fans, management—it won’t be allowed to follow you here. We don’t pretend the league exists in a vacuum, but we also don’t let history poison the room.”
My shoulders tensed. He hadn’t said my father’s name. He didn’t mention the anti-queer rhetoric my father spewed. He didn’t have to talk about the articles appearing from him as my sperm donor moved further to the right. He didn’t have to.
“The Railers are a family,” Layton continued. “Not in the empty slogan way. In the sense that what one of us carries, all of us feel. You’ll get support and accountability here. No one gets frozen out. No one gets sacrificed to keep things comfortable. Kindness is paramount, and acceptance is key.”
Was he warning me? I guess he would, given he likely thought I carried my father’s hate with me. I froze again, just the same as with every other team. I couldn’t say what I wanted, I couldn’t be the real me, so everyone else filled in the gaps.
“Understood.”
“If there’s noise from you, the team, the fans,” Layton added, quieter now, “we deal with it together. Inside this building, you’re a Railer first, and you’ll respect the team, and in turn, we’ll respect you. That’s non-negotiable.”
I kept my face neutral. Inside, skepticism curled tight. Every team talked a good game. None of them meant it.
Coach nodded along with every word. “Okay, Jari, I’m not walking you into the locker room, that's all on you, okay?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“And the team is all there, and they're expecting you.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“And Jari?” he added as I turned to leave.
“Yes, Coach?”
“You don’t have to spend your life trying and failing to prove you’re not your father.”
Fuck that. I’m not trying to fail, I can’t stop what people think!
I bristled, but Coach held up a hand. “Just prove you’re you.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, but I nodded as Layton moved aside to let me out. I stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind me, waiting there for a moment, pushing down the anger curling in my belly. Foxx and Coach might talk a good talk, but every word was edged with warnings. They could surely imagine the mess I’d bring to the team, and fuck, I wanted it to be different.
Okay, let’s do this.
I headed for the locker room and stopped short of the door.
It wasn’t fear that held me in place, exactly. More like… momentum dying. Like everything Coach Morin had said was still echoing inside me, rattling around with all the parts of myself I usually shoved down. My hand hovered over the handle.
Three teams behind me. One father I couldn’t outrun. A fourth, and maybe final, chance staring me in the face. I wasn't convinced I'd be kept up here in the NHL team, probably a few practice sessions, and they'd send me to their AHL affiliate, but I had to fucking do this. I'd never been utilized in a single game versus the Railers, constantly pushed back, healthy scratched, or whatever the coach at the time thought was best, but I knew the team.
I could hear the muffled sounds through the door—voices, laughter, someone chirping to someone else about something stupid. Normal locker-room noise. Easy for most players. Familiar.
For me?
I exhaled slowly, pressing my palm to the cool wood. I didn’t know how to do this. But standing here doing nothing wasn’t going to get me closer. I told myself to move. I can’t move. My throat was tight. My chest too. What if the players looked at me and saw him? The name on my cubby was already a stain on the room, and what if I walked in and they hated me before I even said a word? My fingers curled around the door handle, grip hesitant.
“Move,” I whispered to myself. Nothing. Okay. “Management traded for you,” I tried again. “They want you here.” A beat. Two. I inhaled hard, forced the breath all the way down, and let the tension bleed out through my boots. Then I pushed the door open.
The noise hit me—the sharp, bright sounds of players in motion. Tape tearing, skates clacking against rubber flooring, someone snorting at a joke that clearly wasn’t funny. The room smelled of detergent, sweat, and dirty ice.
Heads turned. Not all of them. But enough. A few guys sized me up, eyes flicking to the nameplate on my Detroit gear bag slung over my shoulder, then back to my face. No one flinched. No one recoiled. But no one smiled immediately either. Neutral. Evaluating—same as every new room, but somehow this felt heavier. I took them in the way I always did—quick, stripped of anything unnecessary. Not bodies. Not faces. Threat assessment only. Who might test me? Who might ignore me? Who might already have a story written about me in their head. I didn’t register any curiosity or softness. That part of me stayed buried on purpose. Wanting things made you visible. Visibility got you hurt.
Jack O’Leary, team captain, was the first to approach me as I stood by the door. Rumor had it this might be his final year, but god, I idolized him. He was everything a captain was supposed to be—steady, confident, proud of his team without ever making it about himself. The kind of player kids grew up pretending to be on backyard rinks. I’d watched him at the Olympics, had fallen for his style and confidence, and watched avariciously when he and his partner announced they were together. He wasn’t the only queer man on the team, Noah was with that racing driver, Trick was with a football player, and hell, Noah might be a Legacy, but Trick had come to the Railers with his own baggage and a father who was even more of an asshole than my own.
“Lankinen?” Cap said, offering his hand. His voice was calm, even, nothing sharp in it. Not what I expected from the man whose leadership everyone in the league talked about.
“Jari, Cap,” I managed the correction—the thought of being known as Lankinen, or Lanky, or whatever they came up with here, terrified and disgusted me.
He huffed a gentle laugh. “Jari, welcome.”
To his left and right stood the alternates—Adam Carter and Gage Frost.
Carter stepped forward, grin easy, eyes sharp. “Adam Carter, Cap’s left wing,” he said, shaking my hand firmly. “Most people call me Carts.”
Gage Frost—Frosty—was quieter, arms folded, expression unreadable in that way elite defenders seemed to be born with. Then he stuck out his hand.
“Frosty, defense,” he said. His grip was solid, grounding. “Winger, right?”
“Left,” I confirmed.
“Hmm, okay then. Well, welcome to Harrisburg, Jari.” His welcome wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. Just… steady. As if he were reserving judgment, yet willing to give me the space to earn it. Or, fuck, was I just reading too much into this?
Jack clapped a hand briefly on my shoulder. “Glad you’re here, kid. Get settled. We start in ten, get out there as soon as you can.” He indicated an empty stall. “That one’s yours.”
I walked toward it, aware of every footstep, my fingers brushing the worn leather strap of the watch on my wrist—my mom’s last birthday gift to me. I flicked the catch without thinking, the way I always did when I needed to steady myself. My name was already up on the cubby—LANKINEN—dusky blue on white, my jersey with its 74, hanging there. Seeing the name and number made fear and shame ripple through my chest. I wished it said Martinson—my mother’s name—I wished I didn't have my father's number, but playing hockey and keeping both name and number was part of the deal I'd made with the devil.
Live with it.
“Hey,” someone said, and I turned sharply—I knew better than to give my back to a room, but somehow seeing my Railers blue jersey had stopped me thinking properly. Noah Lyamin-Gunnarson was right there, half in his gear. ”You made it.”
“Yeah.” My voice barely worked. “Coach wanted to talk first.”
Noah held out a hand, and I shook it. I slid my dark glasses off and hooked them on my collar—I'd kept them on after Coach’s office longer than made sense, using them to hide whatever was still raw on my face. Without them, I felt exposed, as if anyone here could see more than I wanted them to.
“Noah, or Gunny if you want,” he said, and waited.
“Jari,” I said.
We let go, and Noah looked me over as if he was trying to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do with me. No hate there—just a hint of uncertainty, maybe trying to match the real me to whatever story he’d read.
I’d heard a lot about Noah’s dads from mine—mostly spat out with hate. Stan Lyamin, Hall of Fame goalie. Erik Gunnarson, Swedish winger. Best friends of Tennant Rowe. According to my sperm donor, they were what was wrong with hockey: queer, soft, and weak. Noah had every reason to hate me before I ever stepped into this room.
But he shocked the hell out of me. “So… exactly how fast are you? Please be faster than Trick because he’s an asshole about being the fastest on the team.”
From across the room, Cole Harrington's voice—AKA Trick—came sharp but bored: “I heard that.”
“You were meant to,” Noah replied.
“I'm not as fast as Trick Harrington,” I said, then I glanced Trick's way. Could I land a joke without coming over as arrogant or entitled? “But maybe I’m sneakier in corners.”
Trick laughed, came over, shook my hand, and a few others followed, but mostly players sat in their cubbies and watched. The fact that even a few team members outside Cap and his two As had said hello was a win.
I set my bag down at my stall, my fingers automatically finding the leather bracelets on my wrist—twisting them, shifting them, working the familiar knots. It was a grounding habit, something I’d done since Juniors. The watch from my mom, the bands I’d collected over the years… they were the only things that ever settled my nerves when the room felt too big, and I felt too small. Removing them had its own routine, something steady when everything else felt off. I worked through it slowly while the room settled back into its usual noise—chatter, gear shifting, someone dropping a helmet. I let the routine of getting dressed for the ice take over, the familiar motions pulling my head back into a place where I could function. I could do this in my sleep, but I was last out because I was late to the room to start with.
And when I finally headed onto the ice, stick in hand, with the Railers logo everywhere, one quiet thought cut through the noise—maybe this time, I’ll be allowed to be someone new.
Saturday's Series Spotlight
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.
RJ Scott
Harrisburg Railers Series
Owatonna U Series
Arizona Raptors Series
Boston Rebels Series
Sparkle #1.5(LA Storm)
Railers Legacy Series
Rochester Copperheads Series
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