Speed #1
Summary:Hard ice. Fast cars. Fierce love. And a race against fate.
Hockey is as natural as breathing for Noah Gunnarsson. Growing up with two famous hockey stars as his dads, Noah has always aspired to join the Railers to continue the Lyamin-Gunnarsson legacy. With his degree done, it’s time to live that dream, and the first step is being drafted by the team his hall-of-fame dad played for. The second step is to pull on that dusky blue-gray sweater and make his fathers proud. His rookie year is bound to be a season of incredible highs and lows, but one of the biggest highlights is meeting Brody Vance at a fundraiser. Brody is the living epitome of a bad boy hiding his pain behind a devil-may-care attitude. As Noah struggles to keep one eye on the puck and not on Brody, it’s only a matter of time before both loves collide in a chaotic splash of media attention.
Bad boy racing driver Brody Vance has spent his life chasing speed and glory and is only points away from his first world championship when a devastating crash ends his season. Determined to make a triumphant comeback, Brody is blindsided by a diagnosis that forces him off the track for good. With his world flipped upside down and family and fans questioning why he left, Brody hides his pain by pushing the limits and refusing to let anyone see the cracks. But after a chance meeting with a sweet, sexy hockey player turns into an unforgettable one-night stand, fate keeps putting Noah in his path. With his heart on the line and his body racing against time, Brody must decide if he’s willing to risk it all for love—or if he’ll let fear and pride leave him in the dust.
Speed is a steamy M/M romance with a hockey rookie living his family legacy, a bad-boy racing driver with secrets, media attention that would break even the strongest of men, an unforgettable one-night stand, a love that means risking it all, and a hard-won happily ever after.
Blitz #2
Summary:When hockey's biggest ego meets football's golden boy, sparks fly, and defenses crumble.
Cole "Trick" Harrington III has made a career out of pretending he doesn't care. Not about his past, his name, or the father who built a megachurch empire off judgment and control. Trick torched every bridge back to Atlanta, deliberately wrecked his career, and buried his truth so deep even he started to forget it. Now traded to the Harrisburg Railers, he's skating on thin ice, with a reputation for arrogance and a career teetering on the edge. The last thing he needs is a PR stunt tying him to a squeaky-clean football star, particularly one who is sexy, strong, and always freaking happy. As Trick is forced to confront his growing attraction and deal with the past he's spent years ignoring-including the younger sister he never knew existed-he realizes that the most brutal battles aren't fought on the ice. They're fought in the heart. And this time, he has to stop running.
Tom Fulkowski has led a charmed life. Starting with a typical middle-class childhood in Philly, his skill at catching quarterbacks has propelled him to the heights of pro football. He's got the rings, he's got the cash, and he's got the cars. He's also got a bad back, achy knees, and a yearning to move on. With one final season to play with the Philadelphia Pumas before retirement, Tom looks forward to that next phase of his life. He's just not sure what the next phase is exactly. Then, out of the blue, he meets a wild-eyed hockey player with a chip the size of the Liberty Bell on his shoulder. As he and Cole grow closer, he finds a depth to the younger man that resonates deeply. If only Cole would slow down and let Tom catch up to him, they might win it all.
Blitz is an MM romance featuring a bad-boy hockey player with a past he can't outrun, a football legend on the verge of retirement, a forced PR stunt that might turn into something real, and a game-changing journey to their happy-ever-after.
Original Review May Book of the Month 2025:
I'll admit, when I found out the authors had begun a second generation series in their ongoing hockey universe, I had mixed feelings. Not because I was unsure of the level of quality the story would be, let's face it, everything these two bring to their universe is topnotch, some higher than others but all brilliantly fun. No, it was the whole "moving on" factor that comes with second generation series. I don't know what this means for the first generation, if the door has been closed or just set aside for now, I'm just not sure if I'm ready for the possibility of no more Ten/Jared, Stan/Erik, Ryder/Jacob, and many others central to the stories. Time will tell, I guess.
On to Speed.
With Scott & Locey beginning the next generation of their hockey universe, I couldn't think of a better character to start with, Erik and Stan's little bunny, Noah. Such a wonderful choice for openers. Those who are familiar with their hockey universe will certainly remember little Noah, well he's all grown up and a hockey legend-in-the-making, and not just because he's hockey royalty, he has mad hockey skills to go along with those high energy hockey genes. As much as I may not have been ready for a new generation, I was excited to see where little bunny Noah was headed.
We meet Brody Vance in a not very good place in his life having to be forced to retire early from his racing future due to a medical diagnosis. He seems to have accepted his fate, reluctantly but still dealing with(kind of), but that doesn't mean he is ready for the public to know. When the two of them meet it's not exactly going to be a cute meet story to be told for years to come, though eventually I can see them telling a tamed down version of it to their families but in the here and now? Not so much. Though he may have accepted his health issues on the surface, he still holds plenty of resentment inside and it plays out here and I certainly wanted to give him a good solid shake.
Having been my mother's 24/7 caregiver for many years up until her recent passing, I tend to be hyper aware to the point of over critical when health factors into a story. Though my dad is currently being treated for the possibility of diabetes, it is one diagnosis I haven't had much personal experience dealing with but from what I do know, the author has dealt with Noah's diabetes with respect and gentle care. When an author(s) tackles these elements with such respect, I have to mention it and honor their research(or taking from personal experience) because not all authors do. That's not to say I need a medical lecture or symptom checklist in the story, I just feel the topic of health is important and needs to be respected, so when an author(s) does it, recognition is deserved. And RJ Scott and VL Locey presents it right, balancing fact with fiction on the nose.
As I mentioned above, Speed is second generation story with a new class of players but don't think that means we never get to see the Railers we all know and love. There are a few cameos here and as Noah Gunnarsson is one of the main characters it is only natural that we see his dads, Railer greats Stan and Erik. They are just as awesome as player's parents as they were players. And yes, I still read Stan's character with a Russian accent in my head, he could speak up in 100 books and be well into his 90s and I think I'd still hear him the way I did from day one when he appeared in Changing Lines.
Whether, Railers Legacy entry #1, Speed, is a hello to a new generation and a goodbye to the old, or Scott & Locey will be creating stories in both timelines, doesn't really matter. What matters most is the quality of Noah and Brody's journey and it is superb and I look forward to whatever comes next.
Blitz #2
Original Review August 2025:
I gotta start by saying, I never expected Cole “Trick” Harrington III to get his own story and I definitely could not see myself rooting for him after his behavior in Speed, the first entry in Scott & Locey's newest hockey series, Railers Legacy. He was only in a few scenes but he did not exactly ingratiate himself to the readers with his interactions with Noah Gunnarsson, to say he was a jerk, is an understatement. When I learned Trick was going to get his own story, I never doubted that he would have his HEA because I trusted the authors to get him there by making him earn it. More importantly, I knew there would be underlying issues to his previous attitude and behavior, not that it made it okay but it shows the authors respect the fact that people don't see everything behind the veil, that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, and at the same time those who act out due to the things they don't let us see are still held accountable for their jerkiness(to put it simply).
Now to Blitz and everything about it, Trick, Tom, hockey, football, and romance. As always, we see the journey from both characters' viewpoint, making it the couple's story but if I was to put a number to it, I'd say Trick's side edges on top by a 60/40 margin. Don't get me wrong, Tom has his drama as well dealing with coming out now or waiting until he retires which was the original plan as well as his own "teammate nemesis". As I stated above, Blitz is Trick's redemption journey, though once you learn the reasons behind his behavior, "redemption" might be a little strong but he still has a lot to make amends for. Truth is, some might think the authors didn't spend enough time on the romance factor in Blitz and perhaps they didn't in comparison to their other stories but sometimes that is okay. To have a great romance, you have to have likeable characters that deserve their HEA and sometimes that means the character(s) has to grow, has to heal, has to get to that deserving moment. That is what Blitz is about, Trick's development to deserving, to get him to the point that readers want him to have his HEA.
I'm afraid if I continue I will give too much away and that's a no-no for me, so I'll stop here. Truth be told, my thoughts are a bit jumbled with this story but I hope they aren't coming out that way in this review. I loved the fact that Scott & Locey had competing sports for their two lovers, and by "competing" I mean hockey and football have a partial overlap season-wise not actually playing against each other, despite my loving the dual sport couple, it saddens me a bit too. As the new football pre-season gets underway, my dad and I's hearts are breaking a bit knowing Mom won't be here to cheer on her Green Bay Packers, which is why my thoughts are wonky and again, I hope they aren't translating that way here, if so I apologize. To be as clear and simply put as I can: Blitz will warm your heart, make you smile, but it will also hurt your heart and make you scream a time or two first. Tom may be a football star but he has earned his spot alongside Trick in the Scott/Locey Hockey Universe and together they will entertain you with all the feels you can possibly imagine. There is nothing that is not good about this story and I look forward to their next entry, and the next, and the next, and . . . well lets just finish by saying I'll be here for every journey they bring us😉😍.
Speed #1
Blitz #2
ONE
Noah
My phone alarm went off at six a.m. sharp, but I’d been awake for at least an hour before the chiming started. I should’ve cancelled it when I woke up at quarter to five. My nerves had been slowly climbing for the past few weeks when I’d talked to reps from different teams as draft day approached. Now it was here, and after a quick fasting blood sugar test, I grabbed some juice from the fridge, threw open the curtains, and went out onto the balcony to stare spellbound at the Sphere at the Venetian hotel. Las Vegas lay spread out before me, glittering as only Sin City can glitter. Sipping a cold can of tomato juice as the warm desert wind blew over me—I tried to settle my anxiety, but yeah, that wasn’t happening.
Today was the day. I’d been working my ass off for years on the ice to make it to this point. Sometime over the next two days, I’d be drafted by a pro team. I hoped. I wasn’t a super religious person, not as my nana had been before she’d passed. Mama, as Pops had called her, had been super devout, so who knows, maybe all those prayers she had sent skyward as I’d fought tooth and nail through high school to prove a dude with diabetes could make it to the big leagues had paid off.
Whatever the case, I was here, and tonight I’d be seated in the amazing Sphere with my dads as my future was decided. Where would I go? I had three teams I’d like to play for if the hockey gods were being benevolent. I’d be happy to go to Boston or LA. Both the Rebels and Storm were good teams situated in great cities. I planned on spending four years in Bean Town playing for Boston College—Go Eagles!—while getting a theater arts degree. But my number-one choice after college would be the Railers. I mean, that was a no-brainer. My fathers had both played for the Railers, my biological father had been a super solid forward for Harrisburg, and my adoptive pop had been a Hockey Hall of Fame goalie. I’d grown up surrounded by legendary talents such as Tennant Rowe. As a fellow forward, sitting at a picnic table and talking hockey with Ten had been above and beyond. I’d learned so much from all the old guys, and now, after years of hard work, I would hopefully go home and show the GOATs just what I had.
As the sky on the eastern horizon began to pinken just a bit, I looked out over Las Vegas and found one of the songs I’d sung as the lead in Oklahoma in my senior year at school rolling around my head. I started belting out, “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!” into a gusty wind pushing my sandy curls into my face as I made a small circle. Not to brag or anything, but I had a pretty good voice. I was no Hugh Jackman, but I had landed several leading roles during my school days. One of my teachers even said she felt I could make a go of it on stage if I applied myself, which was cool. I had a backup plan for when I couldn’t play hockey anymore. Noah Lyamin-Gunnarson, the singing puck-pusher. I could see my name in lights on Broadway.
When I got to the line about cattle being statues, the sliding door to the room next door flew open with a crash. I instantly fell silent, hiding behind my can of tomato juice. An older guy, bald, with a big nose, leaned around the divider to glower at me in the predawn light.
“Is that you singing that stupid-ass song?” he asked, and I nodded. “Well, stop it. What kind of moron sings on a fucking balcony at the crack of fucking dawn? Why aren’t you in a bar somewhere trying to get into some showgirl’s panties?”
“Uhm, because I’m not really into showgirls. I mean, I date girls and guys, but I like the people I date to be—”
“Kid, I don’t give a shit if you date donkeys. Stop fucking singing, or I’ll call the front desk.” With that, he disappeared, slamming the door.
“No one appreciates the arts anymore,” I sighed as I finished the song but at a much lower volume. Chuckling to myself, I watched the sun rise fully. Then, I went inside to shower. I would need to eat soon, and my fathers would be up and ready at eight sharp. Earlier perhaps, as we were in Vegas, the city they’d been married in all those years ago. Plus, and this was huge, Vegas was Elvis central, and my Russian father was the biggest Elvis fan I had ever met. I could already imagine what we’d be doing today as we whiled away the time until the first-round picks were chosen this evening. I guess Elvis-themed hotels and tribute shows would take my mind off the most significant moment of my life so far.
Man, I really was a good fit for a drama major.
But it was kind of true. My hockey life was about to be dictated by a bunch of old men sitting in a hotel room reviewing every player in this year’s draft class.
No pressure at all.
If no one chose me, I could always hit the boards as Kenickie in an off-off-off-off-off-off Broadway run of Grease to put food on the table.
Man, I hoped a good team picked me. I’d look stupid with a DA hairstyle.
* * *
“How does one day drag on for so damn long?” I moaned into the mirror in my hotel room as I worked on looping a tie around my neck. My fingers were shaking. Not from anything to do with my diabetes but from straight-out nerves. Although the past twelve hours had been shit in terms of managing my condition. Stress always did this to me. The swings had been manageable for the most part. I’d felt pretty sluggish and muddled before lunch, but after a good meal and some time to chill at the Elvis Diner & Hound Dog Hot Dog Palace, I’d felt better.
Still, I’d better keep a close eye on my numbers. It would suck massively to be called for a round one pick—the odds of that were slim, as I wasn’t a Cole Harrington or anything—to then faceplant as I went up to shake hands and get my sweater. To be honest, I doubted I’d be chosen tonight. Not that I wasn’t good. I was pretty damn good, but I was no generational talent as Tennant Rowe had been, or Cole “Trick” Harrington III was this year. I’d be back tomorrow, Saturday, for rounds two through seven.
My tie was not cooperating, so I tied it into a bow and stalked out of the bathroom to find my jacket. As I passed, someone rapped on the door, so I detoured to check who was there. My siblings had not been able to make it, sadly, as Eva was home with some viral infection that had her spending the past few days puking and pooping. Pops said she’d probably eaten bad moose meat while camping with her fiancée in Ontario. My other sister, Margo, was over in Japan, working her little fingers away on an anime she and her boyfriend were producing for Animax. She and Botan were quite the team. While I wished they could be here, I totally understood why they couldn’t. Sick was sick, and deadlines were deadlines. They’d be watching on TV, they assured me, as did my aunt Galina, who was nursing an impacted wisdom tooth.
What hurt worse was that my mother hadn’t so much as called to wish me well.
Shaking that familiar hurt off, I opened the door to see my two fathers in the hall. Erik, my biological father, was spiffy as all hell in a dark blue suit that made his blue eyes pop. My adoptive pop, Stan, was dressed conservatively in an olive green suit that went well with his gray eyes. This look was subtle considering he’d been in an Elvis jumpsuit all day.
“Why is your tie in bopeep around your neck?” Pops asked, striding in to my room to stand before me. Pops was a big man so I had to tip my head up to stare at him. “Is this new trend for young peoples to make tie like birthday present?”
“Nah, I was just too jittery to get it tied right,” I confessed. Dad inched in, worry on his face. “It’s cool. My numbers are solid. I’m just really feeling all the nerves. What if I don’t get a team I like?”
“You’ll go to a team you love, I’m sure,” Dad said, then nudged Pops and his big fingers aside to undo my tie. “Even if you don’t, lots of players go to teams they don’t think they’ll enjoy, but they then find that the team, city, and fans make things better. Now lift your chin.”
I could do this myself, obviously but there was something comforting about having your daddy fuss over you. And man, could these two fuss. They were both fussers extraordinaire.
“Da, your dad is right. It will all be good as gumdrops,” Pops assured me as he loped to the sliding doors to stare at the Sphere. “Is most amazing thing that big orb. I wish Mama were here to see it. She would like it.”
“Yeah, Grandma would have been super proud,” I said, and Dad gave me a soft nod and smile as he whipped my tie into shape, then patted it. “Mom hasn’t called yet.”
Dad frowned. “She will. You know your mother. She tends to get caught up in herself but, eventually, remembers there are other people to think about.”
“Yeah, I know.” And I did know that. It's funny how, no matter how old you are, a slight from your parents hurts worse than any other kind. “So, hey, this is a happy night. Let’s head over and face my future!”
“That is spunky pep talk! You will make good captain one day, little rabbit.” Pops draped a thick arm over my shoulder, tugged on the lapel of my navy suit, and pecked my head.
Captain talk was a giant leap. Right now, I’d be happy to be chosen at all.
It was a short distance to the venue, so we walked, the desert air making me sweat. Pops and Dad chattered the whole while. I was usually talkative, but this was too big of a moment, and my nerves were shot.
The coolness of the air-conditioned interior made me feel less twitchy. The armpits of my shirt were already damp, as was my collar. I should’ve cut my hair, but I liked it on the long side. My curls, courtesy of Dad, would look pretty epic hanging out of the ballcap the Railers GM would put on my head. If all went as I hoped. Let’s face it, flow was important.
The room where the draft was held was massive, with chairs on higher risers for the players and their families. On the floor, hundreds of NHL reps milled about tables set beneath a giant domed ceiling with the logos of each pro team.
I felt my guts tighten as our faces replaced the logos—hundreds of hopefuls on that massive screen. I found mine. I looked as goofy as I felt.
“This is big day,” Pops said by my ear. I nodded dully. I was caught between being excited and terrified. “If you need sugar snack, just shout. We both have pockets filled.”
“Thanks, Pops,” I whispered. Someone called my name. I found a familiar face, then another, and then another. “I see a few friends,” I told my fathers as we made our way to our seats.
“Go and talk to them. We’ll save your seat,” Dad said with a smile.
Lots of bro hugs. A small group of us from eastern division teams were shooting the shit, talking about where we hoped to play, girls, guys, and parents, when the prime cut of this year’s draft sauntered up. Cole Harrington III—Trick, to the rest of us mere mortals—strolled in with a woman on his arm who shut the whole room up. Dyna Bubble Mint. Yeah, that Dyna—the rapper whose debut track went gold two months ago. Apparently, first-round hopefuls get first pick of the rising stars, too. Still, I’m shocked she’s on Trick’s arm. Considering Trick’s dad was a fire-and-brimstone TV evangelist with a holy crusade against anything queer or trans, it’s honestly wild that Trick’s even allowed within ten feet of Dyna.
“Hey, Trick,” I said as he neared.
With Dyna on his arm, he strutted right past, as if he didn’t know me or the other guys. We all watched them stroll on by.
“Okay, dude, that was rude,” I grumbled at Trick’s back.
He surely heard me but continued to his seat, an entourage following in his wake—not one of them looking like they were his parents. I shot the rest of the guys in my little chat circle a glance. They all shrugged. We all knew Trick was an asshole at times, probably inherited from his dad, and we’d all heard his homophobic shit—again, probably genetic. Sure, he had stupid skills. But no matter how good he was—and the shithead was good—he would be going to the worst team in the league. So sure, be smug, but not that smug. Most hockey players were humble to the nth—it was drummed into us from peewee up. Even great talents like Crosby, McDavid, and Madsen-Rowe were always respectful. They didn’t walk around with their noses in the air. They were salt of the earth, as the play-by-play guys liked to say.
“Hope he has fun playing to the fifteen Atlanta Phantoms fans who are showing up to watch them lose,” Craig Smythe, a hella nice guy and winger from Harvard, sneered. Being little brats, we all nodded. If anyone could use a good comeuppance, it was Trick.
“Truth,” I added.
“You think he knows that Dyna is…” Craig waved at his crotch and then blushed when I raised an eyebrow. He knew Margo, my sister, had transitioned. “I don’t mean… I just meant… fuck… his homophobic ass is going to be shocked when he finds a…” again with the crotch waving. I stared at him, humored him, and he slunk in his seat. “Fuck, I didn’t mean that, I meant… Jesus… I’m shutting up now.”
“Probably for the best,” I deadpanned, and then shoved Craig. Hard. He ducked his head, still bright red, and muttered another sorry. He was a nice guy—more than that, really—and I knew he didn’t mean any harm, but he needed to understand that it wasn’t okay to reduce people to parts or labels like that.
When the lights dimmed, we all wished each other good luck and returned to our seats. I was wedged between Pops and Dad. My right leg began jumping. I could feel my tension creeping up, although I was sure I’d not be chosen tonight. The extra day of waiting was going to be torture, but we all sat through it. We clapped at each announcement, even Trick, who was grabbed up by the Atlanta team as predicted. The night was long but enjoyable.
“You will go second round for sure, I am predicting,” Pops said as we made our way to our hotel around midnight. I’d been feeling lethargic, so we’d headed out after the final pick of the first round had been called up.
I bobbed my head in agreement. Second would be cool. Third fine. Fourth totally acceptable. Hell, lots of great players had been drafted low. A famous New York goalie had been a seventh-round pick, and he had made a name for himself that had gotten him into the HHOF.
I hit the sheets early, curling up to rest and talk to Rachel Biggs, my ex-girlfriend from school. She and I had dated throughout our junior and senior years, but as graduation had gotten closer, and my departure to Boston grew nearer, we agreed to part but stay friends.
She was also a theater major packing up to move to Manhattan. We talked about that for a long time, and her cat Mojo, and her little sister who was still crushing on me, she said. When I yawned in her pretty face, she gave her long, dark hair a flip, played all affronted, and told me to get some sleep. She wished me luck, blew me a kiss, and ended the call.
Sleep was elusive that night, but it finally came after I recited the script from MacBeth in my head. I conked out at the line about my dull brain, which was on track.
The next morning, I was up early, took a swim instead of singing to greet the day, and met my fathers for breakfast at the hotel restaurant. I had an omelet, bacon, and some sautéed mushrooms. Coffee with a shot of milk that I had to count for my daily carb intake, but fuck it, I liked milk now and again. Even the most dedicated low-carb follower gave into temptation. Not like it was a milkshake. Those were my Achilles heel. Nothing lured me to the dark side like a chocolate shake.
After the meal, we changed into suits and returned to the vast, domed room for rounds two through seven. It promised to be a damn long day for guys who weren’t chosen until the last round or not at all, which happened. I hoped that wasn’t my fate.
Thankfully, it wasn’t. At ten forty-five in the morning, June 28th, three weeks after the Stanley Cup final, I was picking at the hem of my shirt sleeve when the Railers reps filed onto the stage. My attention moved from my sleeve to the man holding a Railers jersey on stage. We were into the third round now, and as soon as my face and stats flared brightly on the screen behind the Railers people, Pops shouted in glee. I blinked twice to ensure I was seeing what I was seeing and not having a low-sugar fantasy.
Nope, it was me. Sixty-fourth overall. Not too shabby.
I rose as the crowd applauded, hugged my teary-eyed fathers, and made my way to the stage. A showgirl in a sparkly silver outfit took my jacket. I jogged up the stairs, shook hands with people, and then, pulled that famed dusky blue and gray sweater over my head. Someone–the GM, I think–plunked a hat down on my head. Pictures were taken. I was led off the stage to schmooze with Railers’ upper management.
“Welcome to the team, Noah,” Tristen Routers, the Railers’ new owner, said as we waited for my parents to join us backstage. “You’re planning on going to college, right?”
What did he want me to say? Did he want me to go straight to the team? I wasn’t ready. I wanted an education, something to fall back on. Was I messing this up from the start? I caught sight of my dads coming into the room and straightened my back at the pride in their expressions.
“College, sir,” I answered.
He laughed, then pressed a hand to my shoulder. “Good call.”
I wanted to get my degree, make the team in the big show in four years, or go to the Colts, our AHL feeder team. I wanted a career as a hockey player, so it was back to the ice as soon as I got home to train my ass off, then hope I stood out to Coach Morin—if he was still there—in four years.
Blitz #2
ONE
Cole Patrick Harrington III AKA “Trick"
I’d been called a lot of things in my career—cocky, cold, un-coachable—but this was a new one: Kid.
“Jesus, kid!”
“Smile more, kid.”
“You look like someone pissed in your Wheaties, kid.”
The man with the camera was talking to me as if I were some fresh-faced rookie and not a twenty-five-year-old professional who’d survived two concussions, a torn MCL, and had cultivated a reputation so toxic even my agent flinched when my name came up. Any minute now, I was going to launch this chirpy, caffeine-fueled photographer from the top floor of the Railers practice facility and act as if it was a training accident.
I gritted my teeth and resisted the urge to lose my shit, mostly because I’d been warned—again—that this PR stunt was a chance for me to play nice. Apparently, how I got myself traded from Atlanta had been way too effective. I may have overplayed my hand at my old team when I tried my hardest to make myself the bad guy to escape the specters that loomed large in Georgia. The Railers had scooped me up like a clearance-sale gamble, hoping maybe a change of scenery would fix whatever was wrong with me—as if I was just some glitchy piece of tech needing a reboot. But instead of skating drills or hitting the weights to prove I still had game, I was stuck posing with a golden-boy football player in a sponsored shoot for BoltFuel—oiled up, half naked with shorts the only thing hiding skin, and gritting my teeth while trying not to explode at everyone in sight.
Worth it to get out of my dad’s way. Right?
“We are smiling,” Tom said beside me, his voice bright enough to make my teeth ache as he elbowed me with what I assumed was solidarity.
His default setting was probably grin-and-glow, the kind of guy who thought the world could be fixed with a good attitude and an extra scoop of protein powder. He wasn’t only smiling—he was radiating PR-friendly charm as if it was his job. And maybe it was. Meanwhile, I was trying not to set the BoltFuel banner on fire with my eyes.
“This way, Trip! Smolder for me, Trip! Love that protein drink, Trip!” the camera guy shouted.
“It’s Trick,” I corrected. Everyone wanted to call me Trip for the III, but no, I was Cole Patrick Harrington, and people had better remember that it was Trick from Patrick.
My dad was Cole Harrington—Pastor Cole—slick with charm, polished by the spotlight of his Temple of the Radiant Truth ministry, and backed by generations of old Southern money.
“Trick, then. Smile!”
According to Layton Foxx, the Railers PR guru, sunshine-football-guy and I were good for BoltFuel, the team, and hell, even the league. I was surprised he didn’t tell me it would lead to world peace, but apparently, the optics were perfect: hockey’s most controversial problem child standing next to football’s favorite son. I gritted my teeth and forced my trademark golden-boy grin. This was good for image and cross-market promotion, and excellent for a company trying to prove their product wasn’t just for gym bros and weekend warriors.
BoltFuel’s directive had been front and center in the email thread leading up to this shoot—DON’T LET HARRINGTON FUCK IT UP FOR US. All caps. Bolded. Message received loud and clear. Be good, be agreeable, and sell the shake. Keep your attitude on a leash and your mouth shut. That was all they needed from me: a warm body and a winning smile.
The camera flashed, and I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms. I focused on my breathing, slow and controlled. One… two… three. My jaw ached from clenching, and my shoulders were so tight my head hurt. Ten seconds of pretending. Ten seconds of not messing up in front of BoltFuel, the team, and the one guy in the room who seemed untouched by the circus. Ten seconds of being someone I wasn’t—I could do that. Hell, I did it every day.
Tom I’m-fucking-perfect Fulkowski, carved out of golden light, good intentions, and twenty million a year, stood beside me as though he didn’t have a care in the world, flashing his perfectly white teeth and charming everyone from the interns to the assistant GM. He even smelled good, like sunshine and cinnamon. I smelled like sweat and frustration.
We both smelled of oil.
Taller than me by a couple of inches, he was broad-shouldered and stupidly photogenic. He wore his Philadelphia Pumas shorts as if he belonged in a magazine ad instead of a football stadium.
“Trick? A word,” Layton said from the sidelines, all pleasant PR charm until I got closer, and he pulled me aside like a cop about to read me my rights.
“What! I’m doing it! I’m smiling, aren’t I? I didn’t swear, flip anyone off, or smash a camera. That’s practically sainthood.”
God, it was hard to turn off the asshole side of me.
“I swear, Trick, if you don’t pull it together and act like you’re even vaguely enjoying yourself, I will personally staple that BoltFuel logo to your forehead. This campaign is already hanging by a thread, and if you tank it, you’re not just screwing yourself—you’re screwing me, the team, and everyone who still thinks there’s a PR miracle waiting to happen here.”
Message received. Loud and clear. Again.
“Act like you’re happy we plucked you off the waiver wire. Smile, nod, and for the love of god, Trick, look like you’re thrilled to be standing next to America’s sweetheart and holding a protein shake like it’s your golden ticket back into hockey heaven.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, letting the PR-approved smile drop like dead weight. I didn’t want to be told what to do. I’d escaped Atlanta to be my own man, and here was this guy shouting at me.
“Even if I’m not happy?” My voice was flat; the kind of tone that said I was two seconds from lighting the whole BoltFuel banner on fire to see who’d scramble first.
Layton’s eyes darkened, and I could see the vein in his temple starting to throb. “I swear…” he began. “Do your job and pretend you want to be part of the Railers.” Then, he gently encouraged me, aka shoved me, back out onto the rooftop where Perfect-Tom-the-football player was chatting to the photographer and smiling so damn hard I was surprised his face didn’t break.
“Here he is,” Tom said, throwing me the same smile.
Fuck. My. Life. Happy to be with the Railers? I wish. After the reputation I had—the one I’d created to escape—no one really wanted me here. Hell, I didn’t want to be in Pennsylvania—I’d wanted Vancouver or LA—anything to get as far away from Atlanta as possible.
I need to try and smile. I need to look unaffected. But I need to smile.
My head!
Tom leaned in. “You good, dude?”
Dude? Who the fuck said that anymore? And no, I wasn’t good. I hadn’t been good in years.
“Peachy,” I muttered, forcing a tight smile for the next shot. The camera clicked again, and I caught sight of my expression on the monitor. Yeah. Real sunshine and rainbows.
“Okay to post to my socials?” Sunshine asked.
The photographer nodded, and before I knew it I was being hugged super close, skin on skin, and Tom’s phone caught my automatic media smile before I extricated myself and made a show of wiping myself down.
“So, onto the interview,” the camera guy said, standing aside for the slip of a girl who couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. The questions were generic. Layton wanted us to banter about hockey vs. football, even after I pointed out that I was earning seven million a year, which was less than half of what Sunshine-Tom pulled in. Was that the banter he wanted me to focus on?
Tom was chatting about the many charities he was involved with, from dogs to kids to mental health. He was all over everything: fun runs, ultra marathons, kicking balls through holes.
“… charities?” the interviewer asked, looking at me expectantly.
“I prefer to keep my charitable endeavors private,” I threw out, rude as fuck, and pointedly raising an eyebrow. Why the hell did I do that? Oh yeah, because I didn’t do charity work. I gave half my freaking salary to my dad.
Silence. I could feel Layton’s gaze boring into the back of my neck. “Apart from the dogs,” I added after a pause. “I do a lot with dogs.” I wondered if anyone could tell I was lying. Again, no one would call me on it, and I resolved to donate to the closest dog rescue place.
“You do?” Tom asked, “That’s so cool. I love dogs! I have this cute pup… look!” He’d picked up his cell and was now waving it under my nose.
I was motion sick but managed to at least murmur something that got him to stop waving it at me.
When the interview was over, I was free to leave, but Tom wouldn’t let me. Oh no, he wanted to talk to me.
“Do you want to get a coffee?” he asked with a grin, as if we were old friends and not two strangers thrown together for a PR campaign no one had asked for.
Did I want to spend time with another man—a gorgeous, sexy, muscled, oiled man—where my urges might spill over and I did something stupid.
Nope.
Don’t look at his body. Mask down.
Scrappy miserable defensive shield up.
“Why? So, you can add rehabbing hockey player to your list of charity cases?”
He didn’t flinch, but he did frown. “Just an idea,” he said. “No biggie.”
Anyone would notice Tom the second he walked into a room. He was tall and had a lean, but powerful, football player’s build—one of the top defensive ends in the league. He was clean-cut American perfection, with hair cropped short and neat, blue eyes that probably melted cameras, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
He turned slightly to talk to the photographer, and the view from the back didn’t disappoint. Broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, and his ass—well, it was ridiculous in those Pumas shorts. That was some fine award-winning bubble butt he had going on there. His whole body looked as if it had been designed in a lab to torment me.
And those lips—Christ. Full, plush, shaped like sin and confidence. The kind of lips that made you think of things a man shouldn’t, especially in front of half a dozen cameras. I could imagine tracing them with my fingers, feeling them against my neck, and yeah… his lips would be gorgeous wrapped around my—
My cell buzzing interrupted my thoughts—not my normal cell phone, but the tiny handset I kept tucked in a zipped pocket of my bag. It only had one number programmed into it. My father’s.
I didn’t want that man anywhere near the real life I was trying to build. He didn’t deserve even the ghost of a presence in it. Everything I’d clawed my way toward—every minute on the ice, every hard-earned scrap of control over my own goddamn story—I’d done in spite of him. Not because of him.
But I couldn’t make myself leave the phone behind. Not ever. Because I knew him. Knew the way he operated. He’d wait until the perfect moment—until I was almost happy, until I was steady—and then, he’d throw a curveball that’d knock me sideways. He’d done it before. Enough times that the idea of missing one of those calls, of not being ready, left a knot of barbed wire in my gut.
The phone was my warning system. My fire alarm. I didn’t pick it up to talk. I picked it up to survive.
The message was simple. A lone photo, forwarded from Tom’s Instagram. His arm slung casually around me, my head tipped slightly toward his. It wasn’t anything.
Below it, my father had typed: The cameras have caught you touching sin!
My stomach dropped.
Classic him. No context. No conversation. Just a warning dressed up as scripture, like he thought he was standing at a pulpit instead of slinging shame over text. Like he had any right to say a damn thing about my life after our contract.
I stared at the message, my grip tightening on the tiny phone until the plastic creaked. This was the curveball. I’d felt it coming. He always found a way to remind me that he was watching.
“Trick! Security just called,” someone said, cutting through my spiral. Now what? “There’s someone downstairs for you.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know. Greg said it’s personal.”
I blinked, heart thudding as if I’d been caught doing something illegal. I turned back to the photographer. I was thankful for the interruption, even if my chest was tight—I didn’t do anything personally. “Are we done here?”
He nodded, distracted by adjusting some lighting rig.
I didn’t say goodbye. I shoved my hands deeper into my hoodie pockets and walked off the set without glancing back, using the stairs to get down, and stopped just before exiting the lobby. My breath hitched and my heart punched against my ribs as if it were trying to escape. Panic curled in my gut, sharp and sudden, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. My palms were slick, my vision narrowing as thoughts raced—who was out there wanting me? Did they want a golden boy hockey player or an asshole wanting to be punched? What character would I have to play? Not knowing was kinda shit, and I didn’t do surprises. Tension flooded my veins, thick and hot, locking up every joint until I couldn’t move or think without spiraling into worst-case scenarios.
“Hey, you okay?” a voice said behind me, and I whirled to face a half-smiling, half-concerned Tom.
I focused on his stupidly pretty face and sneered. “Oh, fuck the hell off,” I snapped, and pushed out of the door, my anger at being spotted enough to snap my daydream. I didn’t think he followed me, and I strode to the main desk, seeing an empty lobby apart from some kid sitting on the sofa.
“What?” I asked Greg, who pointed at the young girl without saying a word. “We don’t let fans in.”.” I moved to leave, but the girl had moved—damned fast—and blocked my way.
She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, eighteen maybe—but then, what the hell did I know—and she smiled up at me. She was in jeans and a simple T-shirt, the kind you could pick up in a three-pack at Target, and her hair was scraped back into a no-nonsense ponytail. There was no makeup I could see, but she didn’t seem plain—just real. Her dark eyes were wide, curious, and maybe a little nervous, like she wasn’t sure if she was about to get yelled at or hugged. There was something familiar in how she stood too—shoulders back, chin lifted as if she’d practiced this moment in the mirror a dozen times and wasn’t about to flinch now.
“Hi, Cole Harrington the Third.” She extended her hand to shake.
I ignored it.
“You shouldn’t be in here; there are scheduled times for meet and greets,” I said. “Give Greg your name, and he’ll add you to the list.” I stepped back so Greg could see her and me in case I got accused of something awful; I mean, Jesus, she was a young woman, and I was the bad boy of hockey, and I’d been accused of unfounded shit before.
“My name is Rebecca Jensen.”
“Okay. Tell Greg.”
“I’m here to see you.”
“As I said, we have meet and greets.”
“I’m your sister.”
“Fuck off.” My mouth moved before my brain could catch up. Sister? No. That word didn’t belong to me. That word wasn’t part of my life. My entire world had always been me—solo, closed off, self-contained. No siblings, shared birthdays, hand-me-downs, or late-night whisper fights across a hallway. Just me and the silence I’d made peace with. And now? This stranger wanted to rewrite my entire history with a few words. That was a new one. I’d had four pregnancy accusations—two of them from women I’d never even met, one from a former one-night stand who’d forgotten she was married, and one who thought wishful thinking made it real. I’d punched a photographer in Vegas after he’d tried to shove a lens up my nose during a hangover. I’d been accused twice of getting too handsy in public—both dismissed, but the stain lingered. I’d been called every name in the book by commentators and sports pundits alike. But this? A long-lost sibling showing up out of the blue in the Railers lobby? That was a first.
“No, you’re not,” I scoffed. If there’s one certainty I have, it’s that I don’t have siblings. “Greg, can you get over here and deal with this.”
“Cole Harrington, the second, was your father, same as mine,” she said, her voice steady, like she’d rehearsed this a hundred times. “My mom, Georgie Jensen, was your dad’s PA for a couple of weeks. She never told me about him—not until last year when she was diagnosed with cancer.” She paused then, grief in her expression. “She told me to stay away, that it was safer that way, until I turned eighteen at least. And I’m eighteen now, I mean… look, when she passed away there was a lawyer explaining everything.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope, which was thick and official judging by its weight. “There’s a genetic match, an affidavit, photos… the whole kit and caboodle.” Then, she smiled—wide and awkward—and added, “Hey, big brother.”
“Is this a scam? Because if it is, save us both the time and get the hell out now. I’ve seen enough people try to angle in with a sob story and some paperwork. You want money—there’s a line forming behind my last three fake cousins and a guy who swore he babysat me once in kindergarten and said I told him my dad would give him money. So, unless you’ve got more than a manila envelope and a smile, I suggest you turn around.”
“She said you’d be like this,” she muttered, then sighed. “Take this, asshole.” She thrust the envelope at me. “Call me.”
Then she turned smartly on her heel and walked out of the arena, leaving me in the lobby like an idiot. An idiot holding a sealed envelope and a hundred questions I didn’t want to ask. My fingers itched to tear it open, but my feet stayed rooted to the floor. What the hell was I supposed to do with this? What if she was right?
She’s not right. Jesus Trick, pull yourself together.
I shoved the envelope into my hoodie pocket as if it were radioactive. Greg was staring, and I snarled. He scampered off to do whatever he was supposed to be doing, like not letting a random stranger in here.
This day was officially fucked.
Saturday's Series Spotlight
RJ ScottWriting love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
RJ Scott
Speed #1
Harrisburg Railers Series
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Arizona Raptors Series
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Sparkle #1.5(LA Storm)
Railers Legacy Series
