Railers Legacy #4
A legacy he never chose. A love he never expected.
Jari Lankinen never asked to inherit his father’s sins, but the name alone is enough to poison every room he walks into. The Railers haven’t forgotten the brutal hit Aarni Lankinen delivered to Tennant Rowe, and they sure as hell don’t want his son wearing their jersey. Jari is a gifted forward with the skill to change games, but his last name makes him a target before he even skates his first shift. Earning respect means pushing through hostility and suspicion, fighting every day to prove he isn’t his father. To the fans, he’s the son of a villain. To his teammates, he’s a reminder of the past. To himself, he’s a man trapped in a shadow he can’t escape.
A steady force in the high-pressure world of professional baseball, Cameron Blackburn has built his career on focus, discipline, and keeping his head when others lose theirs. He isn’t flashy, but he’s respected, trusted, and known for bringing balance to every team he’s played on. When their paths cross at a shared training facility, Cam is drawn to Jari’s restless energy—the fight in every move, the loneliness in his silence, the way he carries his past like armor. Where others feel only wariness at Jari’s name, Cam sees someone worth knowing, worth trusting, worth holding onto. And while opening his heart to Jari may test the limits of his own control, Cam has never been afraid to stand firm when the storm comes.
Fly is a legacy, redemption, and opposites-attract romance set against the backdrop of professional sport. Featuring a hockey forward fighting to escape his father’s shadow, a disciplined baseball player who refuses to be shaken, the clash of storm and calm, and a love that proves sometimes the biggest risks are the ones worth taking.
Yet another great story in the continuing Scott & Locey Hockey Universe. So much to love here and for those who have been riding this train from the very beginning, waybackwhen in Harrisburg Railers, you will recognize the last name of one of the MCs, Lankinen and you're probably not remembering it kindly. To paraphrase the old adage, you can't judge the son by the father's sins. This is perfect example of just that. Unfortunately, Jari punishes himself, after all he's had a lifetime of facing his father's sins and sharing the name that went along them. I won't say anything more specific for those who are new here but just know, Aarni Lankinen is not a good man but Jari is nothing like him.
There is actually two things about Fly that puts this higher up on my list than others, which says a lot because the difference between every book I've read in the authors' hockey world is so infinitesimal that if they were a row of cars lined up on the street I would be afraid to stick my hand between them. So the 2 things that stood out: baseball and MS.
Last year in the Railers Legacy second entry, Blitz, we got to see a dual sports relationship when one MC was nearing the end of his football career, well here we get to see a baseball player who is set in his own career and very much drawn to Jari. When it comes to sports, I'm much more a baseball fan than I am hockey and unfortunately I have not had a chance to read too many baseball stories in the LGBTQ genre so this was a very nice surprise.
As for why the MS is important to me? My grandfather lived with MS for 42 years before he was called home and was in a wheelchair by the time I came along so I grew up around MS, and find myself having a much tighter judgement scale where the condition is concerned. Here in Fly, it is Jari's mom who has MS and though we don't see a great deal of her on page and the MS is a minor part of the story scene/wordage-wise, it is a main focus on Jari's mind when it comes to why he puts up with his father's crap(for lack of a better 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:
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
Fly #4
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