Across the Pond (Raptors Book 2)

by RJ Scott

  “I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?” he asked. I shook my head. “Good, I was hoping we could talk a bit, if you’re free?”

  “I was going to go meet the guys for a beer, but uhm…” I waved at the sky because I was stupid—just ask my baby sister—and the sky was obviously where hockey players went for beer.

  “So is that a no?”

  God, he was sexy and foreign and whiskery. Not over whiskery, just the right amount to rub on my belly or inside my thighs or scrub along my balls. Shit.

  “No, it’s not a no.”

  Santa María, Madre de Dios ayúdame.

  Was it a sacrilege to ask the Virgin Mary to help you fight off dirty gay thoughts about some man you barely knew? Probably. I was so going to Hell…

  Four

  Seb

  Finishing that last page of notes had left me walking through empty hallways and past a surprised guard who eyed me with suspicion until I flashed my pass at him. I read his badge and saw his name was Lewis. “Oh yeah, I know about you,” he said

  I held out my hand, “Seb.”

  “You’re the Brit that’s come to fix the team. Not that it needs fixing.”

  Well, that was a loaded statement. “Okay.”

  Lewis drew back his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Not sure why they couldn’t use a real American anyways.”

  Really? He was going there? I’d worked with some of the biggest companies in the world, most of them outside of London, and he was worrying about me not being American? “If it helps, my great-grandmother on my dad’s side was originally from New York.” I could lie with the best of them, given Granny J was from Liverpool, was still with us at a hundred and two, and to my knowledge had never left England. She was the old-fashioned type who believed that a day out at the beach in the rain was an exotic adventure, and was as wary of Americans as it seemed Lewis was about Brits. They’d be a fine pair squaring off in the hallway, although knowing Granny J, she’d probably take down the tattooed behemoth blocking the exit.

  He eyed me closely. “New York, you say?”

  “Yes, so that makes me an honorary American, don’t you agree?”

  He looked confused for a moment. Then something inside must have connected. “Sure, I guess it does.” Then he sniffed and crossed his beefy arms over his chest. “We don’t want foreigners taking our jobs, can’t even get a decent white American team together here. And I don’t mean the Canadians, I mean, most of those are okay I guess.”

  Wow, he was defensive, to the point of belligerence. Was this the first thing that players saw when they entered the Arena? I made a mental note to look into this more deeply. Maybe the values that needed massaging were more entrenched than I’d thought.

  “Does Arizona have a lot of foreigners taking jobs, then?” I asked and smiled so hard I thought my face would crack. I could play this game, act as if it was just banter, collect all the information I could. I could thank Hugh Grant for making us Brits look like bumbling fools and therefore completely innocent of any wrongdoing or underhand dealings of any sort.

  “All the time.” Lewis shook his head, “I was lucky to get this job at all.”

  “How terrible,” I agreed, and Lewis regarded me warily, making me think my sarcasm mask had slipped too far.

  Soon enough, the entire team, including security, admin, and whoever else I would be adding to my company plan would all know me. When I went deep into any kind of company, I learned everything from the ground up. I’d talk to cleaners, security personnel, highfliers, middle management, the scared employees who didn’t really want to talk, and the ones who didn’t give a shit about the company. I rooted everything out until I got a clear picture of how things worked, and non-American or not, I was bloody good at what I did.

  But for now, I would introduce myself to everyone who wondered why a stranger was poking his nose into every room he found, start spreading my name.

  “Nice to meet you too, Lewis. Have you worked here long?”

  He looked around himself as if he was concerned others would be watching. That reaction right there gave me insight into more than just one guard at an exit. He was wary, frowning, and likely had a million thoughts spinning in his head about how what he said could come back and bite him. All that from a simple question about how long he had been there.

  “Six years this Christmas,” he offered, and that was clearly all I was going to get.

  “You must have seen a lot,” I said and saw the instant he shut down. I’d been labeled as dangerous to his well-being, and I could see that he was loyal, which was a good thing, but scared, which was a bad thing. I’d been led to believe that the Westman-Reid family had taken the time to start building relationships, but it appeared that hadn’t trickled down to the security staff yet. I made a mental note to follow that up.

  “Anyway, really good to meet you. Hope to speak soon.” I shook his hand again and left the building, with all kinds of theories beginning to form about the Raptors.

  Then I saw him.

  Spotting Alex, just standing there all on his own talking on his phone, I thanked the stars that I’d delayed leaving the rink, then got caught up talking to Lewis. Asking him to talk wasn’t what I’d meant to say. Hell, I don’t know what I meant to say. Maybe my lizard-brain just wanted to stand near him and stare. Maybe the sensible side of me saw this as a moment to connect with the young player one-on-one. Who knew?

  All that concerned me right now was getting some face time with the player, and I waited for him to give out his excuses and finally agree to go with me.

  “Can we find somewhere quiet to talk?” I asked after he’d pointed at the sky and explained he was meeting hockey players for a drink.

  He was flustered, eyes wide, and I think it was obvious I unnerved him. Was that a good thing? I’m not sure I wanted him looking quite so much like a frightened rabbit. I needed him onside if I was going to make him the face of the Raptors.

  “Quiet,” he repeated and waved to his left, “there’s a coffee place I sometimes go to.”

  “Okay, sounds good.” I watched him turn to leave and then immediately turn to face me again.

  “Just let me…” He shrugged his bag and gestured with it. He liked using his hands to express himself, and I was intrigued. I followed him to a dusty Jeep. When he’d locked up and pocketed the keys, we resumed our walk, and while we were busy negotiating the crosswalk, we didn’t talk. It was only when we were at the counter waiting for a Frappuccino, him, and a flat white, me, did he begin to talk.

  “I bet it’s weird being inside a coffee shop,” he said.

  “Weird how?”

  “Well, over here, we have shops that just sell coffee and have sofas to sit on, and things must be odd for you.”

  I cleared my throat. “We do have coffee shops in England as well.”

  His eyes widened again, and he appeared to be half-confused, half-embarrassed. “Oh,” was all he managed.

  “And electricity,” I added because I couldn’t resist the way he was reacting, all flustered and way too cute for me to ignore. This could go two ways; he could get so embarrassed that this meeting would be for nothing, or he could take control of himself and react with humor.

  He side-eyed me, then dimpled a smile, which went straight toward my libido crashing hard and stealing my breath.

  “Electricity?” He deliberately widened his eyes and rounded his mouth in shock. “Like for reals?” He blinked at me, and my libido went from spinning at the dimples to sitting up and taking notice.

  “And inside bathrooms,” I added and grinned at him.

  Laughter reached his eyes, and I knew I’d won him over.

  “Next thing you’ll tell me is you don’t all know the Queen.”

  I shrugged. “Nah, we all know the Queen.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by his name being called, and we picked up our drinks from the end counter. We’d almost made it away and to a table when Alex was stopped by a famil
y of four.

  “Big fan,” the dad said, pumping Alex’s hand so hard I wondered if Alex would shake him off.

  He didn’t. He stood and listened as the dad, followed by the equally hockey-mad kids, began talking stats and records. I let it work its way out, watched Alex engage the crowd. There was nothing in his expression that screamed he was nervous, not one ounce of caution. He gave everything of himself, talking about his plans, Ryker, the Stanley Cup, the season, and giving a sigh when the dad commiserated about Lankinen being an asshole.

  Of course, the dad using the word asshole caused the mom to lose her cool and hiss that the kids were listening, so Alex didn’t get to answer, which was a good thing. Instead, he signed a couple of things, a menu and a receipt, and crouched to talk to the girl and boy who were no more than ten and hung on to his every word. There was an approachability to Alex, and I instinctively knew I’d picked the right person for my plans. All I needed to do now was convince Alex he wanted to be part of them.

  He chose a table at the back and around a corner, probably to give us time to talk without his being recognized, but I chose to think he wanted me to himself. Because that is the kind of idiot I am.

  “You don’t mind it when people talk to you like that?”

  He sipped his drink and smiled at me over the rim of his cup. “It’s weird, but it’s the job, one of the nicest parts actually, up there with playing for an NHL team. Not that I ever dreamed about being recognized, not as much as I dreamed about playing in the big leagues. No one really wants to get noticed, I guess.” He stopped talking, and the smile had gone, vanished as he repeated what he’d said with the extra provisos, falling out of him as if he was using words as his thought process. We’d have to work on that if he was to be the team ambassador, but on a personal level, I thought it was endearing. And hot.

  “What are your thoughts on Aarni Lankinen?” I asked and sat back in my chair, nursing my coffee. I would be asking the same question of everyone, working out which of the players still had their heads stuck in the past.

  “Henry is one of my best friends.” He placed his drink on the table and leaned forward. There was so much raw emotion in his expression, along with the same determined focus that I’d seen in footage of him when he was on the ice. “He’s in a hospital with a head injury, and the man who nearly killed him is going to jail. I’m glad for it.” I didn’t need to use my talent for reading people to see the anger in Alex, and the tone he used was one that implied he wouldn’t be arguing the situation.

  “Would you have said that to the dad of the family if he hadn’t been interrupted?”

  The question hung between us for a single moment, and then he let out a noisy sigh.

  “No. I would have changed the subject myself because my opinion isn’t something that needs to be aired to the world. I have enough to deal with normally, let alone tripping myself up and getting into a discussion about how good or bad Aarni was for the team. I just want to play hockey, and I want my friend Henry back on the ice, and I hate Aarni for what he did. The first thing? The hockey? That is in the public domain. The rest, that is all me. Private me. But sometimes when things get too much, God, I want to shout.”

  That was a double-edged answer. I liked how he said he would change the subject, that he would show restraint, but also the passion in his eyes for what he really thought was an emotional charge that he would have to restrain.

  Was I even right to ask him to hold things back?

  Why am I even worrying about it? I need to do what’s best for the team.

  “So I wanted to talk to you because I’m here to work on the negative way the public may perceive the Raptors.”

  He let out a humorless laugh. “And the rest of the league.”

  “Them as well.” I leaned forward to mirror his position and ignored my coffee. Time for the first approach to someone who was likely going to be reluctant to any and all ideas that meant he could be the poster boy for the Raptors. “Revenue is falling, you know that, and the online vitriol has only ramped up with the Aarni situation.” Alex winced at the use of Lankinen’s name. “One of the ways we’d like to approach this is to focus on the new blood in the team, talk up the positive future.”

  “You mean Ryker,” he said and smiled. “He’s an amazing player and has the whole backstory going for him.”

  I decided that honesty was the best policy and hoped that Alex didn’t think he was second best. “Ryker seemed like a good choice on the surface, but he’s openly bisexual, and that won’t sit well with our demographic as the face of our team.”

  All the blood left Alex’s face. He went so pale I thought he was going to pass out, and then he covered what had to be disbelief by picking up his drink and hiding. He did know that about Ryker, right? Everyone knew. It wasn’t a secret, and Ryker’s father had married another hockey player, so it was open knowledge. So why did Alex look so shocked? Did he disapprove? Was he sickened? It turned out that him thinking he was second best was the least of my worries.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, and he closed his eyes briefly.

  “Wrong? What’s wrong is that just because Ryker doesn’t fit in the lines you’ve drawn, that he’s cast aside as if he doesn’t mean anything.”

  “No, wait—”

  “Pinche pendejo. He’s the best player we have, and without him, the Raptors have no chance at winning shit.”

  “That isn’t entirely true. They have you—”

  “Me? I’m the kid from the wrong end of hockey town! Every time I go out on the ice, I hear slurs,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “We could manage that—”

  “Some of the words thrown at me you wouldn’t even picture in your head, let alone throw them at a player. And this isn’t just from the fans, but other teams as well, from the agitators who want me to fuck up.” He wasn’t letting me talk, and he pushed his drink to one side and leaned even closer to me. “My skin is darker, I speak two languages, my family is everything to me, and my heritage is from over the border, but that doesn’t define my hockey-playing skills, even though some people think it should.” He stood so fast his chair hit the wall behind him, but he wasn’t shouting. If anything, his tone was icy cold. “You know and I know that Ryker is the best on this team, and who he loves has nothing to do with his skills. So you can take that eighties homophobic shit you’re shoveling and shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

  He stalked away from the table, and for a few moments, I was shocked immobile, processing what I’d said, what he said and, more importantly, what he thought. Then I hurried after him, vaulting a chair and reaching the door just as it shut in my face. I yanked it open and jogged to catch him up, but he had a rare head of steam on him, and his stride was longer than mine. Only just before we reached the bar he was heading to did I finally manage to get in front of him, then held a hand to his chest to stop him.

  He had murder in his eyes, a temper so high the color had flooded back into his face and left his cheeks scarlet.

  “Get. Out. Of. My. Way.” He bit out each word and attempted to sidestep me, but if there was one thing I’d learned in life, it was how to be the best obstacle ever. In a smooth move, I guided him back into a small space between the bar and the chicken restaurant next door.

  “Let me explain,” I began.

  “There’s nothing you can say—”

  “Yes, I need to—”

  He shoved at me. He was bigger, taller, stronger, and I stumbled back to hit the wall opposite, and his mood shifted from anger to horror.

  “Shit,” he cursed, and then immediately the anger was back. “I’m going inside,” he muttered and took a single step from me.

  “I’m gay,” I said.

  He turned to face me, accusing, staring right through me. “And?”

  “I’m the last person to judge. Come on, Alex, listen to me, will you?” I was fucking this up so badly, but there was something here with Alex that I was missing. This wasn’t jus
t defending Ryker or taking some kind of stance on equality or even reacting to the racial slurs that he experienced. This was a much deeper fear with anger tangled inside.

  And abruptly, I knew.

  Five

  Alex

  He grabbed my arm, his fingers biting into my biceps with authority. I paused, hand resting on the handle of The Crimson Cactus, the door cracked, the thump-thump-thump of a popular Ariana Grande song pulsed out into the street.

  I threw him a dark over-the-shoulder look.

  “It’s okay,” he told me, his words slipping around the lyrics, the shouts of pumped-up patrons, and the cloud of apple-scented vape smoke that was pouring out of the dance club. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  The inside of my head suddenly became the bridge of the Enterprise on a red alert. Crimson lights flashing, grating siren blasting out of all the com stations, a captain shouting, “Shields up! All hands to battle stations! Load the photon torpedoes and ready to fire on my command!”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I snarled—the first torpedo fired right across his bow as I slammed the door shut, then spun to face him. He wasn’t mad or intimidated by the bigger, stronger, angry Latino stepping into his space. “I don’t have any secrets. I’m an open fucking book.”

  “Of course you are.” He slithered around me, yanked the door open, and went inside, leaving me staring at his lean back until he was swallowed up by the crowds. I glanced down the street, then skyward, my sight locking onto the millions of small moths beating themselves to death on the streetlight.

  “Fuck him. Fuck him. He knows nothing,” I muttered to the insects doing a death dance above my head.

  What if he did? What if his gaydar was sounding off?

  Gaydar. How stupid. As if. I’d never gotten any kind of vibe off another man. Ever. Not even the ones I knew were into men like Ryker, Tennant Rowe-Madsen, or even this Sebastian dude. Still, if it were a real thing and Sebastian had it, I needed to nip any questions he may have had in the bud. Fuck. I so hated this. Hating it didn’t keep me from doing it, though. I wiggled into the skin of a straight Latino man, pasted on the smile the ladies liked, and sauntered into party central. And just like those poor moths outside, the women flocked to me. Some I knew, many I didn’t. The combination of booze, loud music, and pro athlete was a lethal draw. By the time I reached the table where Ryker, Colorado, Vlad, and Jens were seated, I’d lost my suit jacket but gained a blonde.