Coast to Coast (Raptors Book 1)

by RJ Scott

  “Not really,” I agreed and then grinned at him. How was it that this brotherly stuff was enough to make me smile? Go figure.

  Jason changed the subject. “You’re still coming tomorrow, right?”

  “Sunday dinner at the house of horrors to meet my nephew properly and to be asked all kinds of awkward questions and sit with Cam and pretend not to be pissed at him. Yes.”

  “About Cam, I’d love it if you cut him some slack,” Jason said in all seriousness. “When you left, it broke his heart, and then you blocked him from your life.”

  I stood, angrily. “Jesus—”

  “No, wait, don’t go. I get why it all went down that way. I know you were protecting yourself. I know you hated us, just… he’s your brother, and he loves you. If you love him back at all, then maybe let that show a bit? For me? Please?”

  I wanted to be angry, but there wasn’t anger there, just a quiet resolution that maybe I did need to find a common ground with my family. After all, Dad was gone now, and dinner was a start.

  “Okay.”

  “If you want to, you can bring Coach Carmichael as your date.”

  I snorted a laugh. “It’s not that kind of thing we have going on.”

  It was only when I got into my own office that I realized one big thing. I kind of wished Rowen could come with me for dinner at my parents’ house. Not like boyfriends, but because he was a man who seemed to be on my side.

  And I needed that.

  I stayed at the arena for the night’s game. Florida were in town, and management had already been given a heads-up that this meant Tennant Rowe’s brother was in the barn. Matchups with the Rowe brothers, one in Florida and the other brother in Boston, were always heated. Mainly because of the fact that Aarni Lankinen had nearly killed their little brother. Half the fans here, in Florida colors, wanted a clean, exciting game, and the other half, in Raptors gold, wanted Aarni to take the Rowe brother from Florida down. They wanted blood, and some of the signs at the glass were evil, talking about the gay shit and the fact that the Rowe family were infected. They made me feel sick, and I wasn’t sure whose responsibility it was to instruct them to be taken down. Was it us? Should we be doing something about this?

  I peered down from my lofty position, seeing the two teams out on the ice for warm-ups, and no sign of Rowen yet. There was unrest in the crowd, booing, but I couldn’t see why.

  “Coach made Lankinen a healthy scratch, apparently,” Jason said and pocketed his cell.

  “Which means what?” I asked as the volume of boos grew louder.

  “Means he’s healthy and fit to play, but that Coach has benched him.”

  I leaned out and tried to make out who was playing on our team, but the only names I could make out were ones where there were close-ups on the huge video screen in front of me. No Lankinen.

  “Can he do that?”

  “Yes, I can,” Rowen said from the door, and I turned to face him. He had a thunderous expression on his handsome face, and his hands were clenched in fists at his side. He glared at the others in the box. “I need the room cleared,” he said. And everyone except Jason and I left without argument. I stayed because I thought it was me who he really wanted to talk to, and Jason because hell, he clearly got the stubborn Westman-Reid genes, and he was also the GM. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, defying Rowen to tell him to leave. Seemed to me he was trying for protective, and it was nice. Rowen slammed the door after the last person left, then pulled the blinds.

  “My greatest weapon is my ability to control players’ ice time,” he began and leaned against the door. “Sitting out that underperforming fucktard of a millionaire could be the perfect way to get him to rethink blackmailing his fucking coach.”

  “What?” Jason said and looked from me to Rowen and back again.

  “Asshole says he’s happy to keep my liaison with one of the Westman-Reids to himself. He didn’t express terms, but I believe the implication of sharing said Westman-Reid with him was the icing on that particular fucked-up cake.”

  All my energy left me, and I sank to the chair.

  Jason cleared his throat. “What the hell?”

  “Exactly,” Rowen said. Something passed between my brother and my lover, and when both of them stared at me, I knew they were both in protecting-Mark mode, and I didn’t even have the energy to bristle with indignation.

  “Okay,” Jason began after their silent communication. “Back to how this affects the team. You know how this will look to the journalists, to the rest of the team.”

  Rowen tensed. “What? You don’t think the team will bounce back from me being in a relationship with your little brother?”

  “No, I mean, yes. I mean. Shit.” Jason massaged his temples. “I’m happy for the two of you. That isn’t my concern. It’s just we’re exposed already with the money riding on him, and becoming a healthy scratch could signal that he’s on the downside of his career. It could spark all kinds of questions about a player’s future. Fans might think we’re trying to trade him or that his career is in jeopardy. How the hell is the team going to deal with his big-money contract while he’s benched?” Now it was Jason’s turn to sit down.

  I’d listened to everything Jason said, but I couldn’t get away from the fact that Rowen used the term relationship. Is that what he thought we had going here?

  The door pushed behind Rowen, and he stepped out of the way, the people who had left now returning, and along with them, a furious-looking Aarni Lankinen, who shouldered his way to a far seat and sat mutinously. He wasn’t dressed for hockey. In fact he was still in his suit. The team box was clearly where healthy scratch players sat.

  “Fucking smile,” Rowen ordered him, and Aarni gave a half grimace that would have to do. I exchanged looks with Jason. How was this going to appear up on the screen? Rowen turned to leave.

  “Coach Carmichael? The signs on the glass, we’ve seen some of them on the video screen. Can we get them removed? Who do we ask?”

  Rowen nodded. “Security. I’m on it.”

  After he left, I swiveled the luxurious chair and stared down at the glass where the signs were. It didn’t take long for security to reach them, and a couple of the holders didn’t go quietly. The ones that backed down were allowed to stay; the others ejected.

  When the game itself started, it was obvious we were on the defensive. In goal, Colorado was like a brick wall, steadier in his role than I had seen him before. Our fast guys at the front managed to get two goals past the Florida goalie, but it was four penalties drawn on our team, resulting in power plays, which had us eventually losing by two. What became more obvious as I watched was that the fans for our team were negative, booing, and with a palpable air of resentment. They didn’t respect the team, and I doubt the team was that happy hearing the noise they made. We needed to fix that. Aarni left the room as soon as the game ended, and I headed out after him to find Rowen. I stood right at the back of the room as Rowen took his place in the Coach’s Corner postgame review, waiting for questions from the assembled journalists. I couldn’t believe that for a team in such dire straits there were so many of them here.

  “Coach? Guy Stevens. Zona Hockey.”

  “Hello, Guy.”

  “Can you explain why you made Aarni Lankinen a healthy scratch tonight?” Murmurs spread as the elephant in the room was addressed.

  I held my breath, waiting for Rowen to spill his guts about respect and blackmail and a hundred other things we didn’t want him to say. He leaned toward the microphone.

  “He was late for practice,” Rowen lied and gave a what-can-I-tell-ya shrug.

  The journalist pressed for more. “Do you think that if Lankinen had been in the lineup you would have won tonight?”

  Rowen lifted a single eyebrow. “We’ll never know.”

  “Is this a punishment that fits the crime, Coach?” someone else asked.

  “Respect is key in this team.”

  And that was clearly all he was g
oing to say. The rest of the interview was him talking about prospects and playing the game and the team buying into the process. Nothing more than sound bites.

  I followed him out of the room, at a distance, all the way to his office, and slipped inside the door. He looked at me warily, and a hundred different things passed between us.

  I cleared my throat. “Will you come to dinner at my family’s place tomorrow?”

  “Really?”

  I died inside and was sorry I’d even asked, because he didn’t exactly jump all over the idea, and mostly looked as if he was in shock. Then he softened a little and I felt like I could explain my question.

  “Just as a friend, if that’s what you want,” I blurted.

  He paused a moment. “What if we went as a couple? You know, as people who dated?” His question threw me.

  “Is that what we are doing? Dating?”

  He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I think we are.”

  “I like the sound of that,” I admitted.

  He smiled at me. “Yeah. Me too.”

  Fourteen

  Rowen

  “So, did we make a wrong turn at Albuquerque?” I inquired on the sly as Mark and I made our way into the Westman-Reid dining room. He gave me his classically prince-like look of utter confusion. “To quote Bugs Bunny—you do know who he is, right—or did you only watch Richie Rich cartoons growing up?”

  “No. Sadly, Richie Rich wasn’t quite greedy enough. We were all made to sit at the television in our prep school uniforms and study Duck Tales so that we could, someday, the gods of Wall Street willing, grow up and emulate Scrooge McDuck.”

  I had to smile at the man. He was horrendously sharp-witted, with just the right amount of disdain to his biting comments. If there was one thing that made me hot, it was a man I could verbally spar with. Mark, aside from being one flaming hot whirlwind of a bottom in bed, was one of the sauciest and classiest comeback kings I’d ever had the fortune of fucking.

  Servants hustled around, pulling out chairs and smiling that bland domestic help smiled. I’d not felt quite at home in this massive testament to corporate greed when I’d been here before, and this trip wasn’t endearing the Westman-Reid mansion to me. His family, on the other hand, was damned engaging for the most part. The kids were cute, as kids went. They were normal kids and not overly pretentious. Two wives who smiled and shook my hand but whose names I forgot as soon as they’d been given to me. Lovely women who had made lovely children who would keep the Westman-Reid name and bloodline rolling along nicely.

  I’d come to grudgingly respect Jason now that he’d taken on the thankless mantle of GM for the team. Cameron was still an insufferable anal fissure, but Leigh was a sheer delight.

  We took our seats. I was to sit beside Mark on one side of a massive dining table that seated perhaps forty people. My gaze traveled over the gold flatware, fine china, and huge bouquet of white and pink flowers. Not sure what kind of flowers they were. I knew hockey, not floral arranging, but they had no aroma at all. Maybe they were fake. Kind of like this whole damn dinner thing.

  I ran a finger over the perfectly aligned flatware as we all stood waiting for the matriarch to appear.

  “So, do the staff measure the silverware placement with a ruler like they do at Buckingham Palace?” I asked whoever might deign to reply. Cameron glowered at me. Leigh giggled behind her hand. Jason snorted, and Mark rolled his eyes. “If you’d have told me this was a state dinner, I would have dressed better.”

  Mark’s gaze roamed over my Eagles-On the Border T-shirt, black jeans, well-worn sandals, and a denim jacket ensemble. Everyone else was uptown chic casual or whatever the hell fashionable name could be applied.

  “It’s just dinner, nothing fancy, but Mom likes to see us put a little effort into dressing well for the evening meal,” Leigh finally replied as she wheeled herself closer to the table, then shook out a cloth napkin and laid it over her lap. “I wore a halter top and a kilt to dinner last week.” She gave me a wink that I returned.

  “You also got dark looks all through the quail,” Jason parried.

  Mark was about to chime in when Mrs. Westman-Reid showed up. She was a stately woman, dressed in silky slacks and a sharply pressed blouse. Hair and makeup on point, as the kids said, and small pearls in her ears and around her long neck. Elegant and poised, she smiled at us all, pecking the grandkids on the cheek before taking her seat at the head of the table. A spot, I was sure, the patriarch had once planted his ass in.

  “You’re looking wonderful, Mother,” Cameron said as we all sat. Appetizers were served immediately, water goblets were filled, and Mark began talking about some vague little thing he’d seen on the Internet. Being a simple boy from Canada, I poked at the white square resting on a small china plate.

  “Uhm,” I said, and all eyes rolled in my direction. “Not to sound uncouth, but what the hell is this?” I tapped the white square with a tine.

  “It’s daikon radish box with a dollop of crab salad on top,” Mark explained, his knee coming to rest on mine in a comforting way that I enjoyed.

  “Ah yes, I should have recognized it right off. We served this all the time at home, right before the poutine course.”

  Leigh and the kids found that hilarious, and even Mark and Jason snuffled in amusement.

  “It’s so nice to have someone here from another country,” Mrs. Westman-Reid said between nibbles on her radish block. “What kind of foods do you enjoy when you return home to Ontario? It is Ontario where you hail from, isn’t it, Coach Carmichael?”

  “Mom, he’s from Canada. That really doesn’t count as a major foreign country. Not like he’s from France, England, or any of the other elite European countries.” Cameron tossed that out glibly.

  Being a proud Canuck, I took instant offense, but Mark’s hand on my knee under the table stilled my tongue. Or not. I pushed my radish block to Mark after I scraped off the crab meat and ate it. “Please, ma’am, call me Rowen. And yes, I am from Ontario. We have some marvelous foods in Canada, aside from poutine, which I just mentioned. We enjoy butter tarts, Jiggs dinner, tourtiere, Nanaimo bars, beavertails, ketchup chips, barbequed ribs, sugar pies, and of course real maple syrup, and the best bacon anywhere.”

  “That all sounds delicious. I’ve always wanted to see Canada, but I do fear the moose. They have such rubbery faces. Have you had many moose encounters, Rowen?”

  “Mother, I’m pretty sure that moose don’t ramble around Toronto or Ottawa on a daily basis,” Jason said, then deftly moved the conversation to non-moose topics.

  I could have told them that we did see moose on occasion in the big cities, but I decided to let the topic go. The grandkids were vocal during the meal, and the conversation was smooth, if not a little vapid. No one really touched on anything meaty, just general dinnertime talk followed with coffee or sherry and dessert. I’d kind of been hoping to talk with the men about the Aarni situation, but it seemed we weren’t going to be afforded the time for business talk.

  After the meal, Mark and I slipped out of the rear door of the solarium and snuck off to the pool house where I took several liberties with him. When I had him sweaty, sated, and spent in my arms, I kissed him gently for the longest time, the brilliant Arizona sun now well settled in the West. His body was flushed and warm from passion. I tucked him back in, zipped his pants, and ran my fingers over his lips, enjoying the puffiness from all my kisses.

  “Did you like that?” I inquired as I held him to the wall with just my body weight, the tang of his cum still on my tongue.

  “God, yes.” He sighed, pushing his fingers into my hair. “So, are we now done with the Gila Monster Motor Court?”

  “Fuck that and fuck Aarni. I don’t allow anyone to dictate my life,” I snarled, the rush of sneaking in a quick blow job to pleasure my lover on the grounds of the Westman-Reid estate disappearing at the mention of that bastard Lankinen. “I also do not bow down to blackmailers. I’m not sure how he found out a
bout us, nor do I care. That room is ours, our little escape from the chaos of life, and that pig-faced jerk is not taking that away from us.”

  He wet his lips. I stole another kiss, then yet another. There was no way in hell I was giving Mark up. The sex was incredible, and I’d come to enjoy the time we spent after the act as well, him stretched out over me, talking about the trials and tribulations of life as our overheated bodies cooled. It was just what I wanted. Sex and someone to talk to. No strings attached. No chance of being crucified by a man with a pretty face again. Losing Mark… him… it… would be a loss I was not willing to contemplate. I prayed the team lawyers or someone in the gilded boxes way above where I spent my time could come up with a solution. It was the end of October, and we’d only managed to scrape together a handful of wins. There were many reasons for that, not just Aarni, but his particular brand of toxicity was not helping. We needed to purge his poison from the locker room before we could hope to see healing begin.

  Mark pulled me down for another lengthy kiss, the rasp of his tongue over mine pushing hockey from my mind for a tiny bit, and for that, I thanked him by holding him as close as possible and kissing him back until he was breathless and wanting yet again. We made the run out to the Gila Monster Motor Court in record time that night.

  This was not the holiday gift that a hockey coach wanted. Nope, not at all. I ran my fingers through my hair, looked up at the clock, and grimaced. Had we really only played fifteen minutes of hockey? Had the Railers honestly scored on Colorado four times in those fifteen minutes? Had Santa forsaken me? Thank Christ, Harrisburg made this west coast sweep only once a year. We wouldn’t have to face them until late April when we made a sprint up the East coast. Maybe by April, the severe ass-reaming without even the courtesy of lube or a reach-around we were getting would be a distant memory. A man could hope.

  “We have got to tighten up in the offensive zone!” Terri was yelling at our men, who were all sullen and silent. “I know Rowe is fast, but you have to play man-on-man.”