Harrisburg Railers Box Set 1

by R J Scott

  She sat down across from me at the table that was as old and worn as she was. Hell, as the whole house was.

  “You are good, sweet boy. Eat more.” She patted my hand.

  Try maintaining a skating weight with two Pilipino women in your life. It’s almost impossible. But, since I’d probably never skate again, why not have more rice? Who cared? It wasn’t like one of the Railers would be looking at the delightful curvature of my ass. Shit, it had been ages since anyone had looked, commented on, or even patted the delightful curvature of my ass.

  “May I have more rice?”

  Two

  Dieter

  I can’t recall the last time I felt like this.

  On top of the fucking world.

  My agent Bob Stiller was next to me, pen in hand and papers in his lap, negotiating the next part of my slow-moving career. Stiller had been my agent since I was seventeen, and he’d done well by me so far. In fact, I was just coming to the end of a two-way contract with most of my time spent at the Carlisle Rush, the AHL development team that fed the Railers NHL time. It wasn’t my dream to get stuck in the AHL with the chance of playing with the big boys just out of reach but it was steady money and I was so close to making it big.

  I’d actually spent the end of the season with the Railers, covering for injuries, and I’d even played in a few of the playoff games before they were booted out in round two.

  Me, playing for the chance of winning it all. My name on the Stanley Cup. After all this time.

  We hadn’t made it far, but hell, the Railers were a new team and they hadn’t been expected to get to the playoffs, let alone get past round one.

  But I’d been part of them getting there. Done well. Great, actually – with one goal and five assists over the ten games, I’d made a name for myself; the press said the Railers should contract me full time, talked numbers in the millions. I was the undrafted grinder who’d worked himself into a team, and I was fucking proud of myself.

  “So, how have you been?” asked Dawson Brown, the Railers Manager, steepling his hands and tapping his chin. The familiar stance was one Brown used when he was thinking about serious things. Like whether or not I deserved to keep playing for the Railers. “Carlisle Rush speaks highly of you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ve loved my time with the Rush.” And I had, I wasn’t lying. They were good guys. Some of them would never make it any higher, certainly never to the NHL, but they were a solid team and I’d shone there.

  I had decent numbers in my role as first line left wing for the Rush – this past year I’d pulled in a solid seven goals and thirty-four assists over the year. I was the team playmaker, and I loved it.

  “I won’t yank your chain,” Brown began, and rested his hands on the table, right over the beige folder that had my name on it. “Our salary cap is tight; it’s common knowledge that it cost us big money to get Tennant Rowe up from Dallas. With Hurleigh signed for the next five years and Addison’s contract up for negotiation, we’re very tight.”

  “Rowe was a good call,” I said when he paused for a moment. Like I needed to interject some kind of observation. Rowe was what some people called a generational player – one of those good enough to carry a team when they needed it.

  “At the Railers, we pride ourselves on fair and equitable terms, but not even us can fight the cap only increasing by two million this year, and with you being only one of five restricted free agents we want to keep.”

  I’ll take that, I thought. I’ll take two million. Hell, at this moment I’d take two dollars, because I need some fucking stability.

  And then I realized what he’d said. He’d explicitly stated that I was one of the guys he wanted to keep. Nothing about being sent back down on a two-way contract, my time split between the Rush full time and covering the Railers if they needed me.

  “So, when it came to offers, which we have for a few players…”

  He fanned out the folders, and I counted five of them. I knew exactly who was in those files, and I’d put myself up against the other four any day. That wasn’t bravado or arrogance; that was self-assurance underlined with a small amount of chemically enhanced pride in my achievements. Brown waffled on again, about superiority and standards and the future, and all I could think was, Cut to the chase already.

  “We’d like to make you a qualifying offer, one year, eight hundred.”

  I should be over the moon with that – another year with the Railers was exactly what I craved – but I knew better than to say a thing. Stiller would deal with the money.

  “We might well look to take that to arbitration,” Stiller said. Because he had to – he had to believe as my agent that I was worth more. But what if the Railers turned around and told me to leave; that they didn’t want me if I fought?

  I wanted Stiller to stop talking. He didn’t, but that was his job.

  I listened as Stiller asked questions, including arbitration, respect, and lots of other buzzwords that I barely listened to. Being more invested in my future wasn’t a financial thing for me – it was the team, and the hockey, and that was mostly it.

  “We’ll take this away with us,” Stiller said, and he stood up, and I copied. He extended his hand to shake Brown’s, I copied that as well, and then we were out in the corridor.

  We didn’t talk until we were out of the East River Arena and down in the parking lot. My practical Toyota was parked up next to his car, and looked the worse for wear against the gleaming silver paintwork of his Beemer.

  “How do you think it went?” I asked.

  “How do you think it went?” he countered.

  Great, I hated when people answered questions with more questions.

  “Well, I think eight hundred is good money. I know it’s only a year, but I can prove myself and we can end this season with a multi-year contract.”

  He nodded and clutched that folder with my name on it to his chest. “It’s a good offer,” he said. “I agree it gets you a steady year in one place – no more traveling between here and Carlisle, no more fragmented seasons. I just don’t know what to say.”

  I looked down at my feet, then up at the sky, leaning back on my car. What was he trying to say? “Do you think I’m worth more? That I should fight for more?” I asked, but I didn’t really want to hear what he was going to say. The last thing Bob Stiller did was blow smoke up players’ asses; he was straight as they came, and you knew he did his best with what he had.

  “Yes and no,” he hedged, which wasn’t like him, and I looked at him, startled. I’d expected an unequivocal yes, because in my head if I was worth the Railers taking me for a year, why would he disagree with that, and what the hell was the no for?

  “What do you mean, yes and no?” I had to prompt him, and he stepped closer and lowered his voice.

  “Of course you’re worth that year with the Railers – you keep your head down, work on your conditioning, get better watching the veterans, get fitter, and you could be looking at a multi-season deal this time next year.”

  “You know I can do all of that; I’m a hard worker, and my fitness is good.”

  He looked at me and made that face, the one that meant he wanted to ask me a question but didn’t know how to ask it. I steeled myself for the inevitable.

  “Yes, it’s good, I’ve seen the numbers…it’s just not stellar.”

  “What?” I thought my numbers were more than just good. After all, the Railers were willing to take me. I would be in the NHL, baby. I’d arrived.

  “How’s everything else?”

  “Like what?” I was a master at delaying the inevitable.

  He raised a single eyebrow in answer.

  “I’m doing good,” I lied, using my standard reply.

  Bob sighed dramatically, opened his car door, and tossed the file inside. Then he turned back to me, and I knew he was going to say something bad – I could see it in his expression.

  “This is the last year I can represent you, the last contract I ne
gotiate on your behalf. I’m not taking this to arbitration. We’ll sign off on the eight hundred, and then you need to get another agent.”

  “What the fuck, Bob—”

  “I mean it, kid.” He stopped my righteous anger in its steps with his low warning tone. “You need to sort your shit out. I’m putting my neck on the line for you here, and I don’t like the way it compromises me. You need to fix yourself, get some help.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said so fast he winced.

  “Jesus, Dieter, you’re in fucking denial, but I’ve seen you. I know you’ve popped so many fucking pills—”

  “Keep your fucking voice down,” I growled, and stepped into his space in a classic intimidation move. We didn’t know who the hell was standing behind the cars listening to this shit. “I’m clean and you know it.”

  “You were,” he said shrewdly, and stared right at me, daring me to argue.

  “I have a legitimate fucking injury from the playoffs,” I said, still in a low voice, still right up close to him, using my six-inch difference in height and my weight to intimidate.

  “You were doing so well, kid.”

  Anger speared me. “I’m not a fucking kid.”

  “I didn’t disclose your prior problem to the Railers. Don’t make me regret that.”

  “I don’t have a problem,” I said. Again, the standard reply, the same one I gave even to myself.

  I’d been checked into the boards hard halfway through the final game the Railers had played in the playoffs. It had hurt. My knee hurt. I needed meds to help my body heal. It wasn’t like I was back to taking twenty a day. I was responsible.

  This time Bob’s sigh was more heartfelt. “Jesus,” he began, and shook his head. “You’re a good kid, Dieter, but I have to take a step aside. You understand that, right? It’s nothing personal.”

  Bob has been with me since day one, and he was going now? Right here in this fucking parking garage, he was telling me he was done? What kind of agent was he to abandon a player who’d just been offered his first real honest-to-god NHL contract?

  “Fuck you, Bob,” I snapped, because he was an asshole, and I shoved him a little, because hell, I was furious at his betrayal.

  Bob shook his head and was in his car and gone a long time before the tension in my chest eased. Who did he think he was?

  “Everything okay?” someone asked from behind me, and I turned to face a serious-looking Tennant Rowe, the player with a shiny new multi-million-dollar contract and stupid floppy hair.

  He’s second line for a reason, second-rate in the NHL, and he only got traded in because of his name. I could be him. I should have been drafted, and I would have if I had brothers who played for the big teams. Fucking asshole Tennant Rowe with his fucking brothers.

  I leaned back on my car again, my breath stolen by the corrosive hate that ran through those thoughts. Ten wasn’t there because of his family name; he was future first line for sure, probably captain one day – he had a skill and speed that sometimes defied the odds, and he was possibly even a future hall of famer.

  Where had all that hate in my head come from?

  “D?” Ten asked again, and came to stand in front of me with so much concern on his face that I wanted to punch it off him, stamp him into the floor. There it was again – a violent hate that flowed through me. I bent at the waist and put my hands on my knees.

  Ten didn’t stop. “Jeez man, was it bad news?”

  The grapevine would have informed everyone of who had meetings when, and it was no secret that I was one of the five guys the Railers were looking to take on. Ten was just showing compassion.

  “No, I have a year’s qualifying contract,” I said, still bent over. “Bad Chinese.” That was the only thing I could think of to explain if I looked gray, or wheezy, or bent at the fucking waist like this. I made an effort to stand up straight, slowly, to avoid an inevitable head rush, and came face to face with Ten, who still looked worried.

  “Should I call someone?” he asked.

  “No, it’s cool.”

  Ten extended his hand, which I took. “Congrats on the contract.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “So I guess they’ll ask you about the conditioning thing this summer. It’s part of a reality show, getting this ice skater to help us with our speed. I signed up because I really think we could learn something from figure skaters, you know…”

  I listened and nodded in all the right places, but mostly what I wanted was a bottle of water. I excused myself, probably mid-sentence from the open-mouthed expression Ten had going on, and I drove out of the garage. Only when I was away from the Arena did I pull over to the curb. The half-finished bottle of water in the car was lukewarm, but it didn’t matter, because it washed the pills down, and that was its only purpose.

  My knee throbbed and I needed the help.

  I sat there for a good five minutes, flexing my fingers on the steering wheel and watching the clock. Placebo effect or not, my muscles began to loosen five minutes in, and I finally drove back to my apartment. Closing the door was like shutting out the world, but there were two messages on my machine. One from Layton Foxx, the expert the Railers had called in to handle the big, gay coming-out of Ten and his boyfriend Jared. He didn’t know everything going on with me, but he did know about the sex tape, and he was dealing with the situation.

  “…so I think it could be a case of getting out in front of this, Dieter. Give me a call when you’re back, and we can talk strategies.”

  Layton was all about the tactics – how to manage huge, life-changing things in a way that didn’t have fans leaving the arena in droves. He rambled on about times and possible dates and something about summer projects for speed and fitness. I stopped listening after a while, like I had done with Ten. I didn’t have time to listen to people – I had things in my head that needed organizing.

  Marianna’s message was far more to the point.

  “Twitter say you ’ave new contract. My price is up. Call me.”

  That was all she said, in her lilting French accent, but the softness in my thoughts filtered it to a meaningless nothing that couldn’t worry me. She should release the fucking tape, and maybe I’d get famous off the back of it. I pulled a couple of beers from my fridge and settled on the sofa, watching reruns of an eighties game show, not quite understanding why I was finding it all so freaking funny but loving the happiness that was filtering through my veins.

  I had a contract, I felt good, my knee wasn’t hurting, and I had a beer in my hand.

  God knew where Bob got off saying he wouldn’t rep me. There were a hundred agents out there who could make me more than he did. Some of them would spin the hell out of a sex tape so I came out of the shit smelling like daisies, with a legion of fans – both sexes – who would all want a piece of me.

  But the longer I lay there, as the gorgeous softness in my thoughts morphed back into that hard place I was used to in my head, the more my brain process stalled on one thing.

  How was it that I was happy for the world to see me butt naked in a three-way, fucking some random guy, but I didn’t want people to know I wasn’t brave enough to deal with pain without meds?

  But the answer was easy.

  It was easier to admit to sex than to admit I needed pills to keep me sane. No one could ever know.

  The email that arrived the following morning, with me nursing a hangover and Marianna’s message still on my machine, was short and to the point and not all that welcome.

  I clung to the fact that my lawyer had demanded we put a restraining order on her after she wouldn’t leave me alone. Stalking wasn’t the best thing to deal with, but it had been the only thing until the appearance of this fucking video she was holding over my head.

  I couldn’t think of Marianna now. I had to focus on the team.

  An invitation was offered to all team members who hadn’t pinned down plans to attend a conditioning and speed camp, and I recalle
d Layton’s message – well, the half of it I’d listened to. He’d said something about a good idea, and all I could think about was team-building, and having something to do with the long summer that stretched in front of me.

  I took a couple of the small white pills and let them work their magic before I signed up; my knee ached a bit, and I needed them.

  Seemed like I was attending a training camp with some sparkly-assed figure skater, and for the life of me I couldn’t think why I was agreeing. I found the Wikipedia page for this Trent Hanson guy, but I didn’t really need to look to know who he was. The Railers might be big, bad hockey guys, but ice was ice. I knew who Trent was, had seen him on the news with his medals and his success, recalled something about his manager fucking him over.

  “Join the club,” I said, and saluted the empty room with my first beer of the day.

  And then that familiar warmth filtered into my brain and I lay back on my sofa looking up at the ceiling.

  Hiding out at a camp would probably be a good thing right now.

  And hell, working with a figure skater was going to be some funny shit.

  Just like that time I wore the number 69 on my jersey in college on a dare.

  Freaking hilarious.

  Three

  Trent

  We could hear them talking. I peeked around the corner and saw them all gathered in the corridor. Eleven or twelve of them. Thirteen if you counted a leaner man with dark hair who didn’t look like be belonged among the troop. A baker’s dozen of them waiting for me to arrive so the torment could begin. Why had the week leading up to this gone so quickly? I’d been trying to drag it out, but it had marched on without a care for Trent. Time was a bastard.

  I pulled back from the corner and looked right at my agent. Her nose was pink from the cold in the ice rink. I loved her little teal jacket, and made a mental note to ask later about where she’d gotten it.

  “Are we sure we don’t want Jane Goodall in the leading role of this show?”