Harrisburg Railers Box Set 1

by R J Scott

  There. I’d said it. I didn’t have to add that I understood if they wanted me off the team – that was a given. There were ECHL teams out there who would be happy to have me play despite my shit, so I wouldn’t have to give up.

  I just wouldn’t be there with the Railers.

  “Ahh,” Cote said, and sat back at his desk, resting his hands on his soft belly, courtesy of one too many social occasions in the name of the Railers, I should imagine. He wasn’t an ex-skater, he was a money guy who loved hockey. He couldn’t know what it was like to drag yourself onto the ice with an injury.

  “Toly?” Connor asked our teammate, the players’ rep, the one whose job it was to look out for me. I’d blindsided him as well; it wasn’t as if I’d told him what was happening. The only one I’d told was Layton.

  I should have told more people.

  Toly was still staring at me, but not in a way that worried me. He didn’t look pissed that this was the first he’d heard of it, any more than Connor did. A rush of thankfulness made me lightheaded, and I must have done something good in a previous life not to get a fist in the face from either of them.

  “This is first I heard,” Toly began, his Russian accent sexy and low. “I will work with Dieter.”

  “I will as well,” Connor said, and I realized how pathetically grateful I was to have Connor as my captain. The man was quiet but fair, and he didn’t have a bad bone in his body. “I’m concerned how this will impact the team, but for now let’s take this a step at a time.”

  Cote nodded. “We’ll get Layton on this,” he announced.

  Poor Layton; he was getting all the team shit to deal with.

  “Okay,” Cote finally said, “you’ll make contact with the substance abuse program, work on that alongside rehab. It won’t be easy, but I’ve seen players get through this before. I won’t say I’m happy about the situation, but you have the Railers’ support to get you back on the ice where we want to see you.” He leaned forward again and looked right at me. “You belong in this team, Dieter, but make no mistake – if you can’t crack this, we will have to come up with a plan B.”

  “I understand.”

  I was still looking at Connor, because the player in me needed the reassurance – hell, the approval of my captain. He still didn’t look pissed; equally, he didn’t look like he was throwing his arms out for a life-affirming bro-hug.

  But he wasn’t shocked. I could work with that.

  Then he nodded. “We’ll get through this together,” he said. He didn’t mean he’d be holding my hand through therapy and the operation, he just meant he had my back.

  And now I felt like I wanted to fucking cry.

  Cote cleared his throat. “We’ll do a press release about the LBI, state that you’ll be out for the start of the season. Doc here can feedback on progress, and you’ll refer yourself, with our support, to the substance abuse program and get clear and cohesive SAP counseling.”

  My stomach sank. I’d expected that; they were investing in me, and they knew that the SAP was the best system for me to get my head right.

  “You’re voluntarily making contact, and you will rehab and have counseling, and we’ll take a view…” He looked at the pad on his lap. “Mid-September.”

  There was nothing I could say to any of that. They were right. If I wanted the NHL, I had to do what I was told, and they hadn’t taken away my chance of being a Railer.

  I just had to prove to them they were right not to give up on me.

  But while I sat there scared shitless, with the dark tunnel of pain and rehab ahead of me, I just wanted two things.

  I wanted a Percocet to take the edge off.

  And I wanted Trent to still want me even though I was fucked.

  When I was back in my apartment, I wrote a long text to Trent, my thoughts and hopes, and the fact that I wanted him to talk to me and be there for me and about how sorry I was that I’d messed up.

  Then I backspaced it all and sent just two words.

  It’s done.

  Eleven

  Trent

  “He sent me a text that said, ‘It’s done’. Just that. Just those two words. What the flying fuck does that mean? Is he in rehab? In the hospital? Hockey players,” I huffed, and gave the ceiling of my rink a sour look as I kept talking. “So I called Adler Lockhart, who tells me that he’s having surgery. Which is good, he needs to attend to his knee, but what about the pain afterward? He looked sober when he was here yesterday, but…well, yeah, but. And now I’m even more lost and confused because every damn fiber of my being is screaming for me to go to Harrisburg and see him, you know?”

  The Tennant Rowe bobblehead that Layton and the Railers had presented me with bobbled its head in reply. Wonderful. So helpful. I should shove it back in its box.

  “Do you think I should?” I lifted the tiny resin figure from my lap and shook it. It just bobbled, as any good bobblehead should. I sighed and set it down on the cold, plastic seat beside me, right next to the check I’d also gotten from the Harrisburg Railers in attendance. The players who’d come to this debacle of a training session/reality show had handed me a personal check for ten thousand dollars for the rink. The real Tennant Rowe had tried to put the check into my palm just two hours ago, before they’d left to return to their lives for the rest of the summer.

  “What you’re doing here is important,” he’d said as I tried gracefully not to take their money.

  “Showing a bunch of orangutans how to shave a few milliseconds off their time?”

  The group gathered around me chuckled.

  “No, what you’re doing with the kids. Giving them a haven, a place to train without being judged or hated on. That’s the important thing.” He pressed the check into my chest. And held it there, right over my fluttering heart. How had I gotten so attached to this pod of apes so quickly? They’d certainly showed me that not all hockey players were lumbering cretins bent on humiliating the little figure skater with the perfectly applied eyeliner and gloss. Imagine that. Giving people a chance and not judging on past experiences. What a novel concept.

  “And turning us all on to Pilipino food,” Arvy chimed in.

  “Good Pilipino food,” Stan enthused. Another round of laughter.

  “I’ll be happy to take this for the children. Thank you.” I hugged Rowe and Jared, then went down the line, giving each of them a hug and a soft kiss on the lips. Not a sexual kiss, just a friendly one. The sexual kisses were reserved for the Railer who wasn’t there. “Now get your fine asses back to Harrisburg or wherever it is hockey players go when there’s no hockey.”

  “Home,” Layton said, taking a moment to shake my hand then press a bobblehead into it.

  “We’re all going home. Please, if you’re ever in the capital, give us a call and come see a game. I’ll make sure you have tickets waiting at the will call window.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. If I’m ever in Harrisburg, I will.”

  “And thank you for keeping our secret,” Adler whispered by my ear.

  I waved that off with a sweep of a hand.

  Then, en masse, they’d left. And Rainbow Skate had seemed so much larger, and far too still. I’d taken a seat right by the ice and had a long conversation with bobbly Tennant Rowe. Which had really gotten me nowhere. My head was still a quagmire of fear and doubt and anger. I hadn’t spoken to my mother yet. I was too hurt to take her calls. I’d hardly slept last night, tossing and turning, checking for texts from Dieter. I would look like a haggard pile of horse manure when I had to go out on the town with that miserable camera crew this evening.

  They wanted me to cruise the clubs in the Gayborhood, a lovely and festive part of town known for its fabulousness and rich gay lifestyle, stores, and nightclubs. They wanted me to flirt, giggle, tease; sprinkle the world with glitter, light, and homosexuality. Be Trent Hanson. But Trent Hanson didn’t want to cruise the clubs and preen for the cameras or the men who would flock to him. He just wanted to be left alone to figure o
ut what he was doing with his life. And why he seemed drawn to men who were living their lives in utter chaos.

  “Do you think I need counseling as well?” I asked resin Tennant. His head wobbled around. “Is that a yes or a no? You need to be more decisive. Those good looks will only get you so far, you know.”

  “Trent?”

  I started violently, nearly dropping Tennant to the cold cement. To my immediate right stood Pearl Denning and Scotty, my brave and brilliant student who was the only openly trans child in the ranks. Scotty held a huge part of my heart.

  I looked at the watch buried among several bangles on my wrist. “You’re here early,” I said, getting my professional Trent persona quickly in place. “Our private session isn’t until ten.”

  Mrs. Denning’s face was tight and lined with sadness. Scotty, who always smiled, was hiding inside her hoodie, one of a hundred she owned that had little Scottish Terriers on it. Everything she owned, it seemed, had tiny black dogs on it. It was so her.

  “There was an incident at school, and Scotty wanted to come early so she could talk to you about it. She won’t talk to anyone else.”

  “Well then, why don’t we sit down here and talk.” I patted the seat on my right.

  Mrs. Denning looked close to tears. She whispered, “Thank you”, then pressed a kiss to the top of her child’s red hoodie. She left us to talk. Scotty sat on the edge of her seat, her white figure skates dangling off a lean shoulder, long black hair escaping her hood.

  “Bad day at school?” I asked after a few moments of uncomfortable silence had passed.

  Scotty nodded.

  “Did someone make fun of you for dressing like a girl?”

  Scotty nodded.

  “That’s hurts, doesn’t it?”

  Scotty nodded.

  I wiggled up to the edge of my seat and crossed one leg over the other. Then I leaned further forward to peer into that dark hood of hers. “Did you know that I sew all my own costumes?”

  Scotty nodded, her dark brown eyes flitting from me to the ice then back to me.

  “When I was around your age, maybe a little older, I signed up for home economics as an elective because I was desperate to get my hands on those sewing machines. The one I had at home was old and hidden in the basement because…well, just because, for now.” Now was not the time to get into how much Clay disliked anything gay. Well, aside from the money a gay man made. He liked that damn well. “Anydoodles, I was the only boy to sign up for home economics, or ‘domestic science’ as they call it now. All the other boys flocked to wood shop.”

  “Did you get picked on for being in the girls’ class?” Scotty asked.

  “Unmercifully. And the names I was called. They were terrible.”

  “Brian Rothcote called me a freak and kicked me in the boy parts.”

  “Oh, baby, I am so sorry.”

  “He said I had balls and not a pussy so I’d better start acting like a boy.”

  “Dear heavens! How old is this troglodyte?”

  Scotty looked at me. “He’s eleven.”

  “Where does a child that young learn such nasty words?” I was stunned, sick with sadness, and more than a little pissed off. “I hope he got into trouble.”

  “Internet,” Scotty sighed. “He got suspended. I don’t want to go back to school. Mom said I could have today off but I have to go back tomorrow. Brian will be back on Friday.” She pushed her hood back just a bit and looked right into my soul. “Should I wear pants instead of a skirt from now on? What did you do when the boys beat you up for sewing?”

  “I added more darn sequins to my shirt,” I told her, and that was the truth. “That shirt was so sparkly the teacher needed sunglasses to grade it. Which she did. An A+, thank you very much.”

  I polished my painted nails on my bright green vest. Scotty giggled just a bit.

  “Baby girl, do not let fear dull your vibrancy. There are always going to be people who are jealous of how fabulous you are. And they’ll say mean things, and kick you. They may even hit you. But you keep wearing skirts and boots and backpacks with those adorable dogs on them, because it’s who you are.” I tapped her button nose.

  She leaped up and threw her arms around my neck, hugging me so hard I had trouble pulling in a breath. I held her close. She smelled like vanilla.

  “I love you, Trent. You’re so brave.”

  Brave? Not hardly. My mind pulled up an image of Dieter. Now that was bravery. And courage. And passionate kisses and gruff snorts of laughter. How had I fallen so deeply so fast? And what was I to do about it?

  Her mother’s eyes caught mine. She was crying into her mittens. And now I was crying too. Wonderful. There goes my liner. I pulled away from the hug just a bit.

  “So let’s get to work on your axel jumps. Did you bring that precious red outfit with the ruby skirt?”

  She nodded, then ran off to the girl’s locker room. Mrs. Denning pressed two fingers to her lips, blew me a kiss, then climbed up into the seats to watch.

  Okay, yes, now I was happy I’d taken that check from the hockey boys. This was a good place, and the children needed this rink and me. I’d have to dash them a note of thanks. And maybe ask where I could find a certain grinder who was going under the knife.

  I was at the hospital when Dieter woke up the following morning. Sitting there in that stuffy hospital room, a bag of chocolate kisses on my lap from my quick stop in Hershey. Yes, I’d eaten a candy bar on the way. Two hours behind the wheel of a rental car had made me anxious. Don’t judge me.

  His first reaction was slow, as if he were still battling the torpidity of the remnants of anesthesia. But then his eyes cleared. And I mean they were clear. Not blown out as if he were pumped full of narcotics.

  “Trent.” His voice was thick with sleep and pain, but soft. I smiled at Dieter.

  “Morning.”

  He tried to sit up. I rushed to my feet to help him. He seemed to enjoy my flittering around like a nurse, stuffing pillows behind him.

  “Do you want the nurse?”

  “No, I’m happy to see you here instead of him. He’s got this weird nose. It freaks me out.”

  “Okay.” I sat back down, then placed the bag of candy beside him. “Those are for you because I can’t give you real kisses.”

  “Why not?” He pawed at the bag resting by his hip, then lifted it to inspect it.

  “Because you’re just out of the operating room and…”

  “That was yesterday.”

  “Oh, well, still, you’re freshly operated upon.” I reached out to flatten the wrinkles out of the crisp white sheet.

  “They didn’t cut my lips.”

  My gaze darted from the bedding to that luscious mouth of his. “No, but we need time not kissing so we can figure out where we’re going in life.”

  “I’m going home and then into rehab. You look nice today. Casual. No color in your hair, but with color on your lips and your eyes lined. Please don’t stop doing that. I love you in makeup.” He sat holding his candy, staring at me as if I were sweeter than the chocolate in his hands. It made me feel warm and special to be looked at like that.

  “I was going for laid-back friend visit,” I quipped, motioning to my smartly fitted jeans and the gray #Filipino T-shirt I’d pulled on. In truth, I’d just grabbed clothes after texting Layton to find out which hospital Dieter was in.

  “So, we’re just friends?” He looked a little pale in the morning sun filling the room. The medicinal smell was unpleasant. Maybe I should have brought flowers instead of candy.

  “I think we’re past friends.”

  “Me too.” He shuffled a bit, grimaced, then ripped the bag of candy open. Little foil-wrapped droplets of chocolate flew over him and the bed, a few landing on the floor. “Grab a kiss.”

  I did, and slowly unwrapped it. Then I held it on my tongue until it melted. Dieter watched me intently as he chewed. We soon had a pile of tiny balls of foil and little paper ribbons mounded up on his
bed.

  “I’m so glad you’re doing this,” I finally said. “It takes courage to face your fears and get straight.”

  “They’re giving me a chance, the Railers.” He tossed me another kiss. I wished I could taste his mouth. I’d bet the combination of chocolate and Dieter would curl my little toes. “I don’t want to fuck up this opportunity. Hockey is the biggest love of my life.”

  “I understand that. The lure of the ice, the feel of it under your skates, the drive to be the best you can be.” I was terribly thirsty. I poured myself a glass of dusty water from the pitcher on the rolling stand beside his bed. Someone wearing squeaky shoes hurried past his door. “It’s hard to leave that behind, to turn away from competition.”

  “You did,” he pointed out. His hair needed combing. My fingers would be perfect for the job. I took a sip of water instead.

  “Due to mental duress. I’m back to coaching the kids at the rink.” I refilled the plastic cup and passed it to him. He emptied it quickly, then asked for another.

  “I bet you’re a great coach.”

  “Thanks. It’s fulfilling.” I took the empty cup and rolled it between my hands. “I’ve missed you. I’ve worried about you. They’re not giving you anything addictive in that, are they?” I jerked my head at the IV drip attached to his right arm.

  “Nah, dammit.”

  “Dieter—”

  “I was kidding. I’m okay, I guess. I missed you too. I miss the taste of that gloss and the way you feel tight up against me.”

  “We’re quite the twitterpated pair, aren’t we?”

  “Guess so.” He sighed.

  “Can I come see you in rehab? It’s only about two hours from Philly. I’ll be happy to make the drive on the days the kids or the rink don’t need me.”