Save The Date (Harrisburg Railers Book 9)

by RJ Scott

  “You need to save me,” he implored. “Send me out for food or something. I can get us Chinese or go to that Italian place, and I promise to come straight back.”

  I saw him exchange a look with Ten. Dieter was the only one who could help us to get Trent to leave.

  Another knock on the door and we all turned to face it guiltily.

  “Boys, unless you’re having a three-way, in which case I want in, you all need to get your asses out here now.” Trent sounded determined.

  “I can’t,” Ten said in a low whisper.

  “I can’t either.” Dieter had a small whimpering note to his voice.

  “Please don’t make me,” Ten added.

  Dieter crossed to the window. “What are we here? Two stories? I can jump that.”

  Ten joined him, and the two of them peered at the patio below.

  This was getting out of hand, and even though I wanted to find it amusing, I was kind of tense and headachy, and just wanted to snuggle up with Ten on our sofa and watch some crappy film on Netflix. I threw the door open with dramatic flair, and Trent nearly fell in. As it was, I had to catch him when he toppled where he’d been leaning on the door, and got an armful of silk and satin for my efforts. Ten and Dieter were frozen by the window, and I had Trent in my arms, and we all stood there staring at each other.

  “What are you doing?” Trent righted himself, then brushed glitter from my Railers’ hoodie, looking around, wondering what to do with the flecks of silver, then tapping them back onto his top.

  Ten said nothing. Dieter said nothing. Which left me.

  “I came to find Ten,” I said. “He was hiding.”

  “I have a headache—”

  “I needed to use the toilet—”

  Dieter and Ten spoke at the same time, and I left the three of them to it, heading back out to the place that used to be our living room with its cozy sofas and widescreen television. Now it was wedding central, or at least that is what Trent called it. He’d installed whiteboards. Three of them right in front of the television, one for the venue, one for guests, and the other for what he liked to call incidentals. One of which was green roses to match Ten’s eyes. Or something.

  I bypassed the room and headed for the kitchen, grabbing as much beer as I could, plus a healthy supply of non-healthy snacks, and sat on the sofa.

  Ten came back first, slinking into the room, and sat next to me.

  “You left me,” he accused and pushed his hand into the pack of Cheetos, coming out with a messy handful that he shoved into his mouth.

  “Do you really think you’d have gotten away with staying in the bathroom for that long?”

  He did this cute Cheeto pout. “I managed ten minutes; it was going well.”

  “Eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds.” I pointed at my watch, which showed the numbers in neon. “I timed you from the minute you left the sofa.”

  “I might hate you,” he muttered.

  I had a witty answer all ready to go, but it was Dieter’s turn to pad back into the room, and on his way past me, he took half the beer and snacks and carried the single chair near the window.

  “If I die of boredom, I want to be drunk when I’m doing it,” he said and swallowed nearly an entire bottle down. Thank god it was the off-season—that was all I thought as I watched him drink.

  Finally, Trent was back, and with steely-eyed determination, he felt it was important to summarize what we had so far.

  I stopped listening after the ninety-seventh mention of the roses.

  Next thing I knew an earthquake interrupted my beautiful dream of sitting on a beach somewhere hot, and I startled awake, only to realize it was Ten shaking me.

  “What do you think of that?” he asked.

  I blinked at him, then focused on Trent. “Can you uhmm… summarize?”

  “Cake tasting is Thursday. I’d like to slot that in with getting you fitted for your tuxes.”

  “Wait. I have a tuxedo. The one I wore to the casino night.” I turned my head to check Ten, whose eyes had widened as if he was warning me about something. “Remember, babe? You loved that tux.”

  “A secondhand tux for your wedding?” Trent’s voice was deceptively quiet. “Next you’ll be telling me that you want me to buy a cake from Walmart and then scrape happy birthday from it for the big day.”

  “Of course not,” I backpedaled. “The cake thing now… and… uhm… A new tux. Obviously. I mean, I was only joking.”

  Trent looked down at his wrist as if he was checking a watch, which he wasn’t, because he didn’t have one, but it was a very pointed glance. “Two weeks and six days, Jared, there is no time for joking.”

  “No, sir,” I deadpanned, and he raised a single perfect eyebrow. I’d faced down some of the best in the league, but that single eyebrow thing from Trent was enough to have me subsiding and doing a good show of pretending it was vital I select exactly the right Cheeto from the bag.

  “So we’re okay on the date for the cake and the tux. I’ll add it to the planner and send you the password.”

  Passworded planners? I’d clearly missed something big here and only hoped Ten had been taking notes.

  When Trent left, or rather when Dieter finally managed to persuade him that Ten and I needed time to consider options, the silence in the room was deafening.

  “I don’t know… what… yeah…” I managed.

  “It gets worse,” Ten muttered and showed me his phone. The page showed some kind of chat group, and I read the heading of it out loud.

  “Sex, Drugs, Groupies, etc., what is that?”

  “It’s a chat for our bachelor party.”

  “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

  “Yeah, well, the guys decided on the person organizing the bachelor weekend.”

  “What bachelor weekend?” I had no memory of a weekend. The last I’d heard, our bachelor party was to consist of a nice meal, with wine and beer of course, at a local restaurant. Well, at least that was my idea. We would probably push the boat out and book a room, but that was it.

  “Stan wanted it to be in Vegas—,” Ten scrolled up—“but Connor pointed out that if any of the Vegas team were still in town and they spotted us…” He left the rest unsaid, and I could fill in the blanks. “So then, this happened.” He scrolled some more and handed me the phone. I read the comment.

  Then I read it again.

  On the Railers team, there is one person who can be guaranteed to cause chaos, to mess things up, to speak inappropriately, and just in general be a pain in everyone’s ass.

  “No,” I groaned.

  “Yeah,” Ten said.

  “Please don’t tell me Adler freaking Lockhart is organizing our bachelor party.”

  “He volunteered, and no one stopped him,” Ten pointed out.

  I groaned and scrubbed my hands over my eyes. Then something hit me. “When did it become an entire weekend?”

  “I don’t know. Call him and tell him you want just the one night, somewhere close and friends only, private.”

  “You tell him,” I countered because I actively went out of my way to avoid Adler socially, for fear of being the next victim of one of his stupid-ass pranks.

  “You have my phone,” Ten said and sunk lower into the sofa, sitting on his hands, then closing his eyes with a loud sigh. “You do it.”

  I was going to push, but Ten looked tired, and there was still that nagging worry at the back of my mind all the time where he was concerned.

  “Okay,” I said and typed a quick message. One night, no negotiation, no weekends, no drugs, sex, or groupies. I signed it as Jared, so they’d know it wasn’t Ten, but at the last minute, I added Ten’s name as well. After all, we were in this together.

  The group chat blew up immediately. Stan harping on about Vegas, Adler stating we were spoiling his fun, Layton attempting to rein Adler in, Erik countering Vegas with Toronto, Ben suggesting we have it at the dog rescue place, Max agreeing with Erik and also Ben. I turn
ed off notifications on the chat and shoved the phone down between the cushions then slumped next to Ten.

  “What the hell are we doing?”

  In a smooth move, Ten straddled my lap, looking suspiciously perkier than he had a few moments ago. He cradled my face and kissed me, but I was stressed and tired and overwhelmed.

  He sat back on my knees and tilted his head. “Just let them all get on with it. As long as it’s you and me, saying our vows, being us, then the rest is just noise,” he said, then leaned back down for another kiss.

  This time I joined in, shuffling a little so that he fit on my lap perfectly. “Imagine eloping to that beach, though. With the ocean and the endless sky and hammocks.”

  “The sky would be the same color as your eyes,” Ten murmured and kissed me again. “And I can see us drinking fruity cocktails with tiny umbrellas.”

  “We could still do that.”

  Ten chuckled low in his throat. “My family would be heartbroken, Ryker would murder me, Trent would contact the FBI, and anyway, all of this, it’s not that bad. Together we can deal with all of this, and our day will be special and perfect.”

  Another kiss, and this time I was hard, he was hard, and I could see this going the way of sex on the couch.

  His cell vibrated deep down in the cushions, and it couldn’t be the chat group after I’d muted that mess of a conversation. He reached for the cell on instinct, glancing at the screen and wincing.

  “Who is it?” I asked as he connected the call. He shook his head.

  “What, Brady?” I could hear some of Brady’s words, but not enough to make sense of them. Ten shut his eyes tight and let out a noisy exhalation. “No, I want both of you. Yes, Adler is in charge of the bachelor party, and no, we’re not doing an entire weekend. Was that it?” He sighed some more; whatever Brady was saying was likely the usual big brother stuff, and Ten was used to it now. “What?” Ten asked and then sat upright on my lap, sliding off to the side and shooting me a look that screamed “what the fuck”?

  “What?” I mouthed.

  “Seriously, Brady?” Ten said into the phone and then put it on handsfree so I could hear.

  “… and they said the interview would be informal, wanted the three of us, to do a profile, and I said I was sure you’d be cool with it being the gay hockey phenom you are.” Brady snorted a laugh at his own joke.

  “You know it will end up being you and Jamie ganging up on me and making me look stupid.”

  “Well, duh,” Brady said. “That’s our job. And if you back out after saying yes, then you’ll just come across as a spoiled and whiny little brother.”

  “Fuck you, Brady,” Ten said without heat.

  “They want you as the headline. Why I don’t know. After all, I’m the one playing for an original six team…” He chuckled because that was his standard go-to line when it came to Ten playing for the Railers.

  Ten stared at the phone. “An original six team who can’t beat the Railers.”

  Brady didn’t rise to the goading, “Good, then it’s agreed. Saturday, Mom’s place.”

  “What if we’re busy Saturday?”

  Ten looked at me hopefully, but I had nothing. This weekend was free apart from working hard to avoid Trent.

  “Yeah, right, like two childless guys would be doing anything except lazing in bed,” Brady said. “I’ll text you details, and we’ll see you there. Bye, loser.”

  Ten stared at his phone after the call ended, and then placed it carefully onto the coffee table. “Harrisburg Hockey Now wants an interview with the Rowe brothers.” He didn’t need to explain, as I’d already put two and two together.

  “Okay, that doesn’t sound too bad. We can call Layton, and he can guide us through pointers for when you talk about the wedding.”

  Ten climbed in my lap again.

  “After,” he said and kissed me. “We can talk to Layton. After.”

  Kissing Ten was way more entertaining than wedding planning, interviews, and bachelor parties.

  Infinitely more fun.

  Tennant

  “… asking for input on the napkins. Should the edging be silver or blue, or should we simply have the edges end with white stitching? I mean, who thinks of these things?”

  “Someone planning a wedding?” Gatlin deadpanned.

  “Ah, well, okay, I’ll give you that one, but not me. You ever debated over napkin edging?”

  “There are days that I’m lucky I remember to use a napkin.”

  I snorted in amusement. “Seriously.”

  “You okay here?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. Nice to be able to chill here and just talk about stuff.”

  “Shout if you need to stretch.” I gave him a thumbs-up, then let my eyes flutter open. Gatlin smiled down at me—tattoo gun freshly dipped into a beautiful rich gold color. “We’re looking at another two hours or so, and I have orders that I’m not to let your neck stiffen up.”

  I rolled my eyes, the wild metal strains of Metallica’s Master of Puppets rocking and rolling through Gat’s inking room.

  “He’s worse than my mother. Never tell him I said that,” I muttered, sprawling out a bit on the well-padded tattoo table. Using the break that finishing up the outline of my lion had delivered, I stretched a bit, arms over my head, legs out. My neck was tender, but that was okay. It was time to cover that scar and bury all evidence of the night that had nearly ended my career.

  “Ah, Jared loves you. I worry over Bryan all the time. You kids all think you’re bulletproof.” He adjusted his glasses on his nose with a pinkie finger covered with violet latex. I loved that a dude who looked like Gatlin—all tatted up head to toe—stocked rainbow medical gloves. “You need a drink? Bathroom break?”

  “Nope. Give me an hour of fill-in, then we’ll take five.”

  “Okay, but if this gets too intense…”

  “Dude, it’s fine. It’s healed. You saw the note the surgeon gave me for you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Still, if it gets to be too much, speak up.”

  “Will do.”

  I closed my eyes, pressed the side of my head back to the small pillow, and offered Gatlin my neck. He rolled closer and began coloring in the golden lion. The Rowe coat of arms’ regal beast would be forever inked into my skin, standing on its back legs holding a silver sword with a sleek gold crown sitting atop his head. It was a symbol not only of the Rowe family’s English roots but of my courage, bravery, and strength in fighting back from my brain injury. Those flowery words had been Gatlin’s, not mine. I wanted the ugly-ass scar covered so it would quit reminding me and everyone else who saw it just how close it had been.

  The hum of the tattoo gun was steady, and yeah, there were a few times during the whole over-three-hour process that I winced and cursed, but when it was done, that small amount of discomfort had been totally worth it.

  “So, you like?” Gatlin asked, walking up behind me, glasses on the top of his head as I admired the stunning old English lion he’d inked on the side of my neck.

  “Dude, that is fucking bestial!” I tipped my chin up and to the side. The Rowe lion moved with me, its mouth opening into a wide roar.

  “Yeah, it turned out even better than I’d anticipated.” He grinned at me over my shoulder. The shop phone jingled. “Meet me at the register for your after-care papers.” He slapped my shoulder, then jogged off to answer the phone.

  I stood there for a minute or two longer, admiring the artwork, even if the skin under and near it was still red and puffy. The lion looked ready to rumble. I knew I was. There was a certain Raptor whose number was permanently tatted in my mind, not unlike the big cat was inked into my flesh. We’d play Arizona again. I’d be whole and healthy and searching for a little retribution for that three percent of my brain function that’d been stolen from me.

  “Ten, you still admiring your pretty face?” Gatlin shouted.

  I snickered, grabbed my Railers’ cap from under the table, and hustled out to pay th
e man for getting me that much closer to putting that dark time behind me once and for all.

  The next day, a sunny Friday, my family gathered at my parents’ kitchen table around noon. Jared sat at the island, sipping coffee and trying to stay out of the range of the camera. Brady and Jamie had insisted he be a part of this, even though their wives were in their respective cities. Not that I minded the company on the flight down. A couple of hours holding hands with my man without a frenetic figure skater flitting around was a relief.

  “If you’re ready?” Joy Pak asked. She was the only Asian female reporter from the wide pool of media requests for interviews with the Rowe family. Layton had handpicked her for her social awareness and the fact that she tended to get shoved to the side by the white male sports journalists. I nodded at her as a sound man fiddled with the mic attached to my tank top.

  Once the crew was out of camera range, it was all lights, camera, and action. Joy sat beside my father and to Brady’s left.

  “Hello, and welcome to Harrisburg Hockey Now’s special interview with the royal family of hockey, the Rowes,” Joy said with a smile for the camera. “Tell us what it was like growing up here in Myrtle Beach. People don’t generally associate ice hockey with sand and palm trees.”

  “It’s a great place to grow up,” Brady said, taking the lead because… well, he was Brady. “Hockey is slowly making its way below the Mason-Dixon line with great success. There’s room for skates and football cleats in the hearts of most southern sports fans.”

  Lots of nodding at the eldest Rowe boy took place.

  “Which of you has the best shot?” Joy asked with a sweet innocence that warred with the twinkle of mischief in her eye.

  “Probably Tennant,” Jamie admitted.

  “Well, only because we taught him how to shoot so well,” Brady added quickly.

  Everyone chuckled. Jared gave me a wink as I played along as expected and looked as humble as I could. I mean, it was true. I did have a better shot than either of my brothers, but boasting wasn’t what hockey players did. Ever.

  “How did you all feel when Tennant came out?” Joy inquired, pulling the jocular mood down into a rather serious place.