Save The Date (Harrisburg Railers Book 9)

by RJ Scott

  “And remind me, this is…?”

  Ten had struck up an immediate rapport with Jenny of Jenny’s Exclusive Cake Designs because it seemed that Jenny loved gay weddings. I wanted to remind her it was just a wedding, but I really think she’d bought into the ‘gay-men-are-all-cute’ thing, and Ten wasn’t disabusing her of that fact. Probably because Trent had warned us this was the only decent cake place in the entirety of Pennsylvania that had the capacity to make the cake at all.

  Also, Ten was taking this whole cake thing very seriously.

  “Chocolate, with dulce de leche buttercream.”

  I had no clue what dulce de leche was. All I knew was that when Ten bit into the cake, he closed his eyes and let out a sinful moan, the kind that only me sucking him off normally produced.

  “Taste it,” he demanded and offered up a fork with the tiniest piece of dolcey whatever chocolate cake. I did as I was told, as I was doing in this whole grand buildup to our big day.

  “Caramel,” I said as the sweetness hit my taste buds.

  Jenny looked at me patiently and exchanged a glance with Ten. “Yes, dulce de leche. Now, you can have the same buttercream in a vanilla cake. Then we can go wild and have chocolate ganache in each alternative layer.”

  Jesus, just how many layers is this cake?

  I must have said this out loud because Jenny pouted at me, and Ten stifled a laugh.

  She waved her hands in the air. “My vision is five layers at least, alternating with the different buttercreams, and then covered in exquisite fondant, with a tumble of roses down one side, curving to the front.”

  I knew she was talking because sounds were coming out of her mouth, but hadn’t Ten and I already come up with our own vision for our cake that was going to be at our wedding?

  “We just wanted a puck,” I said when Ten stared down at his plate of nibble-sized cake samples.

  Jenny stopped talking and was a hundred kinds of confused. “A puck?”

  I did a swinging motion with a pretend hockey stick. “You. know, a puck, six ounces of vulcanized rubber, the things we hit into nets because Ten is a hockey player.” I waited for at least one of those descriptions to hit home and watched as she shuddered.

  “Pucks are black,” she announced with great authority and looked at Ten for backup. He slid lower in the chair and left me carrying the conversation. Ass. I don’t think he’d forgiven me for ducking out on the Stan-Vegas-Backyard chat that he’d had to handle. This was payback. I pulled my shoulders back. Jenny was an itty bitty little thing, probably needed a stool to reach the table she worked on. I was a former NHL D-man; I could face her down. Maybe.

  “We’d like it in the shape of a puck,” I started off with confidence. “But we’d probably be cool with two layers as two pucks. It doesn’t have to be black. It could be…” I searched for an alternative to black and recalled the one I’d received from my old team when I retired after my heart op. “Silver. It can be silver. Can you do silver?”

  “Silver,” she said faintly and sat in the closest chair.

  “Yep,” I was warming to this now. “And maybe with the logo of our team on one of the pucks. I found this place that screen prints logos onto edible discs of icing, so you wouldn’t have to draw it from scratch.”

  I felt so damn helpful, and I think I might have even smiled at her.

  “Mr. Madsen, I make couture cakes,” she said and picked up the leaflet with the options we were supposed to tick, proceeding to fan herself with it. “I have won several design awards and catered the best society weddings other cake designers would kill to work on.”

  “Excellent,” I offered because that all sounded fine, and it appeared to me she wouldn’t have any trouble making a puck-shaped cake. I mean, pucks are round, and it would be easy. Right?

  “No, you don’t understand—”

  The door opened, and a cute little bell tinkled discreetly.

  “So sorry I’m late,” Trent sashayed in, pushing red-rimmed sunglasses back into his hair and revealing full rainbow eye makeup. “Stan wants a temporary rink with deck hockey for the kids, and I had to explain that actually we needed that room for the string quartet. So I said to him—”

  “Mr. Hanson,” Jenny interrupted and jumped to her feet. “Mr. Madsen wants a cake shaped like a puck. A silver one.”

  Trent’s mouth fell open. Then he shook his head. “That won’t do,” he said.

  I looked at Ten for support, but somehow during this discussion, he’d cleared the entire plate of samples. I knew we should have done tuxes first. I wasn’t going to get help from my fiancé, so it seemed like clearing up this issue was all up to me, then.

  “Wait a minute, Trent—"

  “Silver isn’t the theme,” Trent interrupted. “I’d have to change the colors, and I just found the right green roses as well.” He pouted thoughtfully and then clapped his hands. “But what about Railers blue. That would work with a silver cake. Jenny, what do you think?”

  I imagine she wanted to say that she thought the world had gone mad and that there was no way in hell she was going to lower her standards to make a silver cake in the shape of a puck. She didn’t say any of that.

  “Wonderful,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Now Ten decided to join in. “The bottom layer chocolate with the caramel, the top vanilla with the ganache. Silver. With the little dents all around, and on top, we want it to have crossed hockey sticks and the words Mr. and Mr.”

  Jenny seemed as if she was about ready to order us out of her shop, but I guess if she was free enough to make a last-minute cake for us, then she wasn’t super busy at all.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Rowe,” she said and added something that sounded like it contained the word fuck, vision, and whatever.

  We paid what she asked. I didn’t even check the amount, and she didn’t lose the smile pasted on her face until we left. When I glanced back, she was at the counter with her head tilted up as if she were praying to the god of dulce cream and chocolate ganache, asking for patience.

  “You handled that really well,” Ten said and brushed crumbs from his Railers’ T-shirt.

  I hustled him up against the nearest wall and kept him there, my eyes narrowing as he smirked at me. “You ate all the damn cake,” I said with dark undertones, trying to be threatening. He burst out laughing, then pulled me in for a cakey kiss.

  I decided I quite liked those and would have had more if Trent hadn’t yanked us apart and warned us we had ten minutes to get to the tuxedo place.

  All I could think was that they would have private changing rooms, and I could go to my knees and—

  “There will be no sex in the fitting rooms of Lethe Taylors,” Trent stated.

  I really did my best to look innocent, but the fact that I had to adjust myself discreetly was enough to give me away.

  Damn Trent Hanson.

  “I shouldn’t have eaten all that cake,” Ten said after the fifth tuxedo we tried on.

  “Damn right,” I agreed and peered at my reflection, wondering how in hell I was going to sit down in such tailored pants.

  “What do you think about getting married in Railers’ tracksuits?” he mused.

  I elbowed him. “While I agree that is a great idea, can you imagine the nervous breakdown Trent would have, not to mention Stan, who said he’s wearing something special.”

  Ten shook his head, “I heard it’s ruffled again. Adler said we could always photoshop the photos.”

  “It wouldn’t be Stan unless he was in the loudest, most Elvis-like suit.”

  “You know what?” Ten began and stopped fiddling with the jacket that fit him like a glove. “I think we look pretty sharp in these.”

  We weren’t in matching suits; his was a beautiful pale gray, and I was in a contrasting dark navy. He’d picked it out the moment we walked in, said I should wear a blue shirt that matched my eyes. How did he know to say the very most perfect thing?

  “You look so handsome,” I mur
mured, and we learned in to kiss and almost made it.

  “I’m coming in!” Trent announced loudly, then came in with a hand over his eyes. “Is it safe?” It was all for show because he dropped his hand and looked right at us. Then he lost all of his flamboyant Trent-ness, and I thought he was going to cry. His eyes were bright with emotion. “Oh my stars,” he said. “You both look…” He pressed his lips together and then nodded as if he was having some kind of private discussion in his mind. “Perfect,” he summarized. “Sometimes I wish Dieter would…” He trailed off, then brightened. “Onwards and upwards. We have Ryker, Jamie, and Brady here in the morning for their fittings. Now you’re ticked off the list, so you’re free until the rehearsal dinner tomorrow evening.”

  This was the first I’d heard about a rehearsal dinner, but I didn’t care what we did now, because I really felt as if I’d reached that part of the whole thing where it was just about me and Ten. Something in Trent’s expression had love and affection welling inside me. For him and his open generosity and emotion, for beautiful tuxes and helpful tailors, and for the puck-shaped cake. But most of all for Ten.

  Trent made a note of pick-up times in a journal fat with notes, and then we went our separate ways; tonight Ryker and Jacob were staying over, and I had a whole heap of things planned from pizza to popcorn, games, films, and talking hockey.

  “Dad? Can we talk?” Ryker crouched next to me by the dishwasher. Games and films had been waylaid by Ten being in a cake and pizza coma on the sofa, and Jacob joining him in support. Jacob had been up all night with a cow or something like that, and to be fair, he looked exhausted. Ryker, on the other hand, was wide awake and agitated about something, and I think I knew what it was. After the wedding, he was moving to Arizona. Not only was this a long way from Jacob, and it was to join a team he was dreading. I knew my son, and I could see the dark cloud above his head.

  I shut the dishwasher and set it running before wiping my hands on the nearest towel.

  “Let’s shoot some pucks.”

  He followed me out for the traditional post-dinner Dad/Ryker puck handling chat. From an early age, Ryker was all about hockey, and we’d settled into this routine, when we could, of shooting pucks and talking.

  I didn’t start the conversation, allowing my muscles to warm, aiming at the center of the net in our back yard, watching as the rhythm of Ryker’s movements settled his agitation.

  He finally stopped and then scooped the puck up on his stick, bouncing it there as he said what was on his mind. “Rumor has it that the Raptors are going to announce a rebuild. I heard it from Matt. Do you remember Matt Lewis?”

  “Yeah. First-round pick, Calgary, shoots left,” I rattled off the Lewis kid’s stats from memory. I wanted to know the kind of players my son would meet on the ice, and I had hoped that the Railers could have picked up Lewis. He was a strong forward. Of course, I’d hoped we’d get Ryker, but that didn’t happen.

  “Matt’s uncle is the assistant coach in Dallas and is friends with this guy, who is a hockey journalist…” He took a deep breath and exhaled noisily. “It’s a long story, but yeah, looks like I got drafted by a team that’s not only tanking but has plans to make a statement about a freaking rebuild.”

  I had to tread carefully here. “There’s nothing wrong with a rebuild, Ry. All teams go through this at one point or another. It could be a team doesn’t have the young kids coming up from their farm teams, or they lose key players in trades, or hell, it could be the place they play or the schedule they had to keep that messed with them.”

  Ryker stopped tossing the puck and instead flicked it high into the air, watching it curve and fall, and knocking it baseball-style into the net. My son had mad skills, if I say so myself.

  “What if I get lost in that shuffle?”

  He’d expressed his worries about the Raptors several times, and every time I’d explained that the worry was a waste of time, that he had to keep his head down, use his strong work ethic, and play his best. Maybe it was something to do with the wedding or the pizza or the tuxes or even the damn cake, but I was feeling different tonight. Ryker needed me to be the proudest dad I could be right now. He also deserved honesty and not just packaged words.

  I leaned my stick against the net and gripped his shoulders, staring into eyes the same shade as mine.

  “Ryker, son, it could be shit. You’re walking into a notoriously shaky team and a locker room that won’t be full of hope. But you know what? You can change that. Every single shift you put in, every practice, you can work that Ryker magic, and you can make a difference. I love you, Ryker, and I’m biased as hell, but you are going to be a star, and you will drag that team kicking and screaming into a new style of play. I know you will, and I’m so proud of you.”

  Ryker was thoughtful and then gave me a cautious smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “You’re welcome.” I picked up the stick, but Ten walked into the space and slipped his arm around my waist.

  “What are my fiancé and my favorite stepson-to-be doing out here?” Ten mused. He grinned and held out a hand for one of the sticks we had in a storage container. “Blindfolded and first to twenty?” he threw down the challenge to us both, but I stepped back and let them get on with it, content to watch the two most important people in my life from the stone bench, only shuffling over when Jacob sat with me.

  “Why do they have T-shirts tied around their eyes?” Jacob asked and yawned behind his hand.

  I huffed a laugh. “With them? I find it best not to ask.”

  Tennant

  My love for you is like rivers of love running through my heart.

  I stared at the line I’d written in my tablet.

  “Tennant, that blows a big donker,” I mumbled and deleted the hell out of that stupid sentence. The wind whipped around Reservoir Park, carrying the fine watery particles from the Wellspring of the Future fountain to my face and bare arms. I glanced up from my now blank Word page, my eyes shaded by the Railers’ cap tugged down to my eyebrows, and stared at the statues of parents playing with their young children. It was a beautiful day in Harrisburg, mid-eighties, low humidity, and skies as blue as my fiancé’s eyes. Jared. The man I loved and whom I was marrying in five days. Five. Days. And me with no vows written.

  “Help me, statue mom. You’re my only hope,” I whined and shimmied down lower on the park bench.

  I’d thought getting out of the house would help. I mean, our place was ground zero for wedding madness. Trent woke us up at seven a.m. every day—how I wished he’d go back to Philly—with an insane amount of exuberance and a list as long as the filmy scarves he wore. There was no reining him in. We’d tried. We’d begged Dieter to keep his boyfriend at his place at least until eight or nine. Big D had replied that there was no keeping Trent anywhere when he had an event to plan. Which explained why, when he’d been competing, Trent had been on the ice at five in the morning every day. He was nothing if not dedicated. A little less dedication to the perfect wedding wouldn’t have been frowned on, though. So yeah, I snuck out, leaving Jared with Trent and my mother to work out seating arrangements. I’d pay for that abandonment later, I was sure.

  “Right,” I said aloud, making myself stop daydreaming about sexual paybacks.

  My love for you is like a waterfall that flows over the rocks of my heart.

  I read that line again.

  “That’s worse than the first one,” I moaned and deleted it with undue force. Great. Just great. I could see it now, me facing Jared after he read this epic romantic speech filled with words about love and commitment and saying something like, “Totes dude. Right back at you.”

  Someone sat down next to me, their elbow bumping mine. I tossed the guy a glance and saw that it was a kid. Young boy, maybe ten or so, and he was frowning as deeply as I was, only his glum was directed at his phone and not a tablet.

  “Sorry,” the kid said, then stared right at me. His dark eyes widened. “You’re Tennant Rowe,” he gushed, his gr
umpy mood vanishing.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I replied, offering him my hand. “And you are?”

  “Kyle Reynolds.” We shook, and I signed his left sneaker. “This is incredible,” he said, running a finger over my signature on the side of his Converse high top. “You hang out here a lot?”

  “Nah, I’m here trying to figure out my wedding vows, but between you and me”—I leaned to the side all covert-like—“I’m terrible at this kind of stuff. My mom had to tutor me through tenth grade English, and even then, I only tugged down a C.”

  “Bummer. Maybe your mom could help you with your vows for Coach Madsen?” He shrugged, then tossed his wild blond hair from his face.

  “Probably, but I kind of wanted to do this by myself. What’s got you in a grump?”

  He exhaled theatrically. “I’m trying to hunt a shiny—”

  My ears perked up. “A Pokémon shiny?”

  “Yeah. You know about Pokémon?” Kyle asked with caution.

  “Dude, seriously?” I shoved my tablet into the tiny backpack I’d brought and pulled out my phone. “Have you tried gym raids? I found two that way. Oh! And make sure you keep hatching the eggs.”

  Kyle and I then went on this massive hunt around the park for a shiny for him. Sadly, we never found one. They were rare, but he did capture an elekid in the wild that he’d not had before. So overall, a successful hunt for him. When we were done, we took a break in the shade under a fat old oak that overlooked the Levitt Pavilion bandshell. There was a concert scheduled there for this evening that Jared and I had talked about attending.

  “This has been fun,” Kyle said with a wide smile. “Can we do one more selfie?”

  “Totes.” I dropped an arm around his shoulder, and he snapped a few shots.

  “Okay, so you helped me with finding an elekid, so maybe I can help with your vows?”

  “Oh, man, I so wish you could. See, it’s not like I don’t know what’s inside me.” I rapped my breast with the side of my fist. A bee buzzed past, intent on checking out the flowering bushes that waved in the wind. “I have so much love inside me for him, right? He’s the perfect man for me. He grounds me when I need tethering, and he lets me fly when I need freedom. He laughs with me and at me, holds me when things are bad, and dances with me when things are good. He’s the world to me. I just wish I could say all that in a flowery way.”