Railers Volume 2 (Harrisburg Railers Box Set)

by RJ Scott

  He spat and cursed. I skated to my bench, smiling widely, knowing I’d probably get a fine, but it would be worth it. I could afford it. My contract gave me close to two million dollars a year. What was a few thousand lost in a fine?

  “Fucking Aquaman right here!” Tennant shouted amid the peals of laughter. I grinned at my friend and let the players tousle my sodden hair. “I wish it had been me doing that to him!”

  A trainer took my old water bottle and filled it with fresh, cold water—you fill the bottle but do not replace it because there is luck with my old bottle—while I took pats on the back from everyone but Erik. His gaze and mine tangled, though. He inclined his head. I did the same. Then I skated back to my crease with cold water and doused myself repeatedly while the penalty minutes were being assigned.

  We ended up with ninety seconds of four-on-four. Brady Rowe had been assessed a goaltender interference call and Adler Lockhart had gotten a roughing penalty. Four-on-four was good for me; there was more room on the ice, and I could see plays developing that much faster. Not much happened until the final twenty seconds, when a rolling shot deflected off the skate of my ex…whatever he was. Erik was trying to defend the net, I knew that. It was what the coaches call a “freaky deflection” that I simply couldn’t adjust quickly enough to stop. The puck slithered under my right leg pad a second before I could seal pad to ice. The red light flashed, and Boston celebrated right in my face.

  “I’m sorry, Stan. I didn’t even see the shot,” Erik was saying as I closed my eyes and looked heavenward, resting on my ass in my crease. I didn’t have a response for him, so I just got to my feet and gave him my back. My pipes and I had a long talk in Russian. Erik had left the ice by the time I’d stopped explaining myself to my pipes, who had done all they could this night.

  The loss stung a bit but, as always with sports, it was crucial not to dwell. Goalies especially can get mental blocks over a bad luck shot like that one that had bounced off Erik’s skate. During the post-game interviews, I was asked how I felt about the bad goal by Gunner.

  “Was not bad for him. Was bad for me. Was on me big bad.”

  The reporters nodded and moved on, gathering around Erik. Watching him trying to apologize to the city about that goal, I felt bad for him. A little bit.

  After the press left, we showered. Not Erik and me, no, that was not happening ever again. I made sure he was out of the showers before I went in. When I was drying off in front of my cubicle, several players gathered around me.

  “Hey, big guy,” Tennant said. I gave him a look that made him smile awkwardly. “Glad to hear that you’re cool with what happened out there.” He jerked his dark head toward the ice.

  “Is cool for papermen,” I replied, and returned to organizing my kit layer by layer.

  The gang of half-dressed players lingered. I flung my shoulder pads into my cubicle, lifted my gaze from my pads lying on their side, and glowered at the men assembled around me.

  “Stan, we know there’s some sort of past with you and Gunner. I mean, you’d have to be blind to miss the animosity,” Connor was now saying in his best captain tone of voice. Tennant I could push off, also Adler, Arvy, Dieter, and the rest, but the captain? No. Him I listen to, because he is our leader. I began to speak. Connor lifted a hand. “I don’t need to know what it is, but I do need to say that whatever it is needs to be handled. The tension is creeping into the locker room and affecting the team.”

  “I understand good,” I replied. Connor lifted an eyebrow. “I do. I understand good.” The words were jamming up inside my head. So many whirling thoughts and sentiments. Sorting the language was hard. “I’m not mad at Erik more.”

  “I’m not asking you to go over and kiss the man on the mouth or anything,” Connor interjected. A flash of buried memory flared to life. Of me doing just that, capturing Erik’s mouth as we tripped and stumbled into my hotel room, his hands pulling at my shirt, my fingers wound in all those golden curls. My body reacted with a rush of need that surged to my crotch. “Just try not to make it so obvious that you and him have issues.”

  “Truth,” said Adler. “There are players that we all have trouble with, right? But for this team to steam onward to the playoffs, we can’t let that dislike derail us.” He grinned at me. “See what I did there? I went with the train motif because we’re Railers and…yeah. Okay, I’m going to go shower now.”

  “Dude has got a point, Stan,” Tennant chimed in as Connor continued to study me like a bug pinned to a board. “Harmony is important. Maybe you could just go shake the guy’s hand or something?”

  “I will do or something on morning time.”

  “Maybe you should do it now.”

  I threw a dark look at Connor Hurleigh. I did not like his captain talk right now. So I stood up and continued with the bad eyeballs.

  “No time like the present,” he added as I tried to stare him down. Usually my size intimidated most, but not our captain. He folded his arms over his bare chest and tipped up his chin.

  “Fine. I am shaking hands now.” I stormed through the two men blocking me, nearly sending Tennant to his ass, and stalked up to Erik. I slapped his back. He grunted and whirled around to see who had struck him. I extended my hand. His beautiful green eyes darted from my face to my open palm. “All is groovy.”

  “Ah, okay. Thanks, Stan.” He placed his hand in mine.

  The other men in the room—hell, the room itself—seemed to be swallowed up by the universe. It was only Erik and me, skin on skin, eyes locked. Memories rode over me unbidden, like Cossack horsemen. The first time I saw him. Our bumbling attempts to communicate back when my English was not as peachy keen as it was now. His laughter, his smile, the way he tipped his head, the spark of desire in those emerald eyes, the feel of him under me, his body clamping down around me as he bucked and arched back for more of my cock.

  I ripped my hand from his, my prick hard but thankfully well hidden behind my cups. I turned and walked back to my space.

  “Is good now. Go leap off tall building in single bound.”

  Tennant snorted and clapped my back. Connor gave me a smile. Then they left me alone. I sat there, head down, waiting for my prick to soften and for Erik to leave. I waited until they were all gone. Only then did I go wash away the sweat. I dressed in silence, my thoughts and body confused about everything. Pete, the security man, stood at the player’s exit. He was a handsome man. His tattooed arm was impressive and masculine.

  “Sorry about that fluke. Happens, though, right?”

  “Yes, flukes happen. I am off to see pussy now.”

  Pete laughed. “Yeah, I bet you are. Night, Stan.”

  I looked at him oddly, then stepped outside. It was so cold. Deep cold that goes into your bones like back home. I missed my mother then. Terribly so. Going home to my big empty house was depressing. Soon I would be twenty-eight, and had no one to go home to but Lucy.

  “Yo, dude, about time, man! Come on.” Tennant appeared in front of me. He grabbed me by the arm and tugged me to a fancy car that Coach Madsen owned. “Took you long enough.”

  “I am going home with bus,” I argued when Ten opened the back door and waved at me to get in.

  “No, we’re taking you home. Now get in,” Tennant said.

  I planted my feet firmly in the few inches of new snow. “No, I am going home with bus.”

  “Stan, please get in. I’m too tired to sit here and listen to you two fight about this.” Coach Madsen sighed wearily, his arms dangling over the steering wheel.

  I got in, but only because he was a coach. Tennant dashed around and climbed into the front seat beside Coach Madsen.

  “When are you going to go for your test?” Tennant asked as we made our way to Hershey. His upbeat bopper music was playing. It was bouncy but not as bouncy as “Good Luck Charm”.

  “Soon.”

  “Cool! You’re going to rake in all the babes cruising through Hardscrabble.” Tennant and Jared laughed. I didn’t und
erstand how I could drive through a board game. Americans spoke bizarrely at times. “Buy a convertible!”

  “Those are hardly good cars to own when one lives where it snows,” Coach Madsen said.

  “They put heaters in them. You old men and your chilly feet.”

  “You weren’t complaining about my chilly feet last night.”

  I stopped listening to them tossing couple banter back and forth. Instead I just grunted and nodded until I was out of the car and safely in my house. Then I let my coat slide off my arms, and the yearning for someone doubled. Lucy appeared then, purring and acting silly. I bent down and picked her up. She licked my nose with her rough tongue.

  “You have breath like dead tuna,” I told her, then walked through my house, looking at all the bedrooms and wondering if I would ever fill them. Could I ever find someone who would love me as I loved Erik? Had loved. I did not love him now. I hated him. Yes. “We hate him like moldy bread on sandwich after bite.”

  I paused in the doorway of my bedroom, Lucy draped around my neck like a sable stole, and thought on what I had said.

  “We hate him like bite of sandwich with bread that is molding. Yes, that is much good English.”

  Lucy meowed in agreement. I reached up and removed the brown cat from my shoulders and dropped her onto the bed. It was eleven at night. I stripped off my suit and threw it into the hamper. Soon I would need to go to the dry cleaners to pick up my clean suits and drop off the dirty ones. I crawled into my bed, in nothing but my sexy boxer briefs that Tennant said all studs wear, and found Netflix on the plasma TV set attached to the wall. Lucy walked over my thighs, making toenail tracks until I removed her from my lap and told her to stay on her side of the bed.

  “You have much room,” I said while wagging a finger at her. She rubbed her cheek over my finger, then curled up on the spare pillow.

  “Let us find something good to make us feel better about shit life,” I said. Lucy twitched an ear in reply.

  I found my list of good movies. So many Elvis. Some were explosion movies that Tennant or Adler had suggested. Lots of fire and guns while the actors walked away from them with Cool Hand Luke attitudes. I flipped through the collection of gay movies I had on a list, but so many of them ended sadly, with the two leading men being apart at the end. Why would I want to watch that? I had lived it.

  I went back to Elvis and settled on Girls! Girls! Girls!, which I had seen fourteen times before. I liked it a great deal. He was so cool.

  “He is the swingingest Elvis,” I told Lucy as the movie started. Legs stretched out under the thick duvet, I began to drift off, the movie I was so familiar with not holding my attention as it usually did. My mind refused to stay focused. It wanted to go in bad directions, leading me down paths of green that matched Erik’s eyes, or to summer skies with a golden sun the same color as his curls.

  Soon, I gave up trying to make myself watch Elvis playing a poor Hawaiian fisherman and gave into the soft lure of the hot memories. My eyes closed slowly and he was there, as always when I needed to find release. I touched my stomach gently, letting the fantasy grab me wholly. The muscles under my hand twitched. My cock stirred. Eager and attentive, it began to fatten the longer I lay there letting erotic memory take over. Erik was on his knees inside a stall at the Moon Boy club in Helsinki. Back to the door, I lifted his curls from his brow as he sucked me off.

  My hand slipped into my briefs, fisting my hard cock. I began stroking myself, each hard tug in perfect syncopation with Erik swallowing my dick. Ah, he looked so good down there. An angel come from above with his cherubic yellow hair and stunning green eyes. He took all of me down his throat. His oral skills were amazing. I pumped harder, faster, gritting my teeth as an orgasm began to build in my balls.

  I told him to finish me off. He hollowed his cheeks, his gaze never leaving mine. I fucked his mouth then, long thrusts that buried my cock deeply in his throat. His sweet nose firmly resting in the thatch of dark curls at the base of my cock, he grunted and begged me visually to come, then popped off my dick with a loud slurp.

  “Da, pozhaluysta, bol’she moya lyubov’!” I shouted. “Yes, please, more my love.” My dream lover went down on me again. Held me there in his mouth and throat, eyes closed, and then pulled off slowly and held my cock as I came on his cheeks and jaw.

  I thrashed around the bed like a madman, the release hard and incredibly powerful. Lucy hissed and jumped down as I clawed at the bedding with my left hand, my right tight around my cock. Hot spunk coated my fingers, palm, and the sheets. When it was over, I lay there, wet and alone, staring at the ceiling.

  “Ty, che blyad?” I panted. “What the fuck?” I repeated in English so that Lucy could understand that I was as confused about that as she was, maybe more so. My cat only understood English, since she was an American cat. She didn’t know Russian, which was why she ignored me many times when I spoke to her. Lucy leaped back onto the bed, walked over and sat on my still heaving chest.

  My cat swatted my nose with a soft paw.

  “Yes, you are wise. Hit me harder.”

  Maybe it would knock Erik out of my head and heart for good.

  Five

  Erik

  When I woke up the next morning, I allowed myself exactly ten minutes of thinking about that freaky goal off my skate, and the fact that I’d been forced to shake hands with Stan, and that Stan had yanked his hand away so fast that I’d known exactly how he felt.

  Not just from a goalie’s point of view, either. I mean, it’s okay for me to be scrappy around the net, blocking bounces, helping the goalie. But… I buried my face in my pillow and groaned loudly.

  “Mr. Gunnarsson?” Amy’s voice was loud enough to penetrate the door, and she didn’t sound right. “I need help. Mr. Gunnarsson?”

  I was up off the bed quicker than you could say five on four, and yanked the door open.

  “What’s wrong?” I demanded, looking for my son, but he wasn’t in her arms and she looked as if she’d been crying. My world stopped in that moment, every terrible scenario I’d ever considered since becoming a dad ripping through me like wildfire. I shook her, shouted at her, pushed past her, and sprinted for Noah’s room, sliding to an unglamorous halt right next to his crib.

  He was there, my beautiful baby boy, sleeping, one chubby hand up by his face, the other in a loose fist on top of the blanket. He was breathing, I could see his little chest rising, and god, the nights I’d sat next to him watching for that simple sign he was okay. I’d never known that having a baby would turn my heart inside out and make me carry so much fear with me every day.

  “Mr. Gunnarsson,” Amy said from the door, and I turned to face her, angry that she’d scared me, even though I knew that was irrational. I took in a few things at once. She looked like shit, bless her, her long dark hair scraped back in a ponytail, her skin pale, and she was carrying a bowl that I recognized from the kitchen. “I think I’m going to…”

  She didn’t finish, only groaned and vomited into the bowl, then left the doorway. I was torn. Amy was clearly ill, and she was not much more than a kid herself, fresh out of college, looking for work. Should I go after her, be some kind of father figure despite being only a few years older than her, hold her hair, that kind of thing? So, with Noah sleeping, I did just that. I followed her, helped her, did all the gross things I’d gotten used to with Noah. I mean, sick, a full diaper, milk, I could do it all now.

  “Should I call a doctor?”

  “No, I don’t think I should have eaten the—” She was sick again and never did finish the sentence. Whatever it was she had eaten, I selfishly hoped I hadn’t had any of it, because missing practice today after last night’s debacle was not on my to-do list.

  So I helped her as much as I could, and found out it had been reheated rice, and no I hadn’t eaten that, because I’d been sulking in my room with a sleeping baby on my chest watching replays of the game.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gunnarsson,” she said pathetic
ally as I helped her to her room. It didn’t matter how many times I told her to call me Erik, she always reverted to using my last name. She said it was respectful; I just thought it was way harder to say a last name like mine than a simple Erik. I left her water, a clean bowl, and her cell phone, with orders to call the doctor if she needed to.

  Shutting her door, I leaned back against it and surveyed the tiny place I’d rented. Yes, it had three rooms, but it was in the middle of nowhere. Yes, it had a kitchen, but the carpets needed replacing. Noah was already crawling and cruising the furniture, and I’d wanted more for him. Closing my eyes, I joined everything together, even though I didn’t mean to—the loss last night, my goal, being unable to provide the home that Noah deserved, and the weight of blackness was heavy on me.

  Then I heard it, Noah burbling away, and the world righted itself in an instant. He was my everything. Equally, it hit me straight between the eyes: I had practice in two hours. I had a baby. And no nanny.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  With expert-level on packing for a trip out with Noah achieved, we were on the road. I’d changed twice already today, once because Amy had got a little sick on me, and the second because Noah had found a new game of flinging-the-cereal-and-milk-right-at-Daddy. The world was conspiring to make my morning from hell worse, but at the stoplight I reached over to Noah in his reverse baby seat, and he gripped my thumb tight, blinking at me with those huge green eyes.

  “You and me, buddy,” I said.

  “Bah,” he said back.

  “Yeah, yeah, bah.”

  We made it to Capital Ice Complex with half an hour to spare. I’d got there, yep, and my gear was inside the arena. But I had a baby with me. My mom’s words were right front and center. How fucking stupid are you? You think it’s easy having a baby? What the hell were you thinking? Get your money back, you stupid boy. Of course, the words had been in Swedish, and I was loosely translating “stupid boy”. She’d never understood why I wanted Noah, why I’d given every cent I had to get him, and she’d officially resigned from being my mom, in a way that I wasn’t sure we’d ever get back from. Dad wasn’t interested; he had a new family to worry about. One of the perks of being a famous Swedish hockey player was the abundance of women willing to take Mom’s place when she finally kicked him out for his whoring NHL ways.