by RJ Scott
Our vet, Dr. Vince Owens, was a visiting vet who volunteered his time and never charged us unless it was something major that required surgery. Then the animal went to his office and we had to cough up the cash. Shots and routine stuff, Vince provided for free. And that was a real lifesaver. Paying for routine veterinary care would sink us, and the city really needed a no-kill shelter.
Sure, we had a big shelter over on the other side of the city, but they euthanized. A sad fact to be sure, and something that I hoped to avoid at all costs. If Crossroads closed, every dog and cat there would be shuttled across town. The majority would be put down, as they were older or had health issues. Hell, we were still trying to find homes for the old dogs people had dumped on our stoop last Christmas.
What kind of bastard dumps their old dog to make room for a Christmas puppy?
I was getting morose again. Time to get out of this stuffy box and maybe make the rounds. I pushed to my feet, stretched, and peeked around the desk at Bucky. Clear blue eyes blinked at me, his face resting on his front paws. Since malamute breeders cringe at blue eyes, we suspected that was why Bucky had been left outside a bar when he was about three weeks old. I guessed the breeder—rotten shit that he or she was—had seen those blue eyes and decided to get rid of that unwanted gene in a dumpster. Luckily for Bucky, Liam had found him, led to the trash receptacle by the whimpering, and brought him home to me.
“Morning, Winter Soldier,” I whispered. His left ear twitched. “You know your other dad named you something pretty amazing, right?”
He yawned, stretched, and slowly got to his feet. He knew he was kickass.
“Let’s go see what the other dogs are doing this morning.”
Bucky and I escaped the office for over an hour. Part of my job, aside from paperwork and groveling, was making sure all the animals were being treated humanely and that the facility was as clean as a whistle. Volunteers were saviors and angels in my book. Old women, college students, and those with gentle and loving hearts did some of the nastiest jobs in the shelter. You had to have a good heart to clean kennels and scoop litter boxes for nothing.
“Hey, boss.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see Diana jogging toward me. She was the kennel manager, but her title also covered the “Cat House”, a name we had wittily coined for the feline area.
My conversation with an old lab mix came to an end, but Bucky and the silver-muzzled black dog continued visiting.
“You have a call from Layton at the Railers,” Diana said.
Layton Foxx worked on the social media for the Harrisburg Railers and we needed to discuss how the team and the shelter could work together.
“Is he on the line now?” I left the kennel, which had been recently sanitized with pine disinfectant. I was aiming for the main office, which was where the public entered and began adoption proceedings.
“No, he said to call him when you had a minute. You think they’re going to let us go to the arena with more dogs? That last visit netted us eight adoptions!”
Diana was a darling woman. Mid-forties, divorced, daughter in college. Short, kind of plump, curly brown hair cut short, and trustworthy. She was the only person in the shelter who knew the horrid details of Liam’s last month. She’d suffered through his loss with me. And now, bless her, she felt she needed to guide me back into the world of romance.
“Yeah, that was a great idea. They seemed open to that becoming a regular thing, but since they’re now in the playoffs, our visits are going to be limited.”
“Well, he said he wanted to talk to you at your earliest.”
I whistled for Bucky. “Maybe I’ll just ride over to the arena.”
“Office getting a bit claustrophobic?” She gave me a knowing look.
“Just a bit,” I confessed, snapping a leash onto Bucky after he stopped the “WEAREGOINGINTHECAR!” dance. “I’ll be back in an hour. Call if anything massive happens.”
She shoved me out the door. Bucky and I crossed the parking lot, stopping to chat with a family eying Fifi, a female poodle who had been bumped by a car about two months ago. She was an older dog, and her healing had been slow, but now she was back in form and looking for a forever home.
After I directed the man and woman to the office, Bucky led me to my old Jeep Cherokee. We got him buckled in first, then I snapped the seat belt around my chest. I sniffed the air.
“Why does my Jeep smell like dog?” I looked at Bucky. He looked at me. “You need a bath.”
He whined a bit. Bucky hated water but loved the snow. Snow could melt all over him and that was fine, but you fill up the tub and he was hiding behind the couch.
“Okay, so what do you want to listen to? Earth, Wind, & Fire, or Kool and the Gang?”
He picked EW&F. I could tell. Dog loved that band as much as I did.
Traffic was light this time of day. The morning commuters were where they needed to be, and lunch was a couple of hours off. I checked my phone, found nothing from my great-aunts, whispered a thanks to the Big Guy, and turned up The Best of Earth, Wind, and Fire.
Cruising to the north side of town, jamming and singing, I pulled into the East River Arena and parked by the same door I had used when I’d been there before. There were no people to be seen, just cars, some pretty damn expensive.
“Bet that Jag over there doesn’t smell like dog,” I mentioned to Bucky. He sneezed. “Oh hell, Shining Star.”
Damn, but I loved this song. I cranked the volume up and started seat-dancing. I would have gotten out and danced, since I was a pretty good dancer, but seat-dancing and singing would have to suffice. I liked singing too. Pastor Bert at my church thought I had a fine voice. Course, he said that to everyone in the choir, but I took it to heart.
I was belting out the lyrics, the windows down, enjoying the living hell out of my hour of office freedom. Someone slapped me on the arm through my open window. It hurt. I mean, like it really hurt. I threw a look to the left, and there stood the huge Russian I’d met a couple of times previously. Stan. The Railers’ goalie. He was grinning widely.
“I make dance too! Like Dick Clark!”
I gaped at the moose shaking his ass all over the parking lot. The man with him, a leaner guy with a head of blond curls, chuckled at him but never once asked him to stop.
“I am making milkshake to bring boys for to my yard,” Stan yelled.
That one got me, and I laughed out loud. Bucky barked loudly, picking up the happy vibes.
“Dude, you are for sure going to have all kinds of boys in your yard,” I told Stan after I’d exited my Jeep and had Bucky’s leash in hand.
“Thank you. I am good with shaking money maker. Is this dog for us?” Stan crouched down to run his fingers over Bucky’s soft head.
“Stan, we really can’t do a dog yet,” the blond said.
“Oh, well no, but soon. We win Cup and then make dog. Big one. Like this, but ugly with long teeth.”
“I’m not sure we can find you an ugly dog with long teeth,” I confessed.
“Yeah, we’re not looking for an ugly dog. Stan,” the blond said, and extended his hand. We shook, then he led Stan off, fingers linked with the big Russian’s. Well, huh. Gay people were just all over the place. I did recall reading about Tennant Rowe coming out but had never heard anything about the goalie. I wasn’t a huge Railers fan. My heart was with the Washington hockey team, since I’d been born and raised in D.C. and only moved here after college to keep an eye on my two elderly great-aunts.
Aunts who were awfully quiet today.
I checked my phone again, saw nothing from the police or the neighbors, and decided to enjoy a peaceful and tranquil day.
“Nice dog.” I paused just this side of the players’ entrance at the deep voice coming from behind me. There was something about that man’s voice…the timbre of the bass or the way he spoke. Not sure what it was, but the last time he’d spoken to me my body had had the same kind of reaction. A spear of latent heat low in my bel
ly followed by a shiv of icy dread.
“Thanks.” I wanted to stare at the door. Or run. I couldn’t do either of those, though, so I turned to face the bearded man. Christ, but he was fierce-looking. Like a Viking, with piercing eyes and an aura that screamed berserker. He was bigger than me. Taller by at least four inches and probably sixty pounds. He was wearing a suit, as Stan and Erik had been, but his looked incredibly fine on his burly frame. Dark blue with a silver tie and a white shirt. His biceps strained the material trying to contain them.
“His name is Bucky.” There now, I had spoken to the man who made my heart leap around inside my chest like a frog on a highway.
“Like Captain America’s sidekick?” He looked down at my worn T-shirt with Cap’s shield on it.
“Exactly like that.”
He took another step, which put him into my little personal space bubble, his gaze and mine locked. I wet my lips and jerked my chin up a bit. I wasn’t going to let some hockey player intimidate me.
“Cute dog. Hot owner.” He gave me a long, slow look, petted Bucky, and stepped around the dull-witted man trying to digest the fact Mr. Fear had said he was hot. “Are you coming in, or are you teaching your dog to open doors mentally?”
“I’m here to see Layton Foxx.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m here to participate in morning skate.”
“I know who you are. Max van Hellren. You played for Washington four years ago.”
He tugged the door open and settled a kind of bored look on me. “Yeah, that was me. You like Washington?”
“Hometown team.” Bucky barked to back me up. Max smiled. All the ferocity that oozed out of him dissipated when he smiled. The man was seriously fine.
“Maybe I can change your mind about which team to cheer for, Mr. Washington Fan.”
“Ben. My name is Ben.”
He nodded just once, his hand still keeping the door open. “Ben. I like that. Suits you. So, are we coming in or are we going to flirt here in front of Pete?”
A security guard peeked around the door and winked at me. I wanted to die. Right there.
“I don’t flirt,” I snapped. I stalked around Max and Pete and went off to find Layton Foxx. Determination hot in my breast kept me from looking back to see if Max was checking out my ass. I hoped he was and I prayed he wasn’t.
Chapter Two
Max
I followed Tall Dark and Gorgeous into the arena, kind of disappointed when he turned left, heading for the admin offices, and I had to carry on into the bowels of the arena and the locker rooms. I wasn’t stupid; there was a spark there with Ben-the-Washington-Fan, and you know, love is love, and sex is sex, and I’d surely like some of the latter with him. Of course, he’d have to leave his dog outside the room, but we could work around that.
Still, it didn’t matter. This was the Railers, the biggest rainbow-flag-flying team in the history of the NHL, I wasn’t one to go around flirting with strangers in front of people who might see me. I had a reputation as a hard guy to uphold, and flirting was a hundred kinds of soft and sexy and hot.
“A word?” Coach Madsen asked as he stepped out from the shadows. As if he’d been waiting for me.
“I’m not late,” I said, and looked at my watch just to check. As soon as I saw I was in fact at least an hour early, I felt a familiar dread seep into me and I had to stop myself from pressing a hand to my head.
No one knows. No one will ever know.
Coach Madsen, or Mads as we called him on the team, frowned at my exaggerated reaction. “No, jeez, cool your jets—I’m not a school principal, and you’re not late. I just wanted to go over some video with you from Saturday’s game.”
Relief flooded into me as quickly as dread had, and yet again I was in the position of having to look as if nothing in the world worried me at all. I wouldn’t have to lie for very much longer; this was my last year in hockey. I knew it, Coach Madsen knew it; hell, the entire NHL was painfully and vocally aware this defenseman, over thirty now, was on his last hurrah on an expansion team.
Never mind the Railers had made it to the first round of the Stanley Cup, the gleaming goal for any hockey player, I was still a man on his way out on a team that still hadn’t shown exactly how far they could go in the standings. Last year they’d made it this far and been knocked out. This year they had me.
Oh, and wonder boy Ten, also Toly, Dieter, and poor Arvy at home with a fucked knee, and Stan in goal, and…yeah, it wasn’t just me, but anyone who looked at my record would be able to see I could make a difference.
If I don’t collapse and die on the ice first.
Way to be melodramatic.
“Okay, Coach, we can do that. You want to do it after practice?”
“It was just one thing—come in now,” Mads said, and began walking toward the office he shared with the goalie coach. He expected me to follow, and I did. I respected the hell out of Jared Madsen. A solid defenseman, he would have gone all the way on a team that loved him if it hadn’t been for a heart issue. He’d chosen to stop then, wanting more from life than the rush of playing. But then he’d found Ten, so he was okay, living his dream vicariously through his lover and being the best D-coach I’d ever had the fortune to play for.
Why would I want to give up skating, even with my issues? I had no one to replenish the gap that skating filled. I had glory and success in my future, and nothing was getting in my way.
Although I wouldn’t mind the odd pit-stop with a strong, sexy, cute, dog-owning man who’d caught my eye.
Mads sat at his desk and swung his chair around, pressing a button to start the VT.
“This,” he said, and pointed at the screen.
It was another Flyers game. All we’d done was watch game tapes over the last few weeks since we’d captured our place in the finals. We’d drawn the Philly team as our opponent and needed to get as much information as we could to make our game plans. Coach Benton was all about the process, about playing the game and not worrying about tricks from the other team. His mantra was that we played right and we’d have a greater chance to win.
But we all wanted that edge; that one small thing that could light the lamp.
“See?” Mads gestured with a laser pointer. “See how they lose control on the rebound here? If you could get in, you could collect that and shuttle it up without losing sight of Ten.”
“Play it again.” I sat on the corner of his desk, making sure not to put my entire weight there in case the damn thing collapsed. I wasn’t one of those D-men who were light on their feet and all about finessing the puck off the other team’s offense. I was the grinder, the heavyweight who wasn’t afraid to take punches and give them straight back. I was an instigator, a defender, the man who could take a lagging game and give the team the impetus to fight back. A throwback to the old and bad days of hockey, and every team needed someone like me when they had generational phenoms like Ten on their team.
I was good at what I did, and the problem there is that when you're really good at what you do as a D-man, you get sent out against the opponents' most skilled scorers. Damn, it’s hard to keep up with some of them. Like Ten for instance, although luckily for me I was on his team now.
The coaches put me with Ten, I had his back, and for that I knew Jared respected me.
I thrived on that, on respect, being the hero, hearing the roar of the crowd and knowing they loved what I was doing for their team.
Christ knew what I would do when this was over. I couldn’t be a coach, not like Mads. I’d want to be on the ice all the time, muscling my way through another game.
“So, what do you think?” Mads asked as he played it for the third time. I could see what he was showing me, and I needed to get my head out of thinking about the next part of my sorry life and focus on the here and now. Here was the arena; now was our upcoming first game against the Flyers.
“I think they should tone down the orange,” I quipped, in reference to the brightness of the Flyers’ gear.
“About the—”
“I know what you mean, I can see it, I’ll work on it.” And then because this was Ten I would be looking out for, I added what I knew Mads wanted to hear. “I’ll get to the puck but I won't let them get to Ten.”
“I wasn’t worried about that,” he lied to my face.
“Of course not,” I lied back.
That was how we rolled.
When I left the small office, heading for the locker rooms, I came face to face with Stan on his hands and knees, in his full goalie kit, ass in the air, fussing over the dog Ben had brought in with him. No sign of Ben at the moment.
Stan spoke Russian to the dog, who had rolled on its back, exposing its belly for a rub. I made out one word, the name Noah, then a lot more curiously shaped vowels and consonants that meant nothing to me.
I’d played with a hundred Russians in my time, and they all had a place in my heart, these big strong guys with the weird language that made no sense to me at all.
“You like?” Stan asked, and I realized he was looking up at me, the big goofy idiot.
“Dogs?” I asked, and crouched down to fuss over Bucky as I’d overheard Ben call him. He was soft, and warm, and reminded me of this mutt we had when I was a kid, a collie lab mix who had never left my side. I’m not ashamed to admit when Scooter died at eleven, I cried for days. I was already in the draft, called up for the AHL team attached to the Hawks, but I cried like a baby for the dog who had been mine.
“I love dogs,” I said, simple and to the point.
“I’m steal him,” Stan joked. “Not tell Erik.”
I stood up and smiled down at the Russian and the dog he wanted to steal. "Think Ben might have something to say to that."
Talk of the devil and there he was, with Layton Foxx at his side. Truth, I’d never seen such a fine-looking pair of men standing together.