Railers Volume 2 (Harrisburg Railers Box Set)

by RJ Scott

  “Wassup?” He continued to button his soft, blue shirt.

  Connor appeared to be waiting for something, Adler I guess, and when Adler didn’t arrive right away, Connor sighed.

  “Ads, get your ass over here now.”

  “Don’t tell me. Someone has killed the new goalie,” Adler said from behind the group, then shoved his way to the front. “Oh,” he said when he could see me. “Nope, he’s alive. That’s cool because let’s face it, he’s better than Jezza with all that Swedish meatball and IKEA shit.”

  Erik thumped Adler’s arm and cursed at him in, what I assumed was, Swedish. It didn’t seem as if Adler cared what Erik had said, or maybe he just didn’t understand.

  I cared a lot about what everyone said. I cared that there was a whole fucking group of hockey players surrounding me, blocking me in, looming over me. My chest tightened, my palms sweaty, and I gripped the blocker in my lap, ready to use it as a weapon. Aarni would have come over, pulled them away after a while, made a stand for me, laughed off what they were doing as nothing. Anything to diffuse the situation.

  I need Aarni.

  What the hell was I doing in this organization? Who thought I was good enough to play on a championship team? I’d done okay today, maybe more than okay, I’d been on a high, and now I’d sunk so low. I waited for the words from the guys in front of me that would shake my confidence.

  Connor pointed at me. “He’s waiting for a call from his boyfriend.” Then he clapped a hand on my shoulder, and I couldn’t help it, I jumped. He settled me with a pat. “Welcome to the Railers team, the alternative Railers team, where you have to wear rainbow boxers and like show tunes.”

  “I don’t like show tunes,” Adler defended and, this time got an elbow in his side from Dieter.

  “What is boxers?” Stan asked. Erik hushed him.

  “Is your boyfriend a hockey player?” Ten asked without malice and with real interest. As if I was going to out Aarni to the one man he hated.

  I glanced up at all of them in turn and then back to Connor.

  “It’s a joke, dude,” Connor said after a moment of awkward silence. “I just…shit… Ten, I did this wrong.” Then Connor sank to a crouch before me and held out a hand to shake, which I took, still utterly convinced I was about to get harassed. “My bad. I’m so used to the same-sex thing now, but I might have channeled too much Adler and ended up sounding like an ass.”

  “Hey, I resent that,” Adler said without heat.

  Connor held my hand tightly, and I tried to suppress the instinct to yank mine away. Something was happening here, but it wasn’t cruel; it was just…weird.

  “Bryan, you know about Ten, but I promise you the Railers are inclusive. Yeah, we take some heat from fans and visiting teams. It’s worse when we play away in some of the less than stellar arenas. It’s not easy. In fact, it’s fucking hard, but we’re a great team, and we can close ranks with the best of them. I wouldn’t want anyone else playing alongside me. The Railers are my best friends, and all of us will willingly take any shit thrown at us as a team.”

  “Always team,” Stan reinforced dramatically.

  Adler made a show of playing the worlds tiniest violin, and now it was Ten’s turn to shove him and shush him. Adler really was an idiot. Cute, a brilliant player, but mostly an idiot who couldn’t keep his mouth from running off. I liked him. At least he said what was on his mind, and I could handle things I understood at face value.

  “Okay?” I said. Because Connor was waiting for me to say something. He released my hand and grinned up at me.

  “You’re one of the Railers now, and if you need anything, then you reach out to us. Any of us, rainbow boxers or not. We’re a team. Okay?”

  “Team. Best,” Stan added, and everyone nodded, including me.

  “Thank you,” I murmured and pushed back my shoulders. I’d heard lip service like this before, but it had always soured a few weeks in. Still, if these guys around me were advocates, then I could count on not being alone, at least for a while. Until I somehow fucked it all up.

  “Right. Is the weekly meeting of the Unicorn and Rainbows group over?” Adler asked and sighed noisily.

  Connor rounded on him, although he wasn't angry, he did shove at Adler. Seemed like everyone wanted to push Adler, but in a good way. If that made any sense at all.

  “Adler.” Connor sniffed the air around him dramatically. “You stink, man.”

  Adler flicked a towel at Connor and then walked into the shower, leaving a trail of uniform behind him.

  The group disbanded, all apart from Ten, who sat in the cubicle two spaces from me.

  “Adler means well,” he said and looked down to button the rest of his shirt, sighing as he saw he’d buttoned it wrong and undid what he’d done already. “What Connor said, though? You need anything, to talk, or a coffee, or ways to deal with some of the chanting we get thrown at us? You can ask me or anyone.” He held up a fist, and after a small hesitation, I made a fist of my own hand and bumped him back.

  “Thank you,” I said, and I meant it.

  I showered and lingered in front of the mirrors pretending to mess with my hair. I needed to think, and that meant not being surrounded by people who wanted to talk to me or reassure me. Not when I had Aarni’s newest text front and center in my head. I’d sent him a sad face and simple yeah, you’re right. The game had only been a preseason game. The points didn’t matter. Getting so damn excited was silly. Hell, I'd only played thirty minutes.

  He’d just sent me a later, going out, beers. Did that mean beers as a team? I doubted it. The team was fractured. It probably meant beers with the blonde in the photo.

  A hand landed on my shoulder, and I froze, meeting Alain Gagnon’s serious gaze in the mirror. The goalie coach smiled when our eyes met.

  “Good minutes in net,” he said. “Nicely done. Think we need to work on the five-hole, but hell, son, for a young goalie dragged up in a shit team like the Raptors, that was a great start.”

  I wanted to resent the term 'shit team', but I couldn't, not when it was mostly correct. The pride that washed over me at his words was overwhelming. I respected Coach Gagnon, had grown up idolizing him and the goalies of his era fifteen years earlier, wanting to be them despite what anyone else had wanted for me.

  “Thank you.” It seemed as though I was saying that a lot at the moment.

  “Keep it up, Bryan. For practice tomorrow, get here a couple of hours early, and we’ll work on some mindfulness. That is if we can pin Stan down. You ever used that?”

  I knew what it was, a kind of state where you were aware of yourself or at least something similar. I think when I was in goal I achieved a sort of mindfulness, but whether that was true or not, it didn’t matter. I wanted to learn everything.

  “Some. I’d like to know more, and I’ll be there.”

  “Good.” He left me to finish getting dressed.

  I was the last to leave the arena, the city brightly lit around me, the sound of sirens in the distance the only thing I could hear. Mine was the last car, looking all kinds of forlorn sitting in its designated space. The preseason game had been early, a matinee game, and it was only eight twenty-nine. I was sure the tattoo place was open until nine on Sundays, but could I remember how to get there?

  I searched on Google and found the place, a logo of a skull two arrows and the name Hard Score Ink. The name alone intrigued me. Was it a play on Hard Core Kink? Or was it referring to the score in a hockey game? Who knew?

  You should ask him. What’s the worst he can do if someone asks him a question?

  I parked outside the shop, a lot closer than I had managed the day before and saw I had only five minutes until the shop closed. The inside was brightly lit, the logo and designs in the window a haphazard display of both color and black-and-gray art.

  Channeling the positivity from Coach Gagnon’s praise and the offers of friendship from several members of the team, I got out of the car. The walk to the shop was no
more than twenty paces, and when I pushed the door open, a chime sounded to indicate a customer. The scrape of metal on the floor was followed by the appearance of someone skidding from behind one of the screens, which hid the workspaces. My breath caught. Gatlin. He blinked at me as if he couldn’t believe I was here.

  “Can I help you?” he asked with curiosity in his voice.

  “I can wait.”

  Gatlin opened his mouth, probably to remind me of the closing time, but then he offered a small smile and a nod instead.

  “Take a seat I’m just finishing up.”

  I chose the seat nearest to the window from which I was able to watch the road outside and the comings and goings at the bar in front. The sign outside advertised a Railers burger, whatever the hell that was, but I imagined it was something I might like. I should have one.

  My stomach rumbled, and I pressed a hand there, lost in thought and only shaken out of it when the chime sounded, and I realized the client that Gatlin had been dealing with had left the shop. Gatlin vanished behind the screen again, and I wasn’t sure what I should do at that point. Stay and wait or see what he was doing? I decided to cut to the chase and walked around to find him. He was cleaning instruments, putting them into containers filled with blue liquid. When he moved to cap inks, I had to speak.

  “I apologize,” I blurted out. “For what happened. It was a bad day.”

  He threw me a look that spoke volumes and then smiled again. “No worries,” he said. “You here to talk about your design?”

  I backed away. That wasn’t what I’d come for, no. It was just to apologize. That’s all.

  “No, we can make an appointment. Sorry to bother you—”

  “You hungry right now?”

  No was on the tip of my tongue, but I was hungry, and it was stupid to say otherwise.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s lock up and get a burger. They have the Railers special on tonight; it’s always available on game day.” He cradled my elbow and squeezed, and there was so much sincerity in his gaze. “Congrats on the win. As a fan, I want to say how cool it is to have a viable backup for Stan. Some people say preseason is a waste, but to see the team come together and try out the rookies, it’s a good solid win to have.”

  I must have flushed scarlet because he chuckled and squeezed my elbow again. He checked the shop, turned off most of the lights except the spotlights that showcased designs in the window and then pulled down the shutters. We left the shop by the back door and walked the small alley to the road, then straight over into Binky’s Pub.

  The same waitress as before, Tina, showed us to a seat and filled water glasses.

  “Two Railers specials?” she asked with a wink.

  I nodded as enthusiastically as a man could when not knowing what was in a Railers special.

  Only when she left did I lean over to Gatlin. “What is a Railers special?”

  “It’s a normal burger, all the trimmings, but with special Railers sauce.”

  I considered my next question so as not to appear too stupid. “And the sauce is?”

  Gatlin shrugged, then smiled at me. “Who the hell knows, but it’s good.”

  I took a sip of the water and set down the glass, picking up the fork at my table setting and twirling it in my hands.

  “So, I assume you want to talk design?” Gatlin asked and pulled out the notebook from the backpack I’d seen him collect as we left the shop. He pulled his glasses out of the worn blue bag, put them on, and turned to another clean page and sketched the simple helmet shape again, then stared at me expectantly. “Where do you want to start?”

  “I don’t know.” At least I was honest.

  He tapped his pencil on the pad, and he had this weird expression, almost as if he could see right through me. I was lost in his gaze, in the way he smiled and it reached his eyes. I knew he was older than me. By but by how much? The gray in his neat beard could’ve indicated any age, and the dexterous way he tapped the pencil like a drumstick made me focus on his hands and the short nails, along with the tail of a design peeking under his red t-shirt. The same shirt that molded to the lean, spare shape of him and made me want to reach over and—

  “Tell me why you wanted to be a goalie.” He interrupted my thought process, and I mentally shook my head to clear my thoughts.

  At this point could I be honest? The real reason why I was a goalie, right back from the start? I’d been frantic to get on the local team way before I came out to my birth parents. Team positions meant practices and games where you needed to travel on a bus to get to them. Being on the local team, even though I was only seven, gave me a reason not to be at home, and I needed that more desperately than I needed air. None of the local players wanted to be the goalie, and at the age of eight, that is what I’d decided I would be. It meant I had a place on the team, and go figure, I was actually pretty damn good. I was also a competent skater even then, and that would hold me in good stead.

  I wasn’t completely honest with Gatlin though, and instead, I focused on the technical side of standing in goal.

  “I think I may have…or at least, it feels like…” I cleared my throat; thankful Gatlin didn’t hurry me. “I think I have an uncanny ability to feel the puck coming right at me.”

  “Like a singular vision?” Gatlin asked and doodled a shape in the corner of the page. To me, it was a bird of prey. He was so talented.

  “An owl,” I corrected. “Almost as if I can see even with my eyes shut, in the dark I mean, like an owl, or at least hear.” I dipped my gaze at the verbal diarrhea I was generating. “None of this sounds remotely rational, does it?”

  “I love it, and your story is one you own,” Gatlin murmured, and this time the doodle was even more like an owl. He transferred his attention to the mask and sketched in an eye, pulling out an amber pencil and filling in the space. I’d had a day full of emotion, of offered friendship, and then gentle smiles, and I was lost.

  No, actually I was spellbound. Witnessing the image being created, hearing the scratch of the pencil on paper, but most of all, studying the arch of his brow, the softness of his skin, and the pink of his lips, that I really wanted to taste. I never wanted to stop watching him.

  What?

  Six

  Gatlin

  Birds of prey were one of my favorite things to draw. Not sure why. Perhaps it was the beauty of their feathers or the gleam in those hunter’s eyes. Owls were especially interesting, and this one I envisaged as being a bit steampunk, perhaps. Maybe I could jibe the beauty of the nocturnal hunter with the power and steel of the Railers.

  “Food’s here.”

  I glanced up from my sketchpad. Bryan nodded at Tina, who held our platters.

  “Sorry,” I gave them both a sheepish smile and shoved my sketchpad back into my old backpack. Tina placed our burgers in front of us and refilled our water. I pushed my glasses onto the top of my head. “I kind of get into the zone when I’m creating. Must be like that for you when you’re on the ice and your raptor vision kicks in.”

  His dark eyes widened a bit. “Raptor vision. That’s pretty cool.”

  “There’s a video game called Assassin’s Creed where the main characters have this special skill where they have the sight of an eagle, sort of.” I took the top bun off my burger and salted the hell out of the cheese-covered patty. The Railers sauce dripped off the bun, and my stomach rumbled. “The character’s sight sharpens when you’re in this mode, I guess you’d call it. The player’s enemies are easier to pick out. Is your puck sense like that?”

  He picked up a lone French fry and dabbed it into the sauce oozing from his burger. “I guess, not really but sort of.”

  “That certainly clears it up,” I joked as I replaced the top bun.

  “Sorry, I should speak more concisely.”

  I looked up from my fries, which I was also salting. Salt is good despite what my doctor says about it and my creepy blood pressure.

  “Bryan, you don’t have
to apologize. I was kidding. Sometimes, we just don’t have a straightforward way to describe something spiritual.”

  He nodded, ate his fry, and then began to retreat into that odd shell he seemed to spend so much time in. I did not want that to happen again. I’d felt him starting to loosen up a bit, and I liked him relaxed. His eyes weren’t so sad, his expression not as guarded.

  “So, what do you think about a radical steampunk owl on your helmet?” I picked up my burger with both hands and took a huge bite, ensuring he had time to plot out his reply.

  “Like, she would be kind of robotic?” He took a bite of his burger as well, and his face softened as ones does when one’s mouth is filled with glory.

  “Good, huh?” I asked around my mouthful of perfectly flame-broiled beef.

  “Super good,” he mumbled, then smiled weakly at me.

  Oh yeah, there it was. There was that smile. Kind of puny, but it was there. Now if I could somehow get another one, a less fragile one. One like I’d seen on the ice when he’d been surrounded by his new team.

  “Well, a bit yeah. Steampunk is generally steam-powered machinery. I think we could really have fun with this design if you’re willing to give it a go?”

  He took another bite and chewed lazily. His jaw was strong and covered with a new beard. Lord, but he was a pretty man. So young, so timid, so appealing in so many ways.

  He’s also as old as your niece or damn close. Which means he could be the same age as your own child if you had one.

  No. No. Garrett is ten years older than me. Age is just a number. Fucking hell. In the gay community, it’s common for younger and older men to date. So stuff it, inner voice. And we’re not dating. We’re not even flirting. We’re just doing a business dinner. Fuck you.

  Right. So you weren't just admiring his jaw and that smooth, supple skin covering his neck? You do that with all your customers? Chickenhawk.

  “Are you okay?”

  I blinked back into the here and now. “Sorry, I was thinking about your helmet.”

  He seemed to buy that lie. “Oh, okay. I think I’d like to see what you can come up with for a steampunk owl design.”