Coast to Coast (Raptors Book 1)

by RJ Scott

  “You can go,” Rowen repeated to dismiss me and picked up Colorado’s results, pushing them into a folder with the Raptors logo on the front. I’d always thought it was a pretty cool logo, the eagle or whatever it was holding a hockey stick, but I didn’t say that.

  In fact, I couldn’t say anything.

  I left without saying anything else, worked my way back up to staff parking, and walked toward my car.

  “Cam’s sorry,” Jason said from the shadows by the car.

  “I’m not—” Cam began but stopped with a muffled oomph where I assumed Jason thumped him. “Sorry I called you Marky-Mark,” Cam then added after a moment’s pause, with an air of boredom to his voice. Marky-Mark had started out life as an affectionate nickname, for when Cam and I had been close. He called me Monkey; I called him Cools. Born close together, we’d done everything together as kids, taking turns to tease and torment Jason with him being four years older than Cam.

  Monkey and Cools—that was us, inseparable until I’d begun to accept who I truly was. Then Monkey had become Marky, and worse, and abruptly I’d never had anything but loathing thrown at me from Cam.

  “I don’t give a shit what you call me, asshole.” I continued to my car, with Jason shadowing me.

  “Please don’t go,” he pleaded.

  “I’m tired. I need sleep.” I need to process the incalculable temper that is inside me, the hate and frustration that is bubbling up in every molecule of me. But most of all, I need to think about the chaotic feelings that just seeing Rowen cause me.

  “You can’t go back to New York yet,” Jason said, but he wasn’t telling me; he was imploring. “Give the team a chance to leave a legacy that matters.”

  I stopped. “I never said I was going back to New York.”

  Jason moved closer to me, and I could see the confusion in his expression. “You said in the box you were leaving…”

  “No, I said… shit… I’m tired, and I’m going back to the hotel.”

  I was almost in my car when Jason stopped me with something I never thought I’d hear. “You’re welcome to use the house. I’m not there, Cam isn’t, and with Mom away, it would just be you and Leigh.”

  “I’m fine where I am,” I lied. After all, despite it being a nice hotel, it wasn’t the home I had in my city apartment, with the things I’d chosen to surround myself with. I’d built a life there. I had as many friends as a former model-turned-business owner. The modeling industry is fickle, and friendships are few and far between.

  “If you don’t want to be at the house, we have a spare room at our place,” Jason carried on. “Amelia would love to have you stay there, and you could get to know the kids. Lewis was asking after you last night.”

  “Wow, you must be desperate to use your kids to get me to stay.”

  “I wasn’t. Jesus, Mark, whatever happened in the past, we’re your brothers.”

  I snorted in disbelief. “Pity you’re only remembering the past now that you need me for something.”

  I settled into the low-slung car seat and locked the door, not even looking back in my rearview mirror as I left Cam and Jason. The Lamborghini ate the miles to my hotel, but it gave me no joy.

  All I could think of was that at some point this evening, I’d let the past get inside my head. I’d been a pompous asshole, and I was the last person to devalue what a woman could do for this team. I hadn’t meant for it to come across as misogynistic bullshit. I was just the one who could see the bottom line. Twitter mentions meant income; it was simple as that. A round of shitty tweets and we might lose tickets, and we were already hanging on by the fingertips while the mountain of debt was growing daily. We needed investors, and fast, if we were going to meet our contractual obligations. Otherwise at the end of this season, there wouldn’t be a Raptors team at all.

  All I could see were negatives, and I restarted the engine and drove away from the hotel, heading for the Catalina foothills. After an hour of driving aimlessly, lost in thought, I felt my shoulders fall a little, and the tension headache began to ease. By the time I ended up back at the hotel, I had a list of things I needed to do.

  Most importantly, Terri deserved an apology and my respect for her achievements. Everyone had said a former model wouldn’t have the brains to start their own agency, and I’d shown them I wasn’t the person I’d been pigeon-holed as. I’d fought and scratched for respect, and she was having to do the same thing. I only had to see the social media mentions to understand the vitriol thrown at her. She needed me to understand she was a kick-ass coach and nothing more.

  I guessed I should cut Colorado some slack, for at least one more game. Maybe he’d shine next time he was on the ice, although I wasn’t holding my breath.

  I had to sit down and have a balanced conversation with Rowen, make him see my worries, and attempt to listen rationally to his answers. Then I needed to get him into a suit and set up some sponsorship meetings before it didn’t matter what the team did on the ice at all.

  I buried my head on my crossed arms, breathing in the leather scent of the car, and realized I had to work my way back to my family.

  It could’ve been that Jason wasn’t just using his son Lewis as bait.

  Lewis might want to know me, and maybe I could be an uncle for real.

  I’m so scared.

  Ten

  Rowen

  “… net front presence is low. I’m just not seeing the drive that I’d like, but final call is yours, Rowen.”

  I snapped back from a mental meander I’d taken, my usually focused mind drifting to touch on that cryptic missive from the princeling last night about a damn meeting this morning.

  “Sorry, I was contemplating something else.” I picked up the latest analytics and perused them. “Agreed, we can send Henry Laboutin down to Tampa if we don’t see some real improvement by the third game. I’m liking what I’m seeing from Madsen and Garcia.” I passed the latest readouts to Terri, who yawned, using the papers to shield her gaping mouth before passing them along to Art, who was reading some new stats on the goalies in camp. “What I’m looking for from them right now is skill, attitude, character, preparedness, and a willingness to follow my program.” I glanced at my watch. I had ten minutes to wrap up this staff meeting before taking the elevator to the executive suites to meet some potential sponsor. “I’m not seeing any of those qualities in Lankinen.”

  Everyone in the small room grunted in agreement. Terri yawned again, then whispered an apology. “Late night.” She smirked and gave us a wink.

  “Yeah, for me too. Managed to make it to ten before I fell asleep in the recliner. Never let it be said married life isn’t all glitter and paparazzi,” Art said, getting a small round of guffaws from the five of us. “Speaking of glitter and paparazzi.” My goaltending coach looked right at me.

  I lifted a hand. “Let me guess, Colorado Penn?”

  “The Jared Leto of the crease,” Art replied dryly. Terri, Craig, and Todd all snorted in amusement with me. “The kid is a sieve of late, but I think I’m seeing where his problems are.”

  “Mm, don’t we all? He’s got a great glove hand, but his reactions are slow as molasses in January. That will sharpen with time back on his skates,” I said.

  “Agreed, but he’s too rangy. I like to see an aggressive goalie at times, but he’s a drifter. He needs to stay put a bit. I like how he handles the puck, he’s damn good, and that will be an asset, but he needs to keep his ass at home. I’m going to start working with him on that. Also, he tends to paddle down a bit too quickly, but that’s nothing that we can’t fix. His mindset is here and on the game despite the number of groupies showing up for morning skates.”

  Yes, the Penn Patrol. A growing number of young women—and plenty of men—who were flocking to the rink every time the players showed up. They were a ratty-looking bunch who were now singing lyrics from John Denver or Joe Walsh songs every time Colorado was on the ice. The shouts of ”COLORADO” when they got to the chorus of �
�Rocky Mountain High” echoed off the rafters every time Penn made a move. I found it to be amusing in its own way. Rock groupies screaming, holding up signs, and dancing to the music they carried with them—Chaotic Furball songs I was sure—at hockey games were unique but harmless. Penn enjoyed the attention obviously, and a few local news shows had touched on it, so that was good, right?

  “Okay, so we’re set on Penn starting the next game?” I asked and got a nod from my goalie coach. “Good. Next on the agenda is a small item that came down from the stratosphere just this morning. It seems that the team will be announcing that Jason Westman-Reid will be the new interim general manager.” I rolled my eyes, then glanced from Terri to Art to Craig and Todd.

  Todd sighed theatrically. “Isn’t there some sort of law about nepotism?” our lanky video coach enquired.

  “If only,” I replied, stretching out my legs under the round table. “We’re just going to have to deal with the Three Stooges bumbling about until they can find someone with an ounce of sense to take the job.”

  “Well, in all honesty,” Craig began, then paused to lift a sugar-coated doughnut from the dozen box that sat in the middle of the table. “He can’t make worse decisions than old brass-bottom Bergner. I’ve had the dubious honor of trying to work with some of the washed-up shit he signed over the past ten years. Glory contracts that blew our cap space to hell as he picked up old players who were past their prime in some vain hope of getting into the playoffs. Also, if I may point out, Bergner was the brilliant baboon who not only headhunted Aarni but offered him a no-trade clause as well.”

  Craig took a huge bite out of his doughnut and chewed aggressively. His dislike of one of his core defensemen spoke volumes. Craig Millerson was a big, jovial man who loved his D-men as much as they loved him. He’d played the game for close to twenty years, and he knew his shit. Not that you’d be aware of any of the skill the coaching staff had given some of the malignant and misguided players we were saddled with.

  “Well, Lankinen is an ongoing cyst on my balls but—what?” I asked when Terri drew back with a look of horror.

  “Far too vivid an image for my sleepy brain,” she stated. The men laughed along in agreement with her. “I think we all can agree that the sooner Aarni is gone, the better. Can we send him down to the minors?”

  “Sure, if he acts up enough to warrant disciplinary action. Terri, I want you to walk around the rink in a string bikini until he says something sexist,” I teased.

  “Rumor has it he likes the guys just as much as the girls, so why don’t you walk around in a Speedo until he spouts off?” she fired right back. I loved this girl.

  “If I were straight, I’d marry you,” I told her, which brought an awkward kind of silence to the room. “Okay, so I kind of just outed myself. That information stays here in this room.” I glanced from one set of wide eyes to another. They all bobbed their heads. “Thank you. It’s not that I feel any kind of shame over being gay. It’s just that this team does not need a media firestorm of the kind that blew down on Tennant Rowe when he came out.”

  “Would it be okay to admit something here?” someone asked and we all nodded. “If I were gay, I’d marry you just so we could name our first child Hoagy.”

  “Ass,” I said after I was done laughing. Someone’s phone rang. I gave the room a low glower. I truly hated cell phones at times. When it continued to chirrup, I deepened my scowl.

  “It’s you,” Terri said and pointed at my phone lying by the coffee pot in the corner of the staff lounge.

  “I knew that. I was just testing out my coach glower.” I coughed, smiled sweetly to the chortles, and then pushed to my feet to answer my damn phone.

  “You’re late,” Mark snapped into my ear.

  “I’ll be up in five,” I told him and severed the call. That had been the first time I’d heard his voice in close to a week. He’d stayed well clear of the lower depths of the barn since his blowup after our first game. I thought he might bless us with his presence after our second loss, but nope. “I have this thing to do.”

  I lifted my Raptors jacket from the back of my chair. The others in the room got up as well, and we filed out into the hall, passing players ambling in for morning skate, T-shirts, running shorts, and sneakers the norm. Coming to games, they had to be suited, but not for skates or other informal meetings.

  “We’ll put them through their paces,” Terri assured me as we made our way to the elevator that would carry me to heaven, aka the owners’ box and executive suites. “Maybe grab a seat when the meet and greet is done and observe from high up?”

  “That was my plan.” I gave her a wink and stepped into the elevator when the door slid open. I envied them the ice time. Playing suck-up with rich people was not my cup of tea. I wished I had grabbed a Dr Pepper on the way to the elevator. The doors opened, and I stepped out onto a thick carpet of deepest red. Hard times for the team showed down below, but up here, it was luxury as usual. Private doors all locked tightly hid corporate suites that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Some had bars and servers and buffets. But that was fine. These suits were coughing up the big cash to sit up there and pretend to watch hockey. It was the grandeur of the owners’ box that stopped me dead when I sauntered in unannounced.

  The box was stunning. Soft desert colors of rust and tan and deep red could be seen in the carpeting and designer couches. A full bar with a bartender in attendance and a kitchen with a cook who was preparing crepes, by the looks of it. One wall was thick glass that looked down on the ice; the other held a massive viewing screen. Seated at one of the thick oaken tables by the glass wall were Mark and two older white men in dark suits.

  “Sorry I’m late. I was doing my job,” I said as I walked past the slim black man in white chef garb whipping eggs with bits of scallion in it.

  “So was I,” Mark replied, and they all stood. “Rowen Carmichael, this is Robert and Clark Lake. They own Catalina Foothills Chrysler Plymouth. They’re interested in becoming corporate sponsors and expressed an interest in meeting our new coach over breakfast.”

  “Ah,” I said and switched from coach mode to ass-kissing mode, my least favorite mode, to be sure. I knew it was all part of the game. Even in college athletics, we’d had to bow and scrape to the all-mighty dollar. “I’ve seen your commercials.”

  “I hope you think of us when you’re looking for a new vehicle. We own fourteen dealerships scattered all over the state, with ten in New Mexico,” Robert said as we shook hands.

  “As a matter of fact, I need a car. I sold mine before moving out here and have always had a soft spot for Chryslers. My grandfather owned a fifty-six sky-blue Chrysler Imperial he said he wanted to be buried in. Grandma had other plans of course.”

  That made the car guys laugh and clap me on the shoulder. The tension around Mark’s eyes and mouth lessened, and by the time we were done with our crepes, Mark seemed almost relaxed. That was until our new sponsors left and it was me and Mark alone in the owners’ box, the smell of fried onions and fresh coffee still thick in the air.

  I sat there sipping incredibly rich coffee with cream as my men worked out down below me. Mark kept shifting around in his seat as he tapped away on his phone.

  “Ryker Madsen comes to me every day and asks what he can do for the team,” I said into my coffee as Terri and the Raptors worked on improving our forecheck. Mark glanced up from his phone, dark eyes wary and nodded.

  “That’s good.”

  “Mm, yeah, it is. Alejandro is watching daily videos of his time on ice.”

  “That’s also good.”

  “It is. Would you like to know what Aarni Lankinen is doing to improve himself?”

  His gaze touched mine briefly. He knew the answer. It was nothing. Aarni did nothing that was above or beyond. Yes, he was a fine player, but the toxicity he cast around outweighed the nice goal tallies he’d racked up, at least in my book.

  “His situation isn’t as cut-and-dry dried as you’d like it
to be. He has a contract, and as you like to point out at every available opportunity, it’s pretty iron-clad, just like yours. But we’re hoping to open up discussions with his agent and possibly see about moving him to another team before he becomes a free agent. We’d like to get a few pennies out of him if we can.”

  “And when does he become a free agent?”

  “Two years.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” I groaned. “Your father and your ex-GM were asses. The only wise thing your dad did was get me here.”

  “Conceited much?”

  “Honest.” I studied his face closely. His eyes were engrossing, so dark and expressive. And that mouth of his was enticing. “Here’s another bit of honesty for you. I think about our hookup in that cheap hotel room every night.”

  His eyes flared, and some color rushed into his face. “No, you don’t.”

  That made me snort softly. “Listen to you, such an autocrat, telling me that I don’t think of you when I jerk off at night when you know that I do because you do the same thing. You think of me when you’re alone in bed with your cock in your hand. You think of me, and you wonder what it would be like. You’re thinking of it right now. You’re wondering what it would be like if I pressed your back to this table, put your ankles on my shoulders, and fucked you so well and so hard you’d not be able to recall your name.”

  He licked his upper lip and shook his head, but no words fell out of him. I leaned back to ease the strain of hard dick against cold zipper.

  “We’re here to talk about hockey. Colorado Penn is a—”

  “Is a highly skilled goalie who hasn’t played professionally for a year. Give him time to get his groove back. He’s also testing clean daily, which, if you ask me, is above and beyond for the man to do, and yet you’re riding me about his presence on the team. Just stop using Penn to shift the discussion from you, me, and this table.” I reached out to rap the sturdy wooden top, and his eyes, somehow, went even rounder.