Coast to Coast

by R. J. Scott

  “When you’ve finished, boys, I suggest you check my contract…” I remained as genial as I could manage. The Westman-Reids were no better than squabbling kids.

  “I’m going with you,” Mark said and crossed his arms over his chest, as if he’d won the entire argument.

  I could’ve put my foot down. I could’ve told him to get the fuck out of my plans, but something in his eyes dared me to say no, and I never backed down from a dare.

  “No skin off my nose,” I said nonchalantly.

  He loved that and pulled himself tall. “And I will approve any and all contracts offered.”

  “No.”

  “You have no say in this—”

  “Now listen here, boy—"

  “I’m not a boy!” Mark growled. No, he wasn’t. I had to agree with that. Now that he was on his feet, it was clear he was all man. Lean yes, but nearly as tall as me. He lacked my bulk, but he wasn’t scrawny or twinky.

  “Sorry.” He sniffed at my apology. “You’re free to come along, but your input won’t mean shit to me unless you know hockey. Do you?”

  Mark’s righteous indignation fled. “I know enough.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll be hiring who I deem to be a good fit for me and the vision of the team I’m building.” I held out my arm, flicked my sleeve out of the way, and read my watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go buy groceries. I’m having the rookies over for dinner tonight.”

  I bowed to Ms. Leigh and walked out of the master’s office, smiling to myself as the voices of the three Westman-Reid male heirs exploded into a heated discussion behind me.

  Three

  Mark

  I laid out the screen prints I’d taken and pointed at them dramatically. Jason and Leigh immediately began to read what I’d found. Cameron paced because his temper was too high to do anything else but walk his path around the office.

  Then I brooded. Asshole coach called me a boy.

  When you’re as old as him, anyone under thirty is a boy, but with only fifteen years between us, he could fuck right off with his insulting labels.

  Even when we’d gone head to head, he hadn’t been what I’d expected at all. He cut an intimidating figure, and there wasn’t any softness in his expression. He was there to fight for his career, and part of me admired that. I’d seen models at the end of their career clawing and fighting to stay in the job.; I’d let them down as compassionately as I could. I’d held some of them as they cried, but at least they listened to me. I knew my business, and I knew when things needed to end.

  But you don’t know hockey.

  I’d never seen anyone so focused and sure that he was going to beat me. People didn’t confront me. They wheedled and whined, and those weren’t the models I ran; that was my management staff. All except Lucas, of course, who was the sole guy in charge of Gilded Treasures for the next week. There was some similarity between my business manager and the new coach. They were both self-assured, both had forceful personalities, but where Lucas was short and stout, Rowen was a big guy all solid muscle. Impressively solid. Confident.

  I will not let him get in my head. I am stronger than an unwanted attraction to the man with the hazel eyes and the nerve to tell me what to do.

  “He’s a good-looking guy,” Leigh said.

  “He’s taken the Mustangs far,” Jason pointed out.

  “And it’s an impressive résumé,” Leigh added and shuffled some papers.

  Cameron whistled. “He was drafted first round, thirteenth overall by Montreal. He opted not to go play professionally and finished his time in college at the University of Western Ontario with a degree in, now get this, film studies. When he was called up for the big leagues, he discovered he was a hemophiliac, so he had to retire from the sport. He then went into coaching and began working his way up until he reached the pros via the Raptors.”

  I didn’t know half of the words they used. I had an idea that the Frozen Four was some kind of college championship, but that was only because of the incident.

  I pulled that particular article out. “See what he did?”

  I’d seen a lot of photos of him, even zoomed in to look at the color of his eyes and the way his hair was styled just so, and the neatness of his beard. But in this one, he wore a cheap suit, the tie askew as in most of the photos he was gesturing at players from his place behind the bench. The article was labeled “2013 Frozen Four meltdown” in which our new coach was being escorted from the bench. The bench being where the skaters sat, or so I’d found out last night. Then I’d followed links to various sources for more about the incident and saw our coach Carmichael had gone head to head with referees and had done enough verbal damage to get himself kicked out of the game.

  What kind of coach got himself dismissed from a game? One that was out of control.

  I massaged my temples and waited for them to see what I’d found and back me up on finding a way to get this man away from our team.

  “We need to get a coach from one of the original six teams,” I said and hoped I sounded as if I knew what I was talking about. I didn’t, but I knew that the original six teams likely had good coaches, right? “Or someone from one of the top teams in the NHL, someone who knows hockey.”

  “Seems to me this guy knows hockey,” Jason said.

  “How the hell would you know that?” I snapped. “Like you were anywhere near involved with Dad’s stupid investment.”

  Jason straightened, shook his head. “You’ve been gone a long time, Mark. I’ve been here, along with Cameron, and we’ve kept this family afloat, even if you weren’t—”

  “Oh, wait, big brother, is this you changing the subject to comment on me not being here. Did you forget it was you who helped me pack my fucking bags to throw me out?”

  Jason winced. “I wanted to—”

  “Leave it.” I’m not sure I knew what I was stopping him from saying. This conversation was less about hockey and more about my place in this messed-up family, and I wasn’t ready for that.

  “I know enough about hockey,” Cameron murmured. “I mean, I didn’t, but when Dad called me a month or two back to help him, I came home.”

  “Me too,” Jason said.

  The knife went deep into my chest. The old man hadn’t called me. Not ten years ago, not two months ago, not the day he was taken ill and died. No, he’d just dumped my name into this convoluted shit of a will. I wasn’t going to let Cam and Jason see my pain, and covered it with anger.

  “And you both think this coach is what is best for the Raptors?” I used my best disbelieving tone.

  My brothers glanced at each other and then looked at Leigh.

  “Rowen Carmichael, assistant coach in the American college leagues for two seasons, moving to head coach in the U Sports level four years ago, winning Cavendish Farms University Cup twice. He’s well known for his thoughtfulness and support for his players. His playing career suggests that adversity only makes him better, discipline is his main focus, which has earned his former team back-to-back wins against some of the bigger and better-funded teams. He took the Jean-Marie de Koninck Coaching Excellence Award twice, and in most reports, he’s described as very detail-oriented.”

  I blinked at my sister. “Did you memorize that?”

  She shook her head. “Whatever, Mark. Dad might not think much of the girl in the wheelchair, but don’t you start thinking I’m stupid.”

  “No one said you were stupid,” Jason said and leaned down to hug her. She accepted the hug and then pushed him away with a wrinkled nose.

  “No pity.” She smirked, and Jason smiled at her. They were brother and sister for real, and that hurt as well. Again, I felt like I was on the edge of this family. Hell, so close to the edge I might just tip over completely.

  “You should have the third of this mess he gave me,” I said and scrubbed at my eyes. “He didn’t want me, and I don’t fucking want what he gave me.”

  Something hit my shin, hard, and I cursed, then as I realized
Leigh had rolled her chair into me. I caught her expression, which was past angry and onto furious.

  “Fuck off with the self-pity,” she snapped.

  “I’m not… it’s not—”

  She held up a hand, and I stopped talking.

  “Dad threw you out to live in his idea of what Sodom and Gomorrah was, and he said you would burn in hell, yet you still get a third of his estate. So when it comes to self-pity, I get priority here, okay?”

  “Okay,” I mumbled. She was right. “But we should do something about this.” I looked at Jason and Cameron. “Leigh deserves more.”

  Jason let out a full-body sigh. “We can’t now. We tried. But Cam and I have already filed papers that are in force as soon as the year is up on these ridiculous terms Dad set. Splitting our portion with her.”

  “You did?” The brothers I remembered were stupid idiots who would rather tease Leigh than love her. Of course they were the same brothers fighting for Dad’s affection and approval, which meant rubbing my face into the dirt more times than I wanted to recall. Anything to make me more of a man in Dad’s eyes.

  Now it was Cam’s turn to twist the knife. “And we realize that would give you a controlling interest.”

  “I don’t want a controlling interest. Fuck that. Hell, I don’t want anything to do with this team or Dad’s legacy or anything to do with the twisted bitter asshole.” I pulled my shoulders back. “After the year is done, I’ll give my share to Leigh. Then no one needs to worry about who owns what.”

  “So you’re staying for the year?

  “I didn’t say that,” I hedged.

  “The will states you have to work for the two hundred days. Otherwise the entire concern is sold and split up to charities.”

  “And you’d personally lose millions. Blah, blah, I get that.”

  Jason shoved me.

  If it had been Cameron, I would have shoved back, but the eldest of the three boys didn’t shove people, and I was shocked into silence.

  “None of us need the money, you idiot,” he snapped. “We all have trust funds, even you if you decided not to touch it. But this team isn’t just about us. It’s about corporate partnerships and a thousand employees from managers to cleaners, players to administrators. For all its faults, the Raptors support several local charities, as well as youth teams, a sled team, educational outreach, and that is just the tip of the iceberg. Everything is failing, and we have a year to turn it around before those thousand people lose everything. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  He was poking at my chest, and I pushed his hand away. I knew all about a company supporting more than just the people who worked for it. Gilded Treasures partnered with five local LGBT shelters and worked with schools and the local colleges. Without the agency there might not be the representation and resources for at-risk teens that we provided.

  “First thing then, I don’t want Dad’s money, so we liquidate my trust fund and dump it as an investment in the team. That way you can’t hold that money shit over my head.”

  Then before they could say anything remotely angry, critical, or even kind and approving, I left.

  I meant to go back to the hotel room I was staying in, but when it came to leaving the mansion, I typed in the zip code for the arena and headed there instead. All I could think of when I first saw it was that it was one hell of an expanse of glass.

  A glass building in the Arizona sun.

  The reflection was glaring, but I guessed that was to make some kind of design statement. I couldn’t avoid knowing I’d arrived when I was temporarily blinded as I drew up to a barrier with Staff Only emblazoned on it. The security guard ambled out, looked sharply at my car, and leaned down to the window.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked with suspicion.

  “My name is Mark Westman-Reid, one of the owners here now.”

  He didn’t believe me immediately; I could see that. “Can I see some ID, sir?”

  “Here you go.” I passed over my ID. He checked the picture against me and then nodded.

  “I’ll call ahead and let them know to expect you.”

  “No, don’t do that. I’m here unofficially.”

  He tipped his hat and went back into his hut. “Have a nice day, sir.”

  “And you.”

  I parked next to a pale blue Mercedes S-Class and then messed around a bit longer to get my car as close to the wall on the passenger side as possible. I loved my car. She wasn’t the most expensive Lamborghini out there, but she was all mine. Not only that, but she’d carried me all the way from New York to here for this apparently-I-own-a-hockey-team shitfest. I wanted to show her some respect. No dings in her doors on my watch.

  I heard a low whistle of appreciation and turned to see a young guy who couldn’t have been more than twenty or so, dressed in Raptors colors and carrying a bundle of sticks.

  “Thank you.”

  “Murcielago? Four-wheel drive, V12, six-speed shift, zero to sixty-two 3.8, top speed over two hundred, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My dad’s new husband or my stepdad or whatever”—he rolled his eyes dramatically—“he wanted one of these. But he wants to get it resprayed to Railers’ blue, not the red.” He thrust out his hand. “Ryker Madsen.”

  The name was on the list of skaters I’d memorized. Ryker Madsen, one of the team’s rookies.

  “Mark,” I said and conveniently left off the incriminating Westman-Reid.

  “You going in?” He inclined his head toward the arena back entrance, and I nodded. He kept up a long, chattering monologue about the Arizona weather, hot as balls, the team, not bad, and cars, my boyfriend wants a jeep.

  The mention of a boyfriend hit me. I hadn’t realized that being gay in hockey was a thing. I’d clearly missed a memo. Or maybe this kid just didn’t understand the toxic world of being gay in sports or business and how it was best not to own the fact unless it was to your benefit.

  Luckily, being the owner of a modeling agency meant I could be as gay as I damn well wanted.

  We passed through more security, but Ryker was babbling about hockey sticks and didn’t pay any attention to the wide-eyed look I received from the security guy.

  “Okay, bye,” he said and took a left down a narrow corridor. I carried on ahead, not sure where I was going or why I was doing it but then took the next left. This led me to a storage room, a medical space, and then on to offices with shut doors. I didn’t like the shut door policy, and it wasn’t something that happened at my company—something else for me to bring up whenever we had a meeting. The last door on the right was ajar, and I stood outside, reading the sign next to the door. It was held up with sticky tape and gave a very simple message. If you’re bleeding, then medical is back the way you came. If you want to whine, then I’m not in.

  The nameplate was blank, but I had a hunch this was Coach Carmichael’s office. I knocked, but it was empty, so I carried on and ended up finding a door to the ice and a row of seats where I sat and watched.

  Nobody was out on the ice yet, and the air was cool and smelled like air conditioning. I sat patiently, and finally one by one, the players in red-and-white jerseys skated out onto the ice. There was some pushing and shoving, but I couldn’t tell if it was good-natured or not, and then he came out—Coach Carmichael.

  He spoke to the group, who all took a knee in front of him, and then there was some exchanging of jerseys, which I guessed split the team into two practice sides. He set them off sprinting from one end to the other, and then he smoothly skated toward me. Perhaps not actually toward me, just in my general direction.

  And then he stopped.

  From the other side of the plexiglass, he skated to a halt, and leaning on his stick, he stared right at me. I didn’t know where to look, but I couldn’t glance away. I was mesmerized, hot under the collar, and he kept staring. I waited for him to say something or shout through the glass or give me the bird or something.

  But no, he just studie
d me as if he had nothing better to do.

  I wriggled in my chair a little, but I still couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was in a Raptors jacket, gloves on his hands, but unlike the team he was working with, he wasn’t wearing a helmet, which meant I got a good look at his perfectly styled hair. A whistle hung around his neck, and when I tracked my gaze downward as far as I could see and then up past his lips and caught his gaze again, he lifted an eyebrow in silent communication.

  Shit. Busted.

  With a nod, he left and headed back to doing whatever coaches do.

  Was it possible that someone staring at me through plexiglass could qualify as one of the most sensual experiences of my life?

  All I could say was from the evidence of my erection to the rapid beating of my heart, it would seem that yes, Coach Carmichael staring at me was definitely on my top ten list of erotic moments.

  Shit.

  Four

  Rowen

  There were a thousand and one things I needed to do before I left the rink. None of them were to sit in my office, reflecting on how incredibly hot Mark Westman-Reid had been when our eyes had met and held. He’d been more than a little turned on. That was obvious from the way his pupils had swallowed the sweet milk chocolate brown of his eyes. The man had been pretty blatant in his appreciation of my body, which only added to the slow fattening of my cock that had been taking place over the past few minutes. Shifting a bit to alleviate the pressure of my pants riding a raging erection, I shoved the pages of player profiles and training reports to the side and did a quick Google search of the princeling.

  Yes, that title seemed to fit the gorgeous but prickly man I’d been mentally undressing. The Internet loved Mark Westman-Reid—that much was obvious. His business acumen, his stance on LGBT rights, his proud life as an out gay man and a philanthropist who donated and hosted charity galas for a New York children’s hospice, a large animal shelter, and to forward the discussion of wind energy. All noble causes. I donated anonymously to the wind energy coalition he backed as well. While Mark was vocal about his gayness, I’d not thrown the closet door open as he had. When I’d come into the game, people didn’t talk about gays, and you certainly didn’t come out as openly as Tennant Rowe had. I admired that about Rowe and even about Mark. I’d been happy enough dating men discreetly over the years, but perhaps it was time to contemplate making a formal announcement of some kind…