Sugar and Ice (Raptors Book 4)

by RJ Scott

  “The photo of her in bed? You could see the other guy’s arm, but worse than that? He was holding Obi.”

  You have got to be kidding me.

  I had the rest of the day to get my shit together, I showered five times, worked out in the huge basement gym for three hours, drank coffee until my hands shook to get some spark in me, mainlined electrolytes, then spent a good four hours out in my huge yard which had a cleared area, with its own net and markings for deck hockey, shooting the puck and not happy until I shot fifty pucks in a row without missing one.

  At nine I was in bed. Alone. Logan and Josie had both left after breakfast. Josie back to the set for her vampire time-travel show in LA, and Logan back to San Francisco where he was a starting pitcher.

  The only good thing I clung to when I’d been traded to Arizona was that the three of us were close together again. Add Mom and Dad, and I had unconditional love in my corner, and when I pulled into players’ parking I had them in my heart, knowing that whatever happened in the Raptors locker room I could get through it.

  I was early, hoping to hell I’d be first in, but Ryker was sitting in his cubby, taping up and singing along to whatever was on his iPod. He glanced up when I arrived, and took out the earbuds.

  “Hey,” he said, and I could tell just from the tone that he’d seen the insta stuff where Lacey had implied shit about me. We’d had an off day; they’d given me a personal day, but now I was back. Tomorrow we were home against San Diego, a local rivalry, and I had a small hope that today everything would have been forgotten, but no, I could see his expression.

  “Hey,” I said back, still awkward with Ryker that one day he would find out that his stepdad had been my first crush, but hey, what the hell, life is screwed up.

  “Saw all the insta stuff, forget about it,” Ryker murmured, and stood to stretch. “No one will mention it, and once we start training—”

  A commotion at the door had us both turning. Colorado with one of his famous entrances.

  “Sugar, saw the shit on the web, damn dude, it’s nice for someone else to take some heat around here.”

  “Sugar?” I asked, sounded weak, because who the hell knew what was going on in Colorado’s head.

  “Yeah, Tate-sweet-as-apple-pie, Sugar for short.” He tossed me something, and I caught it on reflex. An apple.

  “Thanks,” I said because I was lost for words, but was pleased he hadn’t gone for the whole Tater Tot shit I got from my brother.

  Then Colorado moved and behind him stood our captain, Vlad ‘The Iceberg’ Novikov, all focused as he looked from me to the apple, to Ryker, and to Colorado who was trying for innocent. My heart beat faster, my nerves tingled, and I swear I was getting hard.

  What was it about Vlad and the way he came into a room? Or the way he stood? Or talked? Or even freaking breathed.

  And why did it get me so flustered?

  Chapter Two

  Vlad

  There was something about the captain entering the locker room.

  It was similar to when Sister Krygina would walk into the small classroom in our Russian Orthodox school back in Chelyabinsk when my brother Dimi and I were children. She was a thin, dour woman in a black habit and wimple who’d inspired fear and reverence in equal measure. Most of the players quieted, as if I were going to discipline them for joking around. Most. Not all. I did notice the fast look from our newest Raptor, Tate Collins, before he refocused on a shiny red apple. Pity my attention wasn’t as easily diverted.

  “Yo, Captain Iceberg!” Colorado called out, spinning in an elegant pirouette that made his flowy shirt-robe covering thing flare out around his body. “Check this out.”

  “It’s lovely.” I walked around the goalie/rock star/troublemaker. He bounced around in front of me, long, strong legs encased in black leather, sandals on his feet. The man painted his toenails. And sometimes his fingernails. And wore earrings that my mother would’ve envied.

  “Dude, for serious, it’s not a lovely look. I mean, lovely?” He smiled a smile that would ensure he never went to bed alone. “Sure, yeah, if I were a chick. No, this is gauzy stage wear that’s been adopted for street wear. It’s part of the new line I’m designing.” He pranced over to Ryker and Tate, looped his arms around their shoulders, and grinned like a monkey high on banana pudding. “Penn Wear, for the rock star in all of us! Like, do you not love that tag line? I made it up. And this is just one of several frocks that I designed to pay reverence to the most amazing sexual deity that ever rocked our tiny world. My idol, Mr. Steven Tyler.”

  All three fell to their knees to bow and scrape and say they were not worthy. I had no idea what they were giggling about, but seeing Tate smile, even for a few silly moments, did odd things to my stomach. Things that made me feel out of control.

  “You have no idea who Steven Tyler is, do you?” Ryker inquired from his position lying on the carpeted floor beside the Raptors logo. One never stepped on or touched the logo itself—that was bad luck—but reclining beside it was acceptable. Americans. No matter how long I lived in this wonderful country I would never fully understand them.

  “Of course I do. He’s a singer.” There. I showed them. “Obviously, a rock and roll singer as only a rock star would cavort around in something that looked like my grandmother’s summer robe.”

  Ryker and Tate howled in laughter. Colorado sniggered, leaped to his feet, and then dashed around the dressing room pretending to be an old Russian woman who played air guitar. Such a jackass. But he did seem to be able to lighten the mood. Alex and Henry walked into the madness, both the young players falling into the lunacy with ease. It was nice actually. The joking and the fun. This team had not always been so friendly. The new regime was working. Slowly. I, for one, was excited for the future.

  “Okay children,” I shouted after ten or so minutes of banter and roughhousing. “Time for serious business. Today is our first team scrimmage. Coach has assigned us our team roster. You can find your team color listed as soon as I write them down. Suit up in the appropriate color and be on the ice in thirty minutes.” I waved a paper filled with Coach’s chicken scratching over my head. Striding to the white board that covered one whole wall, I then picked up a red dry erase marker and began copying down the picks. They all gathered around me. I glanced to my right as the fresh smell of citrus danced under my nose. There stood Tate, in hockey pants and socks, his chest and belly bared. He had a tight body, athletic of course, with a light smattering of hair on his chest that narrowed and then dipped into his pants. My eyes flew from that treasure trail back to my job.

  Get yourself in hand, Vladislav.

  I was the captain. It was my job, my responsibility, to lead the men on and off the ice. Along with other duties the C brought—such as being one of the few men on the ice to speak to and defend my team with the officials and setting the tone for the game—was being “an extra coach” in the locker room as well as on the ice. Being unable to keep my eyes to myself was a sign of weakness. I pushed the tickle of sexual tension down deep and returned to my job.

  Tate glanced at me; his deep brown gaze unreadable as the men jostled us around. “I’m playing with you.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m the one who wrote your name on the board.”

  A long, long moment passed where we stood there, surrounded by half-naked loud men, him staring up at me as I gazed at him.

  “Yo, hey, Sugar and Ice! You two think you can move so I can see where I play?” Colorado shouted, nudging Tate aside with a playful shove. The moment burst into a million bits. I pushed through the men, returning to my cubicle to dress for morning skate.

  As soon as I was ready and my stick had been taped properly, I left the madness of the dressing room behind. I needed to clear my head of Tate Collins. The aroma of his shampoo was still haunting me. Thankfully, I bumped into our associate coach outside the skate room. She looked up from the tablet in her hand, a wide smile breaking out upon seeing me.

  “Welcome back,�
� Coach Anderson said with a toss of her ponytail over her shoulder.

  “It’s good to be back. May we talk about alternate captains?”

  “Sure. Let’s walk and talk. Rowen is watching from the rafters during this scrimmage. He thinks he’s Clint Barton being all Hawkeye up there.” She gave me a wink and an elbow to the side. I chuckled. We thumped out to the bench area tossing our skate guards to Ross, a new equipment manager. “So, who do you want to suggest for the two alternate captains?”

  “It’s a hard choice, so many of our players are so young.” I stood beside her admiring the tower of pucks piled on the boards. I’d let the men decide who would slap them down. “I’d like to see the alternates have more experience on the ice.”

  “Yeah, we do have a lot of smooth-cheeked babes,” she said, then giggled. “If you’re looking for some maturity Tate Collins has been in the pros for a while and has a good reputation, the current fiasco notwithstanding.”

  “But he is new here. He has not earned a letter in Tucson.” I shook my head. “Perhaps in a year or two. The JAR line is impressive, young, but I think Ryker Madsen could handle the A. He’s respectful of the officials and maintains a cool head even in heated moments.”

  “Okay, anyone else?” She tapped on her iPad, then glanced up at me.

  “I would like to say Henry but he’s not proven himself capable of playing yet, but he does have the personality to handle the responsibility well.”

  “Agreed. Let’s see how he does this season.” A few fans filed in behind the glass. Male and female, all with wildly colored hair and holding signs with COLORADO surrounded by pink hearts. “Wouldn’t the Penn Gang love to see him get a letter?”

  “Mm, yes, I’m sure, but thankfully goalies can’t leave the crease so he’s stuck there. I’m not sure I’d give him the chance. His temper is like a match-head. One brush and he’s on fire.” She nodded. We all liked our starting goalie but he was always in trouble. A free spirit our Colorado was. “If I put out my defense partner Eli, would that look as if I were playing favorites?”

  “Not at all. Myers has been in the league for several years, is sound and solid, not prone to throwing water bottles at the linesmen.”

  The men began to file onto the ice. Henry skated over, beamed at us, and cleared the pyramid of pucks to the ice. Eli skated up to me, gave me a poke with a gloved finger, and then raced off with a puck on his stick. That was his not-so-subtle way of informing me it was time to play hockey. Coach Anderson tucked her tablet under her arm.

  “Go warm up. We’ll work on this later. We still have a week before the finalized roster has to be turned into the league.”

  I bobbed my head, kicked a puck to my stick, and went for a few laps, shuttling a puck to Eli or taking a soft shot at Colorado in the home crease. The backup tender, Andre, was at the other end of the ice in a white sweater; my half of the team wore brown. Tate Collins exploded into the lazy play of warmups. He streaked past me, a blur of brown, stole my puck, and flew up ice to slam a shot past Andre. All of this took place before I could make the blue line. He circled the net on one skate, left leg up, the celly making him look like a chorus line dancer.

  “Pretty boy superstar,” Eli muttered at my side, as a whistle blew.

  We gathered at center ice, circling our petite associate coach. I slid in beside Tate, my shoulder bumping his. He threw a sharp glare my way.

  “Try to remember that we’re on the same team now. Keep the flash and showing off in check.” His lips flattened. I moved away to stand with my defensive partner, my gaze and Tate’s locked through whatever it was Coach Anderson was telling us. I saw the grit and rebellion in that chocolate-brown gaze of his.

  With a smile, we began the scrimmage, white vs brown, and even though I had seen Tate on film, and even played against him once or twice, watching him close-up left me awed, winded, and more than a little aroused. Keeping up with him and Madsen pushed me to my limits. Those ten or so years of age on the young guns showed. They were so fast, so slick, so quick, that it felt as if I no sooner gained the offensive zone to defend when Madsen and Collins would break free. I’d haul my big ass down the ice, then Garcia and Greenaway would steal the puck and race back to my end.

  By the end of the practice game my legs were wobbly and it felt like I was skating through tar. I’d be able to soak the aches away in a hot shower and the knowledge that I had managed to pin Alex Garcia to the boards several times despite my advanced age. Water beating down on the back of my neck, eyes closed, I savored the feel of thousands of fingers working my tired muscles.

  “Nice play.” I knew the voice.

  “Thank you,” I replied to Tate somewhere to my left. “You also played well.”

  “You guys have a good solid foundation. Give it another year or two and you’ll be contenders.”

  I flung a look his way, ready to bicker over that year or two comment, and way too late realized how stupid I’d been. The stinging comeback withered when my sight latched onto a wet, naked Tate Collins. He had a body that Adonis would’ve envied. Thick thighs, a sweet bubble ass, lean waist, wide shoulders. Arms up to douse his armpits, his hair sodden, his ink-worked skin slick, I sucked in a breath and a mouthful of hot water. His dark eyes moved to me. I glanced downward.

  “Back in Dallas we used to…”

  Whatever he said was a garbled mess. I nodded, made sounds of agreement, and even smiled once when he chuckled at something he’d said. My eyes stayed locked on my feet, the ceiling, the faucets, or the bar of blue, nautical-scented soap in my hand. I lathered at speed, hitting only the high spots as Eli would say, rinsed, said something stupid about a beer sometime, and then left the showers. I pulled on some shorts, a tank top, sneakers with no socks, and got the hell out of the Raptors changing area. Beer. Fuck that. I needed something stronger than beer.

  The scrimmage had kicked my ass, as had the time spent in the showers averting my gaze from Tate’s tattooed body. This attraction was growing instead of lessening and I needed to gain some perspective and control. Freewheeling was not my preferred mode of operation. I was happiest when I had things planned out in advance. Spontaneity was not my “happy place” as the Americans are so fond of saying. Feeling the tension tightening my shoulders, I padded to the bar, poured myself two fingers of Stolichnaya, dropped one cube into the vodka, skipped the lemon zest as it was too much work, and went to Frank’s massive pen to set him free.

  He climbed onto my hand, his claws digging into my wrist as I lifted him out of his cage.

  The macaw loved free time, stretching his bright blue wings as he flew around my condo, coming to land on my shoulder as I dropped onto the sofa. I did my best to give him as much time out as I could, along with working on training, as he had an attitude when it came to treats on occasion.

  “Alexa, play the Fearless album by Taylor Swift,” I said while sinking into the sofa cushion. The moment her voice hit the airwaves my tension began to lessen. How was it possible for one woman to be so talented? There was not one album of hers that I didn’t have in CD form, vinyl and downloaded for digital play. Taylor was a gift from the gods of music and beauty. If I were straight, or even bisexual like my twin Dimi, I would’ve married Taylor if she’d have had me.

  Women had never appealed to me sexually, unlike my brother. Which made his life in Russia, and his playing in the KHL easier than it had ever been for me. He dated men occasionally but always in secret. At the moment he was seeing a beautiful woman, Lada, who he was madly in love with. He had already bought a ring and had plans to propose next month on their two-year anniversary. Even though I lived and played in America, I still kept a tight rein on my social media presence and the men that I dated. News of my being gay could filter back to Russia where it might make things difficult for my family. So I dated men who understood my need to be discreet and in control of what took place in my bed. So far all had been well, but my tastes had led me to men of an age similar to mine. Not someone younger like
Tate Collins, who was the face of professional hockey.

  “Vinograd,” the parrot said, bobbing his red head as his claws sank into my shoulder.

  “Nyet, I did not get the grapes.” I reached up to pet him. He snapped at my hand with a big, black, hooked beak.

  “Mudak! Mudak!” He squawked, taking to wing to sit atop his crate and glower at me.

  “Yes, I’m an asshole,” I replied, holding my drink up as a toast to my asshole status before taking a taste. It burned a cold path down to my stomach. My brother had warned me that teaching the bird to cuss in Russian would come back to bite me. He’d been right, damn it. I’d never dreamed my own pet would fling curses at me, and everyone else, who didn’t feed him grapes on demand.

  My gaze moved from Frank, who was now preening, to the oil on the wall. It was an old thing, a painting of a lady’s dressing room or something similar. My great-grandmother had owned it and it had come to us upon her death many years ago. It had hung in our parlor for ages, as my mother fancied it. For some reason when I’d left Russia I’d felt compelled to bring it with me. It did look oddly out of place in my masculine home, but seeing it reminded me of Russia, and my family. Right now, the urge to return home was strong. Putting half a world between myself and my newest teammate would be good. Pity the new season was just about to begin…

  Chapter Three

  Tate

  “I was talking to Henry and he’s vanished?”

  Thirty minutes to warmups in this our first pre-season game and I needed to find him because I’d already spoken to Sam, my other winger, and when I’d begun chatting to Henry he’d walked off mid-sentence. Chatting to my wingmen was something that worked for me in Dallas, and just a couple of minutes talking casually with your wingmen set the tone for the way the line worked.

  Ryker looked up from lacing his skates.

  “What did you do or say to him?” he snapped.