Sugar and Ice (Raptors Book 4)

by RJ Scott

  We were good against Toronto, in fact better than good. The SHT line wasn’t quite as shit as the Toronto fans had hoped. With Alex out with his lower body injury, Sam moved up to the JAR line, and somehow they clicked, and we had Lewis, one of our third line and we clicked as well. It was poetry, and we drew level at two goals each with only three minutes left in the game. Vlad was an animal, he was everywhere, he was large and intimidating, Andre was laser focused, Ryker was a freaking genius and got our first goal, our penalty kill rocked, and I scored the second goal.

  Take that, interviewers who think I’m shit and not worth being a Raptor.

  The clock ticked down. We wanted the full two points. All we needed to do was get one more goal, just one, and we’d have a clear win. In Toronto. Everything was amped up to the max, and weirdly slowed down all at the same time. I got the tap to take my line over and we hit the ice just as Toronto lost control of the puck, a turnover from an exhausted forward, and Vlad had it for a second, hitting it hard to the boards so it flew around the net, straight to my stick. It didn’t stay there for long, a no-look pass to Henry because I knew he’d be there, Lewis was close to the net, waiting for Henry to shuttle the puck to him. The Toronto goalie had his eyes on Lewis, a scrappy front of net fighter, and he’d made a rookie mistake, taking his eyes off me.

  Henry feinted a pass to Lewis, sent it careening to me instead, and with the goalie out of position I slammed that puck so hard it sent the goalie’s water bottle flying. The lamp lit and there was no call against the goal. We were three-two up, and there were twenty-seven seconds on the clock.

  Toronto pulled their goalie for the next face-off, left their net exposed and replaced the goalie with another forward, but it wasn’t enough. We didn’t get an empty net goal, but we sure as hell got a win.

  And it was the best freaking thing in the entire damn world.

  Dinner was at this pizzeria that Alex knew, and he was there waiting for us, congratulating us on the win, pissed he couldn’t have been part of it, but so happy for us all. We were on a high, and everything was lit up in my head. I even got a smile from Vlad and a fist bump with an added nod of encouragement. I wonder if maybe tonight I would get a call? Just at the thought of it I was half hard, and he knew.

  The food was great, the conversation great, everything was great.

  Only, halfway through dinner, Ryker’s phone lit up, and he looked at the messages and then up at me. Then Sam’s phone lit up, then Henry’s. We were all connected in a group chat, but my phone hadn’t vibrated in my pocket, so this wasn’t a group chat post, or a joke, or some stupid Tik-Tok video guaranteed to have me snorting with laughter.

  “Tate,” Ryker caught my gaze and held it, and my chest tightened. Was this some Tennant Rowe shit blowing up in my face? Hell, was it Ten himself messaging his stepson? I understood the silent message that I should check my phone and had to wriggle against Eli who grumbled and teased and made some comment about me touching his thigh.

  “In your dreams,” I muttered, and he elbowed me in the side.

  I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I didn’t have to go far. I had a long list of messages on Instagram and over three hundred twitter notifications commenting on a link. When I clicked the twitter link it was direct to a heartfelt essay on Lacey’s hockey-girlfriend’s blog, the one she’d dedicated all her time to when I was back down south and she was still my fiancée in that damn live show. The headline was enough to have me scrambling to stand in horror, in shock, in a new kind of hell.

  Sometimes you don’t even know the abuse is happening.

  Chapter Ten

  Vlad

  The flight back to Arizona was rife with tension. As soon as we’d piled onto the charter jet the anxiety among the players was obvious. Tate sat by himself in the back, burrowed into his own private hell. I longed to leave my seat across from Colorado and go to him, take him in my arms, settle him protectively on my lap, and reassure him that all would be well. I could not do that though. For several reasons. One being that I had promised Coach I’d keep a short leash on Penn, who was fidgety already. Lack of groupies, or so I imagined. The second reason was the most obvious one.

  Pulling my sexy teammate into my lap in public just might be considered a declaration of my gay status, something that was not on my To-Do list. And thirdly, I remained in my seat because I wasn’t sure if the accusation Tate’s ex-fiancée had made against him had any merit. Yes, I knew Tate Collins biblically, but I didn’t know the man well at all. And what did that say about me? My mother would be shamed. Papa, I think, would understand, as he had had sown many wild oats before settling down with Mama.

  “Dude, please, you are taxing my creative vibe with your negative energy output,” Colorado grumbled, looking up from the acoustic guitar he’d been plucking. “Just go talk to him.”

  “I have no idea—”

  “Oh, yeah, right, we’re repressing our inner queer. Whatever.” He waved a hand, the gaudy thumb ring catching the sun’s reflection. “Just take all your broody, angst-filled, Final Fantasy junk to some other seat. I’m a grown man, I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Management disagrees.”

  That made him chuckle. “Yeah, well, you can’t have management without man.”

  I stared at him across the card table. “Obviously.”

  “No, Iceman, man as in ‘The Man’, you know?” When I said nothing he tossed his shaggy hair from his face, his attention leaving me to focus solely on the guitar.

  The song was a slow one, his voice craggy and smoky, working with the lyrics perfectly. The chatter on the plane fell off as the men all sat back to enjoy Penn’s newest song. He sang of braying dogs, winter moons, and the pines that scraped the window as he held his man close. What would it be like to be so open about one’s sexuality? I so envied Colorado that. The man was blatant in his admiration of both sexes, happy to tell whoever would listen that he was not one to be jammed into boxes, proudly wearing the pansexual colors whenever possible. I threw a glance to the back, attention skimming over Ryker and Alex, then touching on Henry. All three men were involved with other men, Ryker planning to wed his man soon.

  My gaze landed on Tate, who had lifted his sad eyes from his phone to watch Colorado play his power ballad. Our eyes met and held. Did I dare go to him? What would people think? Would Coach berate me for abandoning my duties to console my…teammate/lover/possibly more.

  “Dude, just go to him,” Colorado whispered during a break in the lyrics. I blinked. He gave his head a small jerk in Tate’s direction.

  I rose almost as if I had no control over my legs. Like a puppet I stood and walked stiff-legged down the aisle, not looking left or right until I got to the back row. Tate’s gaze had never left mine as I’d closed the distance.

  “May I sit?” I asked cautiously. It felt quite similar. I could feel the men on the plane watching me. The weight of their curiosity sat on my shoulders like cement blocks. My stomach flipped, my palms damp.

  “Sure,” Tate replied in a soft, surprised manner. I dropped beside him, not across from him as a friend would. Or would a friend sit beside him? Was I being too gay? “You look like I feel.”

  My gaze flew from the card table to Tate. “I feel as if you should not ride home alone.”

  “I didn’t do it. What she said…I would never hurt anyone. Ever. She’s upset and she has every right to be. I just… I want you to know that. The guys are all funny now, like they want to believe me but they have doubts. I can’t… ” He tore his sight from mine to stare at the clouds below us. “I can’t have you thinking I’m that kind of man.”

  Damn this world and the ones who used others for their own game. If we’d been home I could’ve reached out and touched him, held him in my arms, eased the pain that poured off him. I peered up the aisle, searching for what I should say or do next, and met the languid gaze of Colorado Penn. He gave me a peace sign, laughed at the song request that Ryker had called out, and then bega
n playing ‘Jet Airliner’ by Steve Miller. It was one of the songs that was always requested during a flight, closely followed by Coach asking for anything by the Eagles. As the men sang about hearts called backwards I placed my hand atop Tate’s as it rested on his knee. His eyes flew from the clouds to my face, seeking something. I squeezed his fingers, just once, and lightly, but left my hand there.

  “Thanks,” he whispered, the lines around his mouth lessening a little. That was how we made the rest of the flight, my hand on his. Most of the men couldn’t see it, no one even knew, but if felt monumental to me. Tate relayed horror story after horror story to me about his time with Lacey as we winged across the states. By the time we landed at TIA any doubts I may have had about him had been wiped away. I felt bad for ever doubting the man, as his grief was palpable.

  We’d only just landed when two men in cheap suits appeared from the terminal, badges flashing. Tate stiffened at my side.

  “Mr. Collins, Detectives Polkowski and Harrison, Tucson Police Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions about assertions that have been made against you by a Ms. Lacey Mason. Regarding an incident of alleged aggravated assault that took place two months ago.”

  Tate began to stammer. I edged around him as the team began to gather in a circle around us to listen.

  “Are you arresting him?” The two police officers gave me that look. It said I should shut up and get out of their faces. “If you are not arresting him he does not have to go with you.”

  “Are you his lawyer?” The tall cop, Harrison, asked me as his partner, the shorter, heavier one, was talking at Tate. Coach had waded through the crowd of players, and was now jawing at the pale cop.

  “No, I am his team captain and his friend.”

  “Ah well then, you need to step back and let us talk with Mr. Collins.”

  “I will do no such thing,” I replied, squaring my shoulders.

  “Vlad, no, it’s cool. I’ll go with them. I have nothing to hide,” Tate stated with confidence.

  I threw a glance at Coach.

  “We’ll have someone from legal meet you. Don’t say anything until you have counsel, Tate,” Coach Carmichael said as the cops were already steering Tate toward a gold sedan.

  I followed the unmarked car all the way to the downtown police station. The tan brick building was large and a bit confusing. I ended up sitting on a hard wooden bench next to a water cooler for two hours. In that time I grew more than agitated, I grew pissed off as the Americans liked to say. No one in this massive place would answer any of my questions about Tate. I had no idea where he was, if a lawyer had arrived, if they were arresting him, or if they’d already thrown him in a cell where he would rot and none of us would ever see him again. I had to remind myself that America did not do such things. I paced, I cursed, I railed at whoever would listen, and then I was finally asked to wait outside or I was going to be spending some time in a cell to cool off. Four hours passed in total before Tate emerged from the police station with a short, fat man in a blue suit. Both appeared exhausted.

  How I didn’t race up to him and hug him I would never know. I met him at the curb. He gave me a weary smile. His attorney was talking a mile a minute, his high brow breaking out in a damp sweat.

  “Go home and don’t speak to anyone from the press. Ms. Mason is already suggesting her assertions we taken out of context, the police know that, and given your agreeable nature and willingness to talk with them I think this could be done and dusted by tomorrow. Meanwhile, the media is gorging on her vague social media posts and it’s a feeding frenzy. Keep your head down, don’t engage in any kind of outlandish behavior, no social media, and we’ll get this fixed.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Morton.” Tate and his lawyer shook hands, I nodded at the man as he passed. I’d seen him around the arena, mostly in his dealing with Penn. I didn’t envy our legal department or the owners anything. This team was a handful that even I had trouble keeping in line.

  “My car is here.” I led Tate to my blue Audi. “We will go back to the airport to get your car.”

  “I took an Uber,” he replied wearily falling into the passenger seat as soon as I unlocked the doors with my fob. “Why did you drive to the airport and then pay to park?”

  “I don’t like others driving,” I replied as I slid behind the wheel after tossing his bag into the trunk.

  “Control freak,” he muttered, then scrubbed at his face. “Just when I think my life is getting back in shape, more shit hits the fan.”

  I nodded. What else could I say? He was right. Life was nothing but shit splattering through fans.

  “The lawyer sounds optimistic,” I said as I backed out of my parking slot and eased into late afternoon traffic.

  “I didn’t do it. I wasn’t even around on the dates she said it happened. I just… I cannot believe she made an official complaint! Like, what the fuck!”

  He railed and shouted and punched his thighs the whole way home. He was still steaming mad when we stopped at my neighbors’ to pick up Frank. Tom and his wife had an African Gray called Molly, and so were well acquainted with parrot care. Frank and Molly were friends, and enjoyed each other’s company, so Tom and Mona were my parrot sitters when I traveled.

  Frank took a lap around my condo before settling on Tate’s shoulder, something that I was shocked to see. Perhaps the bird could sense his unhappy spirit. Or perhaps he was just a grape trollop. Whatever the case Tate sat on the sofa, feeding Frank treats as I threw together a quick dinner for the two of us. Our phones were off for the night to give Tate some respite. After a light meal of beef strips over wild rice, salad, and sparkling water, we put Frank to bed.

  “Does he always curse at you when you put him to bed?” Tate asked.

  “Mm, yes, the cursing is my fault. You take the bedroom. I will go sleep in my guest room.”

  Tate paused by the large crate that now was covered with a sheet. His gaze found mine. “Why are you sleeping in another room?”

  “I thought you should rest without me rutting against you. I seem to have a weakness for you and cannot keep my hands to myself.”

  He smiled. It was the first smile that I’d seen on him since this latest mess had blown up. “I like you rutting on me.”

  With that knowledge, I led him to my bed, stripped him of every last stitch of clothing, and gathered him close to me. Somehow I managed to keep my cock to myself, and Tate slept fitfully curled into my side. Whatever came at us next I felt that we’d grown closer today and could handle anything fate threw at us.

  Fate was a miserable cow-faced, trinket-loving whore.

  Our first game back from that tumultuous Canadian road trip was against the Harrisburg Railers. I had great respect for the Railers. They’d been one of the top teams in the league for a few years, solid, cohesive, and incredibly inclusive. Everything that I hoped to see the Raptors become. I was good friends with Stan; he and I were part of a Russian group on Facebook and often spoke online about life in America.

  Also, I enjoyed playing them. They never slacked off or played a B-game even though we were not quite at the same level they were. Yet. Trying to defend against Tennant Rowe-Madsen was challenging and invigorating. Or used to be. Tonight the man was working under my skin like a rotted sliver.

  Andre had been relegated to sitting on the bench, and Colorado was in net. Tate and Tennant had spent a long time chatting before we had changed, then during warm-up, and even now when they were on the ice at the same time they were talking. And smiling. And laughing at jokes that they didn’t share with the others. Others like me. By the second period the friendly banter between the two was making my teeth grate. Rowe-Madsen took advantage of my irritation with his pretty face. He was fast and agile. Trying to catch him was like trying to capture mercury with chopsticks. Tonight, he was extra flashy, extra smiley, extra pretty, and Tate was enraptured, I was sure of it. So, I got stupid and checked Rowe into my own goalie by mistake. Well the check wasn’t a mistake. Th
at was on purpose, but him flying into Penn and knocking him off his skates wasn’t intended.

  As soon as I hit him I knew that I’d made a mistake, and I knew exactly what it was I was feeling. None of my trouble was with Tennant. It was with me. I was feeling jealous. It was a foreign emotion to me, as I had high self-confidence. Mulling over why I was being such a fucking jerk, I planted my ass on the bench, let Coach yell at the back of my head because the shouting was deserved, and then glanced down the line to find Tate staring at me.

  A silent sort of thing passed between us. What it was I would have been hard pressed to explain, but I saw many things in his warm brown eyes. He chewed on his mouthguard and raised one eyebrow. I shrugged. He rolled his eyes. I closed my eyes and inclined my head to ask for forgiveness. Coach was still yelling, the fans were still jeering the Railers, and the moron behind us was still holding that miserable sign about Tate being the biggest turd on the SHT line against the glass. None of that mattered though. I opened my eyes and saw Tate tap his visor as if to say all was forgiven. Or I read it that way. Perhaps he was using some sort of Texas sign language to tell me to fuck off. I’d not know for sure until after the game, when we were all meeting up with Ryker, Jacob, and the Railers for a late meal at one of our famous Mexican restaurants. Perhaps Tate would want to go back to his place after the meal. Perhaps he was done with my stupid old jealous pushy ass. Perhaps I needed to apologize to Tennant and Colorado and Coach as well. I sighed and spit on the floor. This being in a relationship with my teammate was causing just as much havoc as I knew it would. Yet I was in no hurry to not wake up with Tate’s long, strong body next to mine.

  We lost to the Railers but only just and in overtime. Which pushed back our Mexican meal, which meant that Tate and I were in the parking lot behind the eatery at three in the morning, pinkie fingers hooked, looking at each other under a black velvet Arizona sky.