Railers Volume 2 (Harrisburg Railers Box Set)

by RJ Scott

  “With that site,” I insisted.

  Doc had explained that even though the tangle of blood vessels in my brain had been capped and blocked like a new oil well, there was a slim chance the issue would always be there. Ten percent that it would worsen if I persisted in carrying on with any kind of contact sport.

  Ten percent I could handle. Hell, I was more likely to get hit by a bus than have any of his intricate work in my brain fail. I didn’t drive anymore—I wasn’t ready to be a loaded weapon on the freeway—and my will was up-to-date, with everything I had going to my sisters.

  But.

  Seven years, headaches, and I was so close to the end of my career.

  “Tell me again about the possibility of secondary sites,” I said. When they fixed one site, that could mean the pressure backed up elsewhere. The percentage chance was small, but there, nevertheless. Hence me not driving.

  He didn’t. Instead, this time he sighed. “When will you be in Vancouver?”

  “I’m not,” I began. After all, we didn’t know how far we would go in the final, let alone if the Canucks would, or even if they would meet us at any point.

  “Max, I meant book a time to see me in Vancouver. I’ll run some tests.”

  I held on to the words. He wanted to run some tests. He thinks something is wrong. My stomach churned, my chest tightened, and I felt hot and vulnerable and shaky all at once.

  “You said I had to be careful,” I blurted. The poor guy had a miserable son of a bitch whining down the phone at him. What the hell was wrong with me?

  “Max, calm down.”

  I did. Immediately. Like Pavlov’s dogs and the bell, I reacted to the stern, unforgiving command and the tension uncoiled inside me.

  “Book an appointment with my service. Or don’t. Maybe just fly up and pay me a visit when you can. Or don’t. Either way, come to see me. But worrying about a level one headache isn’t practical, and I’m concerned there’s an underlying psychological issue here.”

  That was so not what I wanted to hear. My brain was perfectly fine, thank you very much.

  Well, except for the AVM, the risk of death, and the fact I was losing my shit.

  I said goodbye, told the doc I would visit, and hung up.

  The room was utterly quiet apart from my breathing, not even the sound of the street twenty stories below. And I felt aimless. I should sleep, but the loss of the game and the morose thoughts that balled in my chest kept me tossing and turning in bed. In the end I got up, retrieved my iPad, and sat on the sofa in the corner of the room with a hot chocolate. I checked the news, took one look at the shitty headlines and shut that down. I opened Candy Crush, but the colors were too bright and I wasn’t concentrating.

  Something about the game I was playing reminded me of Ben.

  Who was I kidding? As soon as I stopped doing anything concerning hockey, it was Ben that filled the void.

  Just as I’ve played with a lot of teams, I’ve been with a lot of men, all kinds of men. But Ben was different.

  I just couldn’t figure out what it was that made him different.

  Maybe it was because I was sitting there in the dark staring at a game with candy and thinking about a fuck in a car with a sexy, sleek, dark-skinned Adonis. Maybe it was because he was a tall drink and I was thirsty. Maybe he was shiny-new, and I’d eventually fuck him out of my system.

  I recalled the noises he made—the sighs, the gasps—the fact he took me inside him and screwed back onto me and wanted more. And the kisses.

  I was getting hard, and I savored that delicious expectation of getting myself off to the sounds he made and to the sensation of fucking up into him.

  But first I wanted to see his photo, find out more, and I recalled he ran a no-kill shelter. Last Roads? Dog Roads? Or something Roads. I googled no-kill shelters in Harrisburg, and there it was, first on the list: Crossroads No-Kill.

  His picture wasn’t on the front page; that honor belonged to Diana Pierce, who held the title of Kennel Manager. She was a short, plump woman with curly dark hair, and the picture was of her and an armful of puppies. I did my bit for charity. Maybe I could do something for them, I liked dogs enough to do that. Maybe I could set up something in my will that would send some cash to the shelter. Hell, being a grinder didn’t pay like the superstars, but at one time I’d been pulling in two mill a season, not to be sniffed at.

  I clicked through the pages, adoption histories, testimonials, things about the visiting vet Dr. Vince Owens, and I read up on the adoption counselor, Abby, who had written a post about how dogs impact lives. The website was professional, informative, but I still hadn’t found what I was looking for.

  And then there it was. A stunning photo of Ben and his dog who looked like a husky, although the description called it a malamute, and a short paragraph about why he’d taken over the shelter. I hardened even more and palmed my cock; what I wouldn't give to have him under me right here and now. Or bent over the desk in the corner, or on his knees.

  I don’t know what I clicked, but suddenly there was a new picture on my screen, of Ben and another man. They weren’t hugging or holding hands, but Ben was looking at him, and the depth of love in his eyes was plain to see.

  I read the article, and my erection went away faster than Ten on a breakaway.

  That was Liam, Ben’s husband, who’d died young, quickly, tragically, but who inspired Ben on a daily basis to continue the battle for rehousing dogs. He was blond, with bright blue eyes, and the pup in his arm was a tiny version of the one in the photo of Ben alone. The label underneath said, “Liam, Ben, and Bucky”. I wondered what he’d died of, and then I saw the charity link for multiple myeloma, which upon further reading I learned was aggressive and fast.

  I’d played the what-if game so many times. When they told me what was wrong with me, I’d asked them would it be quick, or slow. They’d had no answer. Would I prefer to go quickly, or to linger for a long time? If it was slow, then I’d have time to say goodbye to everyone. My mom, my sisters, the friends I’d made during my time in hockey. I had people who would miss me.

  Just not the one person, a man who loved me as much as Ben had obviously loved his husband, Liam.

  I went to bed after that. The idea of getting off had gone, the need for it dwindled to nothing.

  We’d lost a game. Ben had lost a husband. I was close to losing everything.

  Who the hell could sleep after all that?

  We won the next game. I don’t know how it happened, but if we could bottle the energy we had in that game, we’d be rich. Ten was the first to bury the puck in the net on a power play. The other team’s defense was sloppy, tired…who knows? All I knew for sure was they were letting us through.

  Maybe Ten was faster?

  Maybe Connor was trickier?

  Maybe the Railers’ D-men were just that good?

  Or maybe it was Stan, who did some inhuman tending, at one point literally doing a cartwheel to grab a puck out of the air when it rebounded off the post.

  A shutout.

  A three to nothing win for us, and the series was tied at one all, ready for the home games back in Harrisburg.

  The mood in the locker room was lighter, and I wondered what Coach would do this time. His tone was happier but his message was the same.

  “You played well. I saw really good things on the ice. Well done.”

  This time, though, Mads came around and high-fived his D-men, and I couldn’t help smiling. Even if my thigh did hurt like a bitch from taking a puck in front of the net. Even with padding, a hundred-mile-an-hour projectile leaves a mark.

  “Get it seen to,” Mads insisted, and pointed at my thigh. “Back to the plane in two hours, but I want to see that iced and fixed.”

  There was nothing that could truly fix the bruise I’d have, but we could at least attempt to lessen it. Ten was in the room with me—he’d taken a pretty shit hit into the board on a power play when I’d been on the bench gassed after my shift. They�
�d kept him on, and he’d been a fucking target. Poor kid.

  “This is just the start,” I said to him when he grimaced at the ice and poked at his arm.

  “Fucker slashed me,” Ten muttered, and tested his hand, opening and closing the fist. He’d bounce back. I remembered being his age, ready to conquer the world and find my place.

  “Look after yourself,” I replied. Then wished I hadn’t said a word at all, because Ten got that look in his eye.

  “You sound off,” he observed. "We won."

  “A win doesn't always mean you get to smile all the way home.” I realized I sounded like an idiot, like some kind of fake Mr. Miyagi, and Ten called me on it in the best way. He snorted a laugh, and then the laugh became something more, and then he couldn’t stop laughing, and pretty soon I was joining in.

  “Wise words say you,” he managed between laughs. “Do, there is no try.” That last one had him near wetting himself, I swear, and I couldn’t help but feel lighter around him.

  By the time we left the therapy room, we were chuckling and exchanging stupid one-liners from films. Turned out for a young guy he knew a lot of old films.

  I told him so, and he looked at me as if I was an idiot.

  “Max van Hellren, six two, two-thirty pounds, defense, shoots right, selected sixty-first overall in the oh five draft, aged thirty. Right?”

  “You memorized all that shit?”

  “Yep,” Ten said cheerfully. “Mads kept going on and on about wanting you, and he wouldn't let it rest. My point here is you are not that much older than me. What is with you guys and your obsession with age?” He laughed again as I swatted at him and he ducked. “Too slow, old man,” he said, then jogged away. I could have jogged after him, but I was tired, and I rolled my neck and followed at a more sedate pace.

  The flight back was quiet. We had two days until our next game with Philly, at home, and aside from practice and sleep, there was one other thing I wanted to do.

  See Ben.

  How I waited that long I didn’t know. After practice I caught a cab the short distance from my big empty apartment to the shelter, the words of the coach playing in my head.

  He wanted us to watch out for Ten. Protect Ten. And not just Ten, but the others who held our best chances against this strong team. That was what I was concentrating on when the cab delivered me to the gates of Crossroads No-Kill Shelter. There was a buzzer, and I pressed it.

  “Hello, can I help?” a female voice asked me.

  “I’m here to see Ben,” I said. Because that was fact.

  “Could I have your name, sir?”

  “Max.”

  There was a moment when I thought she’d ask more, but this was a shelter open to visitors, right? So, they’d let people in. Including a horny hockey player.

  I patiently waited, and Diana, the smiling brunette from the website, bounded up to me.

  “I’m sorry, sir, the shelter isn’t open until three for viewings today, and Ben is out back with some new arrivals. Can I help? Are you looking to adopt?”

  I could lie here, tell her I was there for a dog, but I couldn’t give a pet a home now. It would just have to be rehomed if anything happened to me.

  “No, this is a personal visit.”

  She blinked at me—clearly that was a new one to her—and then she looked indecisive, her eyes glancing right, to where I assume Ben was working. I could just walk over and find him, but that was going to get her all worked up about security, I could tell. I interrupted her train of thought.

  “Can you tell Ben that Max the hockey player is here for him?"

  She nodded and turned to leave, but she didn’t need to.

  “It’s okay,” Ben called from a path to the right of us. “Come on over, Max.”

  I grinned at Diana, and we parted with her looking a lot less worried.

  He shook my hand. “Sorry about that. The vandalism has us all on edge.”

  I wondered what itty-bitty Diana would do against a big guy like me. I thought maybe they needed to up their security and not let idiot hockey players in through the gate. I didn’t say that, though. I was too busy holding Ben’s hand and not letting go even when he tugged his away.

  For a moment we stood there, and he tilted his head a little in thought.

  “It took you a bit of time to find me,” he said, with a soft and secretive smile.

  “Sorry, I had some hockey to play.” I released his hand, and he stepped back and away.

  “Want to see some puppies?”

  I was hoping that was a euphemism for sex, but no, he really wanted me to see puppies, seven of them, fat black lab puppies in a writhing group of noisy yaps and jumps. I didn’t know why they were there or what their story was, but I was lost, and fuck me if I wasn’t ready to take them all home. Right then. In the passenger seat of a cab, and the back seat, and anywhere they wanted to sit.

  When I looked at Ben, he grinned at me, and shit, I was lost.

  Because that smile was powerful stuff.

  Chapter Five

  Ben

  What amazing eyes the man had.

  That was what was pounding around my head as I scooped up a wriggling black ball of fur and handed it to Max. His were brownish-gold. Stunning, really. Always hot. Like a low-banked wood stove. I enjoyed looking at his eyes. Hell, I enjoyed looking at his everything. I’d always been a sucker for jocks. Liam had been one hell of a tennis player and had even entertained thoughts of going pro, but elbow issues during college had stalled those plans.

  Hey, dipshit. Stop thinking about Liam. Focus on this man here. The living, breathing one with the killer smile and incredible arms.

  “You like dogs?”

  Max nodded, allowing the pup to slather his face with kisses reeking of puppy breath. “Oh yeah, love them.”

  That was a large tick in a massive box.

  “Cats?”

  “Sure.”

  Another box checked.

  Now I had nothing. Shit. I looked around the back of the kennels, eager to find anything to talk about. Max was enjoying his face-washing, so the awkward silence dropping over us like a cloak wasn’t noticed by him as much.

  Two kids on bikes pedaled past. “When I was ten, I took a header over my handlebars. Had to get ten stitches right here.”

  I pointed under my chin. Max reached out and tipped up my chin with two beefy fingers.

  Then he kissed the scar. Lust flared to life low in my stomach, the heat creeping out to warm my extremities, which included my dick.

  “Uh, okay.” I just stood there, puppies bouncing over my shoes, and allowed the man to place a few more kisses to my throat, the one on my Adam’s apple sliding into more sucking than kissing. My cock thought the sucking was mighty fine.

  “When do you get off?” he asked, voice as rough as sandpaper.

  “As soon as we find somewhere to be alone.”

  That made Max chuckle and me blush. I’m usually not that forward with men. It had taken me weeks to fumble-bumble around Liam, making a fool of myself, until he took pity on me and asked me out.

  “I didn’t mean that.” He released my chin, and our gazes met. One eyebrow crept up his brow. “Obviously, I did mean it, but it wasn’t supposed to come out. You make me sloppy.”

  “How about we get something to eat, talk a bit, and then go find somewhere to get you off?” He placed the pup down with its litter-mates.

  “I need to finish getting these guys into the shelter files.”

  “I can wait.” He moved back a few inches, which was a relief. Sort of. “Why are they here?”

  I dashed off some notes on my iPad. “They were dumped under the Market Street Bridge.”

  His eyes rounded. “Like tossed into the river in a bag?”

  “No, thankfully. Just left by the water in a box.” I might have raised a lip.

  “Fucking people suck.”

  “That they do.” I lifted my attention from the admission information. “We’ll gather the
m up and put them in an isolated part of the shelter for new arrivals. Tomorrow our vet will come out and check them over, give them shots, worm them.”

  “And then you can help them find homes.”

  I smiled. “Fingers crossed. Puppies go fast. It’s the old dogs that no one wants.”

  He seemed to drift for a moment, perhaps thinking back to an old canine friend he might have had. Then, just as fast as he’d left, he was back. Eyes snapping to me, that familiar fire kindled in the depths of amber and brown.

  “Sorry, I was somewhere else.”

  I waved off his concern, and we toted the puppies into solitary, which was a stretch of kennels that were separate from the main runs. No outside areas, since we didn’t know whether incoming dogs were safe for human interaction. The pups rolled over each other, glad for the bowls of chow and water Diana had set out for them. She stood off to the side, her mouth twitching, her eyes moving from me to Max as he and I talked about the pups.

  Then he turned to Diana. “Think I can steal him away?”

  “I think so.” She gave me the sauciest wink, then padded off.

  “So, food. Did you eat lunch?”

  “Ah, no, not yet. I meant to, but I was up to my ears in paperwork. Coming out to admit the pups is really Diana’s job, but I begged to do it. Being cooped up works on me after a few hours.”

  “I get that.” He stepped around me and pulled open the door leading to the offices and medical room.

  “Let me just get Bucky and we can go.”

  “Bringing your dog?”

  “I can’t leave him behind.” I tugged open my door and Bucky trotted out, tail wagging, eager to greet Max again. The big man ruffled his gray fur with a large hand between the ears.

  “Going to be hard to find a place to eat with a dog,” he pointed out.

  “Just leave that to me.”

  An hour later we were strolling along the paths at Wildwood Lake, a wonderful park that featured wetlands, bike and running paths, and was dog friendly as long as your pooch was leashed. Max and I sat on a bench in the shade of a hundred lush trees, just off a running path, eating some hoagies we’d picked up as Bucky sat at attention, on the watch for squirrels.