Fly (Railers Legacy Book 4), page 2
“And Jari?” he added as I turned to leave.
“Yes, Coach?”
“You don’t have to spend your life trying and failing to prove you’re not your father.”
Fuck that. I’m not trying to fail, I can’t stop what people think!
I bristled, but Coach held up a hand. “Just prove you’re you.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, but I nodded as Layton moved aside to let me out. I stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind me, waiting there for a moment, pushing down the anger curling in my belly. Foxx and Coach might talk a good talk, but every word was edged with warnings. They could surely imagine the mess I’d bring to the team, and fuck, I wanted it to be different.
Okay, let’s do this.
I headed for the locker room and stopped short of the door.
It wasn’t fear that held me in place, exactly. More like… momentum dying. Like everything Coach Morin had said was still echoing inside me, rattling around with all the parts of myself I usually shoved down. My hand hovered over the handle.
Three teams behind me. One father I couldn’t outrun. A fourth, and maybe final, chance staring me in the face. I wasn't convinced I'd be kept up here in the NHL team, probably a few practice sessions, and they'd send me to their AHL affiliate, but I had to fucking do this. I'd never been utilized in a single game versus the Railers, constantly pushed back, healthy scratched, or whatever the coach at the time thought was best, but I knew the team.
I could hear the muffled sounds through the door—voices, laughter, someone chirping to someone else about something stupid. Normal locker-room noise. Easy for most players. Familiar.
For me?
I exhaled slowly, pressing my palm to the cool wood. I didn’t know how to do this. But standing here doing nothing wasn’t going to get me closer. I told myself to move. I can’t move. My throat was tight. My chest too. What if the players looked at me and saw him? The name on my cubby was already a stain on the room, and what if I walked in and they hated me before I even said a word? My fingers curled around the door handle, grip hesitant.
“Move,” I whispered to myself. Nothing. Okay. “Management traded for you,” I tried again. “They want you here.” A beat. Two. I inhaled hard, forced the breath all the way down, and let the tension bleed out through my boots. Then I pushed the door open.
The noise hit me—the sharp, bright sounds of players in motion. Tape tearing, skates clacking against rubber flooring, someone snorting at a joke that clearly wasn’t funny. The room smelled of detergent, sweat, and dirty ice.
Heads turned. Not all of them. But enough. A few guys sized me up, eyes flicking to the nameplate on my Detroit gear bag slung over my shoulder, then back to my face. No one flinched. No one recoiled. But no one smiled immediately either. Neutral. Evaluating—same as every new room, but somehow this felt heavier. I took them in the way I always did—quick, stripped of anything unnecessary. Not bodies. Not faces. Threat assessment only. Who might test me? Who might ignore me? Who might already have a story written about me in their head. I didn’t register any curiosity or softness. That part of me stayed buried on purpose. Wanting things made you visible. Visibility got you hurt.
Jack O’Leary, team captain, was the first to approach me as I stood by the door. Rumor had it this might be his final year, but god, I idolized him. He was everything a captain was supposed to be—steady, confident, proud of his team without ever making it about himself. The kind of player kids grew up pretending to be on backyard rinks. I’d watched him at the Olympics, had fallen for his style and confidence, and watched avariciously when he and his partner announced they were together. He wasn’t the only queer man on the team, Noah was with that racing driver, Trick was with a football player, and hell, Noah might be a Legacy, but Trick had come to the Railers with his own baggage and a father who was even more of an asshole than my own.
“Lankinen?” Cap said, offering his hand. His voice was calm, even, nothing sharp in it. Not what I expected from the man whose leadership everyone in the league talked about.
“Jari, Cap,” I managed the correction—the thought of being known as Lankinen, or Lanky, or whatever they came up with here, terrified and disgusted me.
He huffed a gentle laugh. “Jari, welcome.”
To his left and right stood the alternates—Adam Carter and Gage Frost.
Carter stepped forward, grin easy, eyes sharp. “Adam Carter, Cap’s left wing,” he said, shaking my hand firmly. “Most people call me Carts.”
Gage Frost—Frosty—was quieter, arms folded, expression unreadable in that way elite defenders seemed to be born with. Then he stuck out his hand.
“Frosty, defense,” he said. His grip was solid, grounding. “Winger, right?”
“Left,” I confirmed.
“Hmm, okay then. Well, welcome to Harrisburg, Jari.” His welcome wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. Just… steady. As if he were reserving judgment, yet willing to give me the space to earn it. Or, fuck, was I just reading too much into this?
Jack clapped a hand briefly on my shoulder. “Glad you’re here, kid. Get settled. We start in ten, get out there as soon as you can.” He indicated an empty stall. “That one’s yours.”
I walked toward it, aware of every footstep, my fingers brushing the worn leather strap of the watch on my wrist—my mom’s last birthday gift to me. I flicked the catch without thinking, the way I always did when I needed to steady myself. My name was already up on the cubby—LANKINEN—dusky blue on white, my jersey with its 74, hanging there. Seeing the name and number made fear and shame ripple through my chest. I wished it said Martinson—my mother’s name—I wished I didn't have my father's number, but playing hockey and keeping both name and number was part of the deal I'd made with the devil.
Live with it.
“Hey,” someone said, and I turned sharply—I knew better than to give my back to a room, but somehow seeing my Railers blue jersey had stopped me thinking properly. Noah Lyamin-Gunnarson was right there, half in his gear. ”You made it.”
“Yeah.” My voice barely worked. “Coach wanted to talk first.”
Noah held out a hand, and I shook it. I slid my dark glasses off and hooked them on my collar—I'd kept them on after Coach’s office longer than made sense, using them to hide whatever was still raw on my face. Without them, I felt exposed, as if anyone here could see more than I wanted them to.
“Noah, or Gunny if you want,” he said, and waited.
“Jari,” I said.
We let go, and Noah looked me over as if he was trying to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do with me. No hate there—just a hint of uncertainty, maybe trying to match the real me to whatever story he’d read.
I’d heard a lot about Noah’s dads from mine—mostly spat out with hate. Stan Lyamin, Hall of Fame goalie. Erik Gunnarson, Swedish winger. Best friends of Tennant Rowe. According to my sperm donor, they were what was wrong with hockey: queer, soft, and weak. Noah had every reason to hate me before I ever stepped into this room.
But he shocked the hell out of me. “So… exactly how fast are you? Please be faster than Trick because he’s an asshole about being the fastest on the team.”
From across the room, Cole Harrington's voice—AKA Trick—came sharp but bored: “I heard that.”
“You were meant to,” Noah replied.
“I'm not as fast as Trick Harrington,” I said, then I glanced Trick's way. Could I land a joke without coming over as arrogant or entitled? “But maybe I’m sneakier in corners.”
Trick laughed, came over, shook my hand, and a few others followed, but mostly players sat in their cubbies and watched. The fact that even a few team members outside Cap and his two As had said hello was a win.
I set my bag down at my stall, my fingers automatically finding the leather bracelets on my wrist—twisting them, shifting them, working the familiar knots. It was a grounding habit, something I’d done since Juniors. The watch from my mom, the bands I’d collected over the years… they were the only things that ever settled my nerves when the room felt too big, and I felt too small. Removing them had its own routine, something steady when everything else felt off. I worked through it slowly while the room settled back into its usual noise—chatter, gear shifting, someone dropping a helmet. I let the routine of getting dressed for the ice take over, the familiar motions pulling my head back into a place where I could function. I could do this in my sleep, but I was last out because I was late to the room to start with.
And when I finally headed onto the ice, stick in hand, with the Railers logo everywhere, one quiet thought cut through the noise—maybe this time, I’ll be allowed to be someone new.
TWO
Cam
Looking around one of the few meeting rooms in the rehab facility, I was pleased to see so many reps from the various teams affiliated with Mindful Healing, a mental health charity I was proud to support and to sit on its board. Lots of fellow Iron Horses, several Railers, as well as a couple of Express players. Also, a few boyfriends of the Railers were known to donate and volunteer, which was great. Racing legends, snowboarding stars, and football greats were always welcome. The more big names we had, the more money we raised for the charity.
I got to my feet, and the chit-chat slowed, then stopped. This was just an informal meeting of athletes who were generous with their time and cash. A soft reminder that we depended on them for their help, but in an informal way. Just sweaty guys talking about their community.
“Morning. Thanks to everyone for making time during your training to drop by and touch base. See what I did there? Baseball player? Touching base?”
“Boo,” Yanni called from the second row of seats. I flipped him off. The rest of the guys laughed at the interplay. I was allowed to give my catcher the middle finger. But no one else was. Them be the rules.
“Ignoring that outburst from the peanut gallery, I’d like to just spend a few minutes to refresh everyone’s memory about what Mindful Healing is and why it’s so important for the community.” I glanced up from the notes on my phone resting on the table to see a younger player slip in, handsome, dark hair and eyes, pale as soft curd, scurrying like a cat that had just been spotted by a Doberman. He slipped into a seat between Noah Gunnarson and Jack O’Leary, the captain of the Railers. A few whispers rose from the gathering.
“Sorry I’m late. I got lost,” the newcomer mumbled more to O’Leary than to me. What the Railers captain said I couldn’t catch. Someone in a Railers cap laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh of camaraderie. The cute newcomer turned red and then slid further into his chair.
“Enough,” O’Leary said, and the sniggering hockey players fell silent. His gaze moved to me. “Go on, Cam.”
“Thanks, Jack. Yep, for the newcomers, Mindful Healing is a charity that I set up ten years ago to help those in need of mental health care in the greater Harrisburg-Carlisle Metropolitan area. We have been named one of the top ten-rated charities in the state for five years in a row now, a fact we’re incredibly proud of. Our outreach programs have been key in offering help to low-income people experiencing homelessness, and LGBTQ youth who, as many of us know, are at elevated risk of suicide. We run a twenty-four-hour suicide hotline, work hand in hand with the governor’s action plan for improving mental health for free. We also host many events throughout the year to raise awareness. While we offer a great many services at low or no cost to the good people of Harrisburg, we also need community support to keep our services open and available to all who need them. That’s where you all come in.”
I smiled broadly and got a laugh. This speech was one I had given many times in the past and would again annually for as long as I had wind in me to talk. “I set up this charity after bearing witness to how crushing anxiety and depression were when my cousin, Kirby, battled through a dark depression for many years. Most of his young adult life was spent in the pits of that war, and only with the proper meds and counseling did he finally find his way into the light. Also, he knows I tell his story and is fine with it, but he insists I add that he's handsome, so yeah, Kirby is pretty darn cute. His wife thinks so, too.”
More soft laughs. My gaze went from the men gathered in their sweats and workout gear to the newcomer, still slumped in his chair, playing with some bracelets. I wanted to reach out to try to pull him into things, but that might only make him more self-conscious, so I bullied on.
“Mindful Healing strives hard to be transparent, authentic, and trustworthy. Over eighty-five percent of donations go directly into our programs.” Everyone clapped politely. “So now that I have all my bragging done, I have a short video to show you from last year’s autumn ball that many of you attended in early November. We want to do another shoot with those of you who have signed on to attend before the formal fundraiser. My PR team will be reaching out to you in the next few weeks, so look for that email. I’ll be turning on my charm at the end of the video to try to convince those of you who have yet to sign on to do so.”
I nodded at Yanni, who reached over to dim the lights a little. A screen across the room slowly lowered, and I cued up the video on my phone. It was a brief clip, about ten minutes, featuring many from the three Harrisburg teams discussing outreach and mental health awareness. Tennant Madsen-Rowe appeared on the screen. Several murmurs rose from the men. I glanced around to see that the newcomer, highlighted in the glow of the screen, was staring as if a ghost were up there instead of one of hockey’s most incredible talents. More whispers. Ten continued talking about his traumatic brain injury and how it still affected him and his mental health. Then it moved on to reps from baseball and football, and finally to a quick message from Kirby, who riffed on endorsing the video, which caused another ripple of laughter. After the video ended, Yanni hit the lights.
“Okay, so you know what we’re doing here. Who can I count on to put on a penguin suit and help raise money?” I asked everyone gathered.
“You know I’m in.” Jack, the Railers captain, spoke up first and pointed at the two men on either side of him. “And Noah and Jari will be happy to help out.”
I knew Noah from last year, so the quiet newcomer must be Jari. It fit him. A few whispers rose, but Jack turned in his seat to shut that shit down with a look. In the end, everyone gathered agreed to attend.
“Thank you all,” I said as I moved through the men now rising to get back to their workouts. “I’ll be in touch soon, well, my PR team will, but if you have any questions, feel free to reach out. I’m either home or at the ballpark.”
I watched Jari darting to the door—clearly not the networking type. O’Leary was in the corner with a few of his fellow puck pushers, having a heated discussion. I wasn’t sure what it was all about, and it wasn’t my business. Jack looked my way, gave me a nod as if to say shit handled, and exited. Even though I was chatting with the Express’ freshly signed quarterback, my mind kept going back to Jari. The guy was adorable but spooked.
“… so then I told Kirby that we would have to expand the second bedroom into a playroom for the twins because their bedroom is quickly filling up with Marrow Manor Puppet Theater plushies. Not to look a gift marionette in the mouth, but I’m not wholly sure my two-year-olds should be so comfortable sleeping amid murderous puppets.”
Those puppets had launched my cousin Kirby’s career as a horror writer into the stratosphere. Now there were talks of a movie based on his debut novel, which had sold over three million copies to date. All thanks to bloggers and influencers who had taken a chance on his book after seeing me reading it in the dugout during a game in Pittsburgh. I’d started teasing Kirby about being credited in the film as the power broker for his novel. He always fired back that he should be noted on the back of my baseball card as the first and most formative catcher for my career on the mound. He'd caught a lot of balls for me when we’d been kids—probably thousands.
I propped my phone against my empty mug and angled it for a better view, chuckling at Kirby’s wife, Joy. Her name fit her and reflected perfectly what the perky brunette with the big blue eyes had brought into Kirby’s life, and mine, too. This tiny woman had been the missing puzzle piece for the cousin I thought of as a sibling. Through their romance, wedding, and the birth of their twin boys, I had witnessed the best of things for the man I loved more than anyone on this planet. Archie and Max, their boys, and their mom were super close seconds. My parents, long dead now, were third.
“To be fair, some of the puppets are really cute,” I tossed out as my cousin entered the video call, red curls askew, smiling as he draped an arm around Joy’s shoulders.
“Right?” Kirby said as Joy rolled her eyes. “I mean, out of all the puppets, Jack of Strings is the most redeemable.”
Joy gasped. “Kirby, no, he is not.” Then she looked at Cam. “Your idiot cousin wrote him killing four puppet teenagers!”
“Sure, but he had good reasons,” Cam defended. “Those punk kids were cutting all the strings off his friends.”
I sat back, amused as always, while they bickered playfully.
“Okay, so we need to talk about you now,” Joy said, leaning up to stare at me through the small screen on my phone. “Tell us about your life. How’s the shoulder?”
“Shoulder is good. Arm is good. Team is good,” I tossed out by rote.
“That’s reassuring. Dating anyone of interest?” she prodded none too gently. Kirby rubbed his hands over his face while moaning. She glanced at her husband, then back at me. “Ignore him. He keeps telling me not to bring up personal stuff, but we’re family. Family brings up personal stuff all the time. Ask my parents.” I would not ask her folks because they were just as nosy and amazing as she was. “So, anyone caught your eye? Pretty girl in the stands? Hot guy in the locker room? Oh! Oh, you should so ask Yanni out!”
“He’s my catcher,” I explained for the ten thousandth time. “Also, very straight.”
