Speed (Railers Legacy Book 1), page 7
“Why did you retire?”
“You were so close to winning!”
“Are you making a comeback?”
“Are you back with Jemima?”
“Is Jemody back on-track?”
“Is it true that—”
I tuned them all out, the noise blurring into a dull hum. My smile stayed in place, practiced and automatic, as I posed for another photo, signed another notebook, and nodded to another eager fan. But inside? I was somewhere else.
The truth was, I didn’t have answers for them—not the kind they wanted, anyway. Why did I retire? Because my life depended on it. Because I didn’t have a choice. But none of them could know that. The polished lie the PR team had spun—about stepping back to explore new opportunities—was what they’d cling to, no matter how fake it sounded.
So, I kept my head down, kept my responses vague, and kept moving. Because letting any of it sink in—letting myself feel the weight of their questions—would’ve been too much.
I wasn’t their Brody Vance anymore. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I was mine.
When the crowd thinned, I waved them off with a practiced charm, climbed into my Maserati—gutted I couldn’t stay and talk to Noah—and revved the engine.
Through the windshield, I saw Noah and Blake still where I’d left them. Noah was watching me, his expression unreadable, but his eyes stayed locked on mine until I pulled out of the lot.
I left them standing there, my pulse still racing for reasons unrelated to the car's speed.
I woke up in my hotel room to the faint hum of traffic outside, the sunlight streaming through the cheap blinds that didn’t quite close all the way. I’d deliberately picked this place—small, in the middle of nowhere, far enough outside Harrisburg that no one would connect the dots. So far, no one had asked questions or looked at me twice.
The first thing I did was check my phone, and I regretted it. The motorsport press had gone wild with its speculation.
Brody Vance Spotted in Pennsylvania—Is He Eyeing a New Team?
Jemima’s ex slumming it?
Brody Vance’s Mysterious Karting Adventure—Comeback in the Works?
And worse.
Brody Vance: The Driver Who Walked Away—Why Did The Quitter Desert His Team on the Verge of Victory?
Quitter? I wasn’t a damn quitter. But that didn’t stop some gutter media from painting me as one. Every article and social post dissected my decision as if they had the right to. As if they knew me, as if they understood what I’d been through. They didn’t feel the ache in my chest every time I thought about what I’d lost—what I’d been forced to walk away from.
But that didn’t matter. To them, I was just another story. A name that fell from the headlines of glory into the pit of controversy. A driver who’d given up when he was only points away from the championship.
I didn’t quit. I survived. And sometimes surviving looks an awful lot like walking away. What if Noah saw this and judged me, and I wouldn’t get a chance to show him I wasn’t an asshole without telling him the whole story.
I can’t tell anyone.
“Fuck this,” I told my phone and switched it off.
Now what? I had no plans but to see Noah. I wanted to talk to him, but how did I see him? Should I call? I didn’t have his number.
I could find it if I wanted to, or I could see him, talk to him, and exchange numbers naturally as normal people do.
I had to turn my phone back on, ignoring the notifications. Instead, I did some quick searching and found out the Railers team was at their practice facility, with guys like Noah trying to make the cut.
“I’m going there incognito. I’m going to ask him out for coffee. I can apologize some more. We’ll have sex, and I will get him out of my system and then, I can move on. Decision made.”
My coffee maker wasn’t impressed by my decision, letting out what sounded like a sigh as the final coffee dripped into the mug.
Outside, ready to leave, I stared at my Maserati. If I wanted to stay low-key, maybe it wasn’t about dark glasses and a hat—it was about ditching the car. So now what?
“Nice car,” Eddie murmured. He and Joan were an older couple who ran the hotel, and he’d followed me outside with some packages to post.
“Yeah,” I said, and it hit me. “Any chance you’ve got something I could borrow for the day? A little more… low-key?”
Eddie glanced at me, and I could see his confusion. However, his expression softened when he called Joan out, and I offered them a way-over-the-odds amount to rent their Toyota for the day. Money has a way of smoothing out questions.
Eddie handed me the keys to an ancient silver Corolla, muttering something about “not driving it like one of those race cars.” Tall and lanky, he’d been the last to drive it, so I had to adjust the seat to fit my five-nine frame.
“Weird guy,” I heard Joan whisper to him as I drove off. But they were satisfied with the money, so that was that.
The drive into Harrisburg was quiet, my phone directing me to the Railers training complex. I still didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I wasn’t a hockey guy—I’d grown up in motorsport, which had consumed my life. I parked the Corolla in the back of the lot, grateful for how nondescript it was, and made my way inside, keeping my head low. The complex was open to the public, so I didn’t have to talk my way past anyone at the entrance, and apart from a bag check—I had nothing—they let me in.
The stands weren’t packed, but enough people were scattered around to make it feel as if every eye was on me. I slunk up to the top row and sat down, hoping no one here cared enough about motorsport to notice me.
What was I doing here? I didn’t know a thing about hockey, and from what I could tell, this wasn’t a real game. On the ice, the players were scattered, most kneeling as the guy in charge—probably the coach—gestured and barked orders.
I leaned back in my seat, watching the organized chaos unfold below me. Noah was easy to spot, even after he put on his helmet, his sharp movements and focus setting him apart. He looked good out there—damn good.
I felt like an idiot. Cars had consumed my life, and sitting alone in a hockey rink, I was pretending I wasn’t here for reasons I couldn’t quite admit to myself.
The pitiful excuses I'd prepared sounded better in my head than they did out loud. Still, I told myself I wasn’t stalking Noah. I was… curious. Curious enough to know where he trained, when he was on the ice, and—okay, yes—I was a stalking stalker. But hell, I wasn’t doing anything nefarious with the information.
Practice shifted into something more intense, the players breaking off into teams—gray shirts against blue. Even from the nosebleeds, I could see the change in pace, the way every pass and play was more deliberate. The rubber disc—puck, I reminded myself—skated across the ice, but my focus was on Noah.
He was the best out there. He moved as if he’d been born to do this. His speed was ridiculous, and I caught glimpses of other players darting across the ice, but they barely registered. Noah commanded my attention, his every movement pulling me in. How he twisted around other skaters trying to stop him, the sharp snap of his wrist sending the puck sailing into the net—amazing.
So, fucking sexy.
My chest tightened as I watched him skate back to the center, his shoulders rising and falling as he caught his breath. He was unstoppable, powerful, and beautiful.
And me? I was sitting in the shadows, trying to convince myself I was here to watch a practice, not to lose myself in how he made me feel like I couldn’t look elsewhere.
I turned my phone back on to check something—anything—that would stop me losing my shit and heading out on the ice to talk to him. The only messages I focused on were one from my grandfather insisting I return home, and the other… well, that I could handle—a message from Jemima.
Jemima: Hey you
Brody: Hey you, back
Jemima: You doing okay, sweetheart?
She added several hearts and kisses—definitely on-brand for the queen of pop.
No, I’m losing my shit, my head hurts, everything is fucked up.
Of course, I didn’t send that.
Brody: I think I’m bisexual
Well, I never expected to send that!
Jemima: I know you are
Brody: ????
Jemima: You remember our midnight chats about Davey?
Shit, yes, I remembered Davey, a roadie, him of the purple hair and the pretty blue eyes and the…
Shit.
I’m bisexual for sure.
Brody: Fuck
Jemima: LOL. It’s okay. Are you with someone? Interested in someone? Do you want to call and talk?
Brody. No, yes, and no, I can’t talk right now.
I paused for a moment.
Brody: If I come out as bi, will it cause you trouble?
There was a pause at her end.
Jemima: If I come out as poly, will it cause YOU trouble?
What?
Brody: Of course not
Jemima: Likewise
I smiled. She was so matter-of-fact and down to earth—if only things had worked out with her, then I wouldn’t be facing my existential crisis.
I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be attracted to Noah. Or fuck his hand. Or kiss him.
Brody: I met a guy
Jemima: I met a girl
Jemima: I have to go. Xxx
Jemima: Love you B
Brody: Back at ya J xx
I was drawn down to the Plexiglass surrounding the training rink, which I assumed was to stop random pucks from hitting viewers. I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t rational, and it wasn’t planned—I found myself moving down the steps of the bleachers, closer to the ice. There was something magnetic about him, something I couldn’t resist.
I needed to be nearer to get a better look. Watching from a distance wasn’t enough—I wanted to be closer. The sharp hiss of his skates cutting into the ice echoed in the arena, and I swear, I felt it in my chest.
I stopped at the edge, my breath fogging the surface of the glass as I leaned closer, desperate to see more. He was entirely focused, his face set, and the intensity of his expression made my pulse quicken.
I needed to be closer. I needed to feel like I was in his orbit, even if he didn’t know I was there and didn’t understand why I couldn’t stay away.
I wanted him to see me.
I was desperate for it.
But he didn’t notice me at first. Blake gave me an exaggerated wave, then elbowed Noah as they broke for drinks.
Noah turned so fast I thought he’d fall on his ass, but no, he glided toward me, then stopped and indicated for me to walk to the gap near some benches.
He won’t think I’m stalking him. Right?
“You’re stalking me,” he said, his voice sharp, the accusation cutting through the air between us like a slap.
I blinked, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I’m not exactly stalking you.”
“Oh really?” Noah’s brows shot up, his hands on his hips. He was still in his practice gear, his curls damp with sweat, and damn if he didn’t look good while staring at me. “Because it sure seems like you’ve been everywhere I’ve been lately, Brody.”
“I happened to be here,” I said, shrugging as if my pulse wasn’t hammering. “It’s a public place. People are allowed to watch hockey practice.”
“Right,” he said, crossing his arms. “You just happened to be at the rink in Harrisburg during practice. Just like you happened to show up at the karting. And you just happened to—”
“Okay, fine!” I threw up my hands, exhaling. “Maybe I was curious. But it’s not stalking. I wasn’t hiding in the shadows or planting a tracker on your car or whatever you think I’m doing.”
His eyes widened in horror. “You’re what now?”
“No, I’m not doing that.”
Noah’s expression softened a little, but his gaze still searched mine. “Why, Brody?”
The question hit harder than it should have. I hesitated, my gaze dropping to the polished floor. Why, indeed? Why couldn’t I stay away from him? Why did I feel I could breathe easier around him, even if he glared at me as if I’d just keyed his car?
“I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice quieter. “I just… I wanted to see you.”
Noah’s stance relaxed, his arms uncrossing. “You could’ve just called.”
My chest tightened, and I let out a dry laugh. “I don’t have your number.”
“You’re a rich guy with endless contacts.”
“Yeah, but it would have been weird. ‘Hey, Noah, remember me? I got your number from my PI. I’m the guy you kissed, who then acted like an asshole? Want to hang out?’”
“You’ve hired a PI.”
“No. I wouldn’t. I’m not that guy.”
“What do you want from me, Brody?”
“More kisses. Lunch. To talk. I don’t know.”
He tilted his head. “Okay, then, what do you need?” he asked.
For a moment, I couldn’t answer. Because the truth—the pull I felt toward him, the way his presence calmed the chaos in my head—was too much to admit. Instead, I met his gaze, something raw and unspoken passing between us.
“I don’t know,” I said finally. “But it scares the hell out of me.”
EIGHT
Noah
I felt like I was living in that old Genesis song about the land of confusion that Pops was always singing.
Just when I’d started to wash that man right out of my hair—all the thanks to Mary Martin for her rendition of the song in South Pacific—here he was. And he looked a hundred different shades of bewildered with a splash of desperate longing. All of it aimed at me.
Did this guy seriously not get that I needed my head in the game right now? That I couldn’t afford distractions—especially not from someone playing at being straight? Because no so-called “straight” guy I’d ever known—and I grew up surrounded by macho athletes, the real chest-thumping kind—had ever acted like that.
“Gunnarsson, are you planning to join us for this discussion of special teams or are you planning on relying on your genes to help you glide through this training camp?”
Coach Morin’s deep voice slapped me in the back of the head like an errant puck. I jerked to attention, gave Brody a dark-as-shit glower, and ground out a few words.
“We’ll talk after practice.”
With that, I skated back to the group of men kneeling at center ice, my cheeks hot with embarrassment.
“Sorry, Coach, personal stuff. It won’t happen again,” I apologized, knelt between Nik and Blake, and gave the talk about power plays my undivided attention.
We then worked on some quad passing drills, trying to hone our tape-to-tape passes as we were placed into makeshift lines. It was a simple drill, but an important one to work on, as a good power play was crucial to a good team, and the Railers’ power play last year hadn’t been great. I foresaw a lot of special teams’ drills as the roster was whittled down day by day. Two guys had been sent down to the Colts already. To condition. A nice way of saying you’re not ready. I did not want to hear that, if at all possible. I knew the odds weren’t in my favor to make, let alone stay, on the roster this season. Brody Vance was a distraction that needed to step the hell off.
I worked twice as hard that practice. I had to. When Coach sent us to the showers, I was soaked in sweat, mad at myself, and more than a little irritated with Speed Racer rocking those aviator glasses and tight jeans. When we exited the locker room, there he was, deep in conversation with the GM of the team. The fucking general manager had raced—ha-ha—down here to our practice facility to talk with the Brody Vance. That had to be as rare as creating a perfect March Madness bracket.
Brody Vance was my white whale. He stalked my dreams and my waking moments, pushing me into doing stupid things that would see me being dragged to the dark, cold depths of career failure after I had harpooned him. Not only would I drown, but my ship and my crew would be smashed to smithereens leaving poor Ishmael (Ishmael aka Nikolai) clinging to the Zamboni for dear life until the ice crew could rescue him.
Dramatic much?
Uhm yeah, drama major.
“Noah, come over here a moment. I was just talking with Brody here about you,” Paul Curtis called from his little chummy chum talk with Brody. Paul was a middle-aged man with a sports management degree under his belt and had been hired on to take us back to our glory days. Brown-hair, brown eyes, a little bit on the young side for a GM at just forty, he had a plan, as he liked to tell the press. I made my way over under the curious glances of my teammates. Paul and I shook hands as I smiled, a smile that nervous rookies wore when talking to the guy who could sell you off to another team while eating his bagel and cream cheese. “How’s your father?”
“Which one?” I asked as Brody and I exchanged looks.
“Both,” Paul chuckled as he pumped my hand. “The Railers have been an inclusive team ever since Tennant Rowe came out and made history,” Paul gushed to Brody. Brody nodded along. My hand was finally dropped. “Noah, Brody here was telling me that his niece is also diabetic. And that gave me a wonderful idea for a community outreach program. What do you think about setting up a youth hockey program for kids with diabetes?”
“My charity, 17 Racing, would be happy to donate whatever may be needed,” Brody chimed in.
What could I say? It was a solid idea. I already knew of a few non-profits offering summer camps for diabetic children.
“Sure, I’d be happy to do what I could for the program,” I said instantly, making Paul beam.
“Wonderful. I’ll leave you and Brody to discuss it. Nice to meet you, Brody. Feel free to visit anytime you’re in the Harrisburg area.”
