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    Back Check: Boston Rebels, #2
    Back Check: Boston Rebels, #2
    Back Check: Boston Rebels, #2
    Ebook225 pages2 hours

    Back Check: Boston Rebels, #2

    By RJ Scott and V.L. Locey

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    About this ebook

    Meeting Joachim could save his daughter's life, but it may well cost Isaac his heart.

     

    It's been one hell of a year for Joachim Löfgren. After a long summer in rehab, he's been moved to a new town, one far away from the warm Florida sun he so adores, to bolster a struggling Boston defense since the departure of their beloved team captain. He hasn't even unpacked his skates properly when fate lands another blow, and he's told that he is dad to a gravely ill child he never knew existed. It's an easy decision for the burly defenseman to help and he opens up his new home to his child and her guardian Isaac. He's instantly enchanted with the preschooler as well as her uncle and decides that his life will only be complete if his daughter is part of it. Filing for custody is the only option he feels he has, but this throws his budding relationship with Isaac into utter chaos. The two men soon find themselves on opposite sides of the courtroom as they both fight for the life they feel is best for Sophia.

     

    Despite grieving for the loss of his sister, Isaac doesn't hesitate to take on the responsibility for his newborn niece Sophia, creating a brand new family of two built on love and laughter. He has a steady income painting pet portraits during the day, but it's the subversive and satirical cartoons he draws at night that silence his thoughts in the dark. They don't have much as a family, but he is Sophia's dad now, and nothing and no one will ever come between them. When a routine pediatric checkup shows that Sophia is ill, it forces Isaac to confront every one of his fears. Finding a matching donor is her only hope, and Isaac begins the journey to find Sophia's mysterious father. There are no names or dates in his sister's battered journal, and all Isaac knows is that he's looking for a hockey player who was nothing more than a one-night stand. Little does he know that finding Joachim could destroy everything.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLove Lane Books Ltd
    Release dateApr 25, 2024
    ISBN9781785645815
    Back Check: Boston Rebels, #2
    Author

    RJ Scott

    RJ Scott is the author of the best selling Male/Male romances The Christmas Throwaway, The Heart Of Texas and the Sanctuary Series of books.She writes romances between two strong men and always gives them the happy ever after they deserve.

    Read more from Rj Scott

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      Book preview

      Back Check - RJ Scott

      Chapter One

      Isaac

      The box arrived on a Tuesday.

      Coincidentally, the same day I received the worst news in a phone call from the oncologist, and right about the moment I lost the last of my hope that we would ever find a donor to match Sophie.

      The HLA markers came back at six or less in all the potential donors, Dr. Carmichael said in her quiet, supportive tone. I’m so sorry, Isaac.

      "Then we use one of the people that match six? At this point, surely that’s all we can do?" We needed a donor, but we couldn’t find one. Without a donor, Sophie couldn’t have the chemo. Without the chemo, she’d die. It was a simple chain of events, but we were stuck on part one.

      Sophie fussed in my arms, wriggled, and butted my shoulder as she tried to fight sleep. We’d been up all night, watching kids shows and singing nursery rhymes. My eyes scratched with exhaustion and my throat was sore from a hundred iterations of Wheels on the Bus.

      I wish it was. Having the best possible match means less risk of Sophie’s body rejecting the new stem cells or her new immune cells reacting against her other body cells. It would be disingenuous of me to suggest that taking a chance on a mismatched transplant would be right for Sophie at the present time.

      But we’ve run out of options. Tell me what else we can do.

      We’ll keep searching.

      I read a transplant from a relative whose tissue was a half-match to Sophie. What about me?

      A haploidentical transplant you mean? I’m sorry, you’re not a match for that, she reminded me gently. And I’m guessing you still haven’t tracked down her biological father?

      I’d tried. I went to the bar where my sister had worked, which was staffed by people who lasted a few months and drifted away and were mostly from the University of Tampa Campus, covering peak times of the year. They remembered my sister, recalled that Ashley was vivacious, a little wild, beautiful, funny, but not one of them knew anything below the surface. She hadn’t left any kind of footprint at the college or the bar or the hundreds of places in between that could help me track down Sophie’s sperm donor. The fact I couldn’t control this situation was driving me insane, and the baby daddy situation was yet another thing I’d never gotten out of my sister, and never would, as she’d died the day Sophie was born.

      Despite becoming an uncle, then a single parent, in one terrifying twenty-four-hour period, I got through it and came out the other side, grieving, but wholly focused on Sophie and what she needed. I didn’t even think twice about putting everything on hold for the tiny scrap of a thing who searched for her momma, but was left with me. That had been two years ago. Sophie had just passed her second birthday, and I had the photos to prove that she was a physical presence in my life—a beautiful smiling angel with dark hazel eyes and fine blonde hair that was nothing like her mom’s or mine. I couldn’t bear to think that these might be the last photos I’d ever have of her with a cake.

      We’d tried everything, every database, every resource, and I knew Doc Carmichael was the best oncologist for Sophie. Every cent I had went to Sophie’s care, but I felt helpless because I couldn’t do anything. I was out of money and losing hope. I wished I could heal her just with the force of my love, but miracles like that didn’t happen.

      Sophie murmured against my neck. She was running a temperature, but not a normal one from teething or a mild fever that new parents expect. This was from a poison inside my daughter’s blood, and it was slowly gripping her and pulling her away from me, minute by agonizing minute. Some days, when I looked into her eyes, I saw nothing but a bright future for her, with all the possibilities of what she could be someday, there for her to take. Then the shadows would fall in my own eyes and all I could see was pain and loss. Now, I don’t know if I can live without her. I’d lost everyone close to me—my parents to Hurricane Wilma, my grandparents who’d faded from old age, and then Ashley herself.

      It was just Sophie and me now.

      And I was losing her too.

      I wouldn’t even know how to narrow it down, I said in defeat. Aside from erecting a sign on every corner and asking if some random guy knew my sister, I have no way of knowing anything at all.

      Dr. Carmichael made a noise that sounded as if she was sucking her teeth. She never once mentioned that my sister’s wild days had left us backed into a corner—she was nothing but supportive—but even I wanted to bury my face in my hands and scream at Ashley’s life choices. If we knew the sperm donor then we’d be able to move onto an alternative solution, but we didn’t, and Sophie was dying.

      As for good news, her last results were encouraging…

      I didn’t even listen. I’d heard the hope in her voice before about good results that implied Sophie would make it through this, when I knew in black and white terms that she wouldn’t.

      Neither would I.

      … so, I’ll see you for your appointment on Friday and stay strong, Isaac. Give Sophie a kiss for me.

      She wrapped up the conversation, with the kiss line, and I wondered if it was something that all pediatric oncologists learned in college. Send them a kiss, connect the parent to the child after delivering bad news, always sound positive.

      I will, thank you, doctor.

      The call ended at the same moment the doorbell rang, leaving me no time to dwell in the isolation of my hallway when someone needed me. Albeit the postman, who was probably dropping off a parcel meant for one of my neighbors, which happened often, as I was the only one in the vicinity who worked from home.

      One for you, Mr. Miller, the postal worker announced with a grin and handed me a battered box wound with enough tape to start a shop. He scanned the parcel and asked me to sign, then I shut the door and rattled the box to work out what someone had sent. It certainly wasn’t a professional wrapping job, so I didn’t imagine it was merch from any of my clients.

      I carried it and Sophie through to the kitchen. Sophie was now sleeping on my shoulder, her tiny hands twisted in my shirt, and thankfully, she seemed cooler than earlier. I placed her into the rocker, which was locked into a permanent position in the breakfast nook, then gave the parcel another shake.

      Graphic designer killed in exploding parcel incident.

      Sophie murmured in her sleep, her eyes opening briefly, as she searched the room for me.

      Dadda, she whined, arching against the belt that held her secure, and then fisted her hands when I didn’t lift her out fast enough. I’d gone to her immediately, all thoughts of parcels and bombs and life just gone in that instant she needed me. I bet any nanny worth their salt would tell me I shouldn’t carry her with me, but this was Sophie and my time with her might be limited. I wanted every snuggle and moment of love I could get. She pushed one hand into my hair and stared at me with an expression that meant this could go one of two ways. She could start to cry because she was exhausted, in pain, or just generally crabby, or she could melt in my arms and cling to me.

      Hey, baby girl, I whispered against her neck. She smelled so good, and she loved me and needed me so much. The grief welled up from me so fast it took my breath away.

      Dadda, she murmured again and then closed her eyes and snuggled in for more love. My heart filled with love, but the sorrow in my chest grew stronger daily, and it was making it harder to keep it there. I’d worked my way through the steps of grief. Hell, denial had lasted an hour before I was on the internet googling everything from cutting-edge drugs to mystical solutions. I would do anything for Sophie, but I felt hopeless and lost because I couldn’t be the dad she needed right now.

      One-handed, I attempted to open the box, hacking through the tape in a messy uncoordinated way until the top was shredded and I was finally able to pin back the tabs. There was an envelope at the top, and opening that was an exercise in frustration, but at last I was able to pull out the note. It was short and to the point, and from a name I recognized. Jillian McAfee, an old roommate of Ashley’s at UT—who majored in chemistry or something equally intelligent and had been as quiet as Ashley was vivacious. Last I saw her was just after Sophie was diagnosed when I’d been looking for clues as to the identity of Sophie’s baby daddy. Jillian summed up Ashley as someone who flitted from person to person and didn’t have a steady partner, adding that Ashley was confident and sassy and always smiling. Still, she couldn’t give me a clue as to the identity of the sperm donor.

      This is from a lady who knew your momma, I told a sleeping Sophie.

      Hi, you might not remember me, but I roomed with Ashley for a while. These are some of her things that I’d mixed in with mine when she didn’t come back for the final semester. Hope all’s good with you. Love Jillian.

      As notes went it wasn’t earthshattering, but I was excited to see some of Ashley’s things that I could put away for when Sophie was older. If there was a later. I rubbed at the abrupt pain in my chest, forced away the sorrow, and focused on the positives. We would find a way to get a match. Somehow.

      At the top were a couple of sparkly leotards, seeing them brought back so many memories of Ashley dressing up in things like this and giving our grandparents impromptu dance recitals. They hadn’t happened much after we lost them, seemed as if nothing nice happened after that, but hell, I wasn’t going to think about that right now.

      Come on, Soph, let’s take this into the garden room. I carried coffee out there first, then returned for the box. Sophie never woke for one second. When I finally got to sit in the comfy chair that was my happy place, Sophie tucked into my neck, I pulled the box onto the small side table and picked out the next item. It was a calculator, an old Casio, that I couldn’t believe for one second my sister had ever used. Neither of us were gifted with mathematical brains, she a dancer and me an artist, but on the back, scratched into the plastic, was her name. I missed her so much, for all that happened when we were growing up, for all the obstacles in our way, for her leaving too soon. I missed her like a limb.

      A stuffed toy followed next, a giraffe wearing an orange T-shirt, and attached to the T-shirt was a key ring from the bar she worked at—Branson’s Beach Pub. There were some postcards of London, a place she always wanted to visit, and a photo of Mom, Dad, me, and her from way back when we were just youngsters without a care in the world. We looked so innocent, me ten and her eight, the year before a tropical storm became something more, and Hurricane Wilma took Mom and Dad without stopping.

      There was something else wedged in at the bottom, a textbook or something, but when I levered it out, I realized it was stuck because it had a lock on it, like one of those old-fashioned secret diaries, although there was no sign of the key. I stared at it for the longest time, torn between opening it and then struck by the fact there might be a name in there that would help find a connection to Sophie. Was it an actual journal? I went to fetch a knife then thought better of carrying Sophie at the same time and placed her back in her chair. Just give me a few moments, sweet girl.

      I had the lock broken in no more than two twists of the knife, then placed it carefully on the counter. Sophie seemed content to sleep where she was, and with a prayer to the goddesses of luck and hope, I opened the journal to page one.

      It was a diary of sorts, dated, but there were random notes scattered in the margins, a reminder for a haircut, a shift list for the bar, a list of possible nail polish colors, and a lecture schedule that was pasted on page five. A bobby pin marked that page, and it was oddly bright with a smiling ladybird against the subtle cream paper. My hope shifted to despair when I didn’t immediately find the words baby daddy with an equal sign and then a name.

      But when I got further in, the posts were more of a diary. There were entries for deadlines for work, even a note about a three-hundred-dollar tip and what she was going to spend it on.

      Then I saw the first note of interest, dated Christmas Eve 2017. I hadn’t seen her at all that Christmas, or even much at all the entire year. She’d been at college, getting on with her life. We had at least exchanged texts, but they never went much past the are you okay, yes I am, kind of exchange. Too many wasted days.

      Met HG tonight, dark eyes, muscles, sexy man, swoon.

      Well, that didn’t narrow the pool, but it was the only mention so far of this nebulous man and the initials HG. That could be Harry, Henry, anything.

      I went through the next few entries. HG appeared a couple of times, and she seemed interested in him.

      Was HG Sophie’s father? The timing was right. Christmas 2017. There were smaller notes, a clipping of a red low-cut dress, and then there in black and white was the first clue I had.

      29th HG puck drop 7. Will call ticket. Reminder NYE 8-3, nails = scarlet lake.

      I flicked back to her schedule, and yep, she was working New Year’s 2017 from eight p.m. to three on New Year’s Day, so that was one detail I could rule out. Puck drop, I guess that is hockey? I’m not the world’s best expert at hockey, or sports in general, but the one thing I did know is that pucks were found in hockey. Was she meeting someone at the hockey game? Was HG a hockey fan? That narrowed it down a bit. Maybe I needed to reach out to the local NHL team or to one of the smaller teams? I didn’t know enough, but I had initials and that was a start. Then I saw the words Hockey Guy, and my heart sank. HG was just short for Hockey Guy? Had she even known the man’s name? How could she conceive a baby and not know the sperm donor’s name? A flush of anger vanished as soon as I glanced at Sophie because no connection that made her could be wrong.

      I scanned the rest of the journal, broken up once by Sophie waking up grumpy and hungry, but by the time midnight rolled around I knew without a doubt that Ashley had met and hooked up with a hockey fan she called Hockey Guy, or HG for short, because it was the only thing that made sense.

      Which is why for the opening game of the preseason, against Tampa, I left Sophie with June, a neighbour and retired nurse, who had babysat for me in the past. Dressed head to toe in neon orange, I headed to the Tampa Arena with three huge signs I’d drawn, determined to get the attention of every single hockey fan as they went into the place.

      Sophie needed help so there I stood half-naked with face paint, looking like a carrot. I couldn’t get a ticket to the game, but if queuing fans read the signs and went to get themselves tested with the hospital to see if they were a match to Sophie, then it was a win. Maybe, somewhere, within the twenty-thousand people at the arena, HG might be there, and I was going to find him.

      Because it really was Sophie’s last chance.

      And I refused to let someone else

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