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    Changing Lines: Harrisburg Railers, #1
    Changing Lines: Harrisburg Railers, #1
    Changing Lines: Harrisburg Railers, #1
    Ebook235 pages3 hours

    Changing Lines: Harrisburg Railers, #1

    By RJ Scott and V.L. Locey

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    About this ebook

    When hockey wunderkind Tennant Rowe meets his new coach, he knows he's in trouble. Jared Madsen is nine years older than Tennant, impossibly attractive, and — worst of all — his brother's off-limits best friend. Is their chemistry worth the risk?

     

    The Rowe Brothers are famous hockey hotshots, but as the youngest of the trio, Tennant has always had to play against his brothers' reputations. To get out of their shadows, and against their advice, he accepts a trade to the Harrisburg Railers, where he runs into Jared Madsen. Mads is an old family friend and his brother's one-time teammate. Mads is Tennant's new coach. And Mads is the sexiest thing he's ever laid eyes on.

     

    Jared Madsen's hockey career was cut short by a fault in his heart, but coaching keeps him close to the game. When Ten is traded to the team, his carefully organized world is thrown into chaos. Nine years his junior and his best friend's brother, he knows Ten is strictly off-limits, but as soon as he sees Ten's moves, on and off the ice, he knows that his heart could get him into trouble again.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLove Lane Books Ltd
    Release dateMay 27, 2024
    ISBN9781785646058
    Changing Lines: Harrisburg Railers, #1
    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

      Changing Lines - RJ Scott

      ONE

      Tennant

      T en, honestly, I think you should talk to your agent again.

      I looked at the three faces staring at me from my laptop monitor. The one talking now was Brady, my oldest brother. Brady plays for Boston. He’s their captain. He has a beautiful blonde wife named Lisa, who’s a legal aide, two-year-old twin girls Gwendolyn and Amelia, and a house that you need Google maps to navigate. Brady is thirty-one and one of the best defensemen in the league. He’s also the pushiest and bossiest person in the history of ever.

      I’m not talking to my agent again, Brady. It’s a done deal, and I’m really sort of okay with it, I told Mr. Overachiever, and cracked open another peanut shell. The pile of empty hulls sitting beside me on the sofa was impressive.

      If he’s happy, Brady, I think we should back him instead of trying to make him feel worse about it.

      Face number two and the current talker was Jamie, or James as my mother always calls him. Jamie is the middle Rowe brother and plays hockey as well. He lives in Fort Lauderdale, where he’s an alternate captain and plays left wing. Jamie is also married to a Lisa—I call her Brunette-Lisa, and Brady’s wife Blonde-Lisa. Not to their faces, of course, but how else am I going to differentiate? Brunette Lisa’s a stunning dental hygienist who’s expecting their first child in three months. They’ve been married for four years. Jamie’s role in the Rowe-trio dynamic is Mr. Negotiator.

      There’s really not much that can be done at this point anyway. His contract was only for three years, and Harrisburg picked him up. And that was talker three, my dad, Bruce Rowe. Sire of the famed Rowe brothers from South Carolina. Dad’s a district manager for several Happy Marts in the Myrtle Beach and surrounding areas, and has forgotten more about hockey than the three of us players will ever know. If you look at my dad, you can see all of us in about thirty years. Black hair still thick and wavy, green-blue eyes, and a smile that Mom says still gets him into trouble.

      But really, Dad, he’s taking a step back in his career, Brady said yet again.

      I chewed and listened. That’s my role in the family. Tennant, the baby brother, is preached to by the older Rowe boys, because obviously he has no clue what to do with his life. He is the youngest, after all. Mom always coddles him. Just look at him sitting there in a small apartment in Dallas, lacking a fancy house, with no sexy model with double Ds on his arm, and now being traded to some team that didn’t even manage to make the playoffs last year.

      To go from an established team like Dallas to this new expansion team in Pennsylvania is a slap in the face. His agent should have pitched a fit. I mean, the very least he should have done was get him signed to an Original Six team.

      Oh, here we go, time to look down your nose at those of us who aren’t playing for Boston or New York or Montreal, Jamie snapped.

      Dad and I exhaled theatrically. I broke another shell open and Dad took a sip of his coffee. This would run on for some time.

      Jamie, don’t start that shit again. I never meant there was anything wrong with playing for an expansion team, Brady said as if by rote.

      Right, like you haven’t been sitting here for fifteen minutes telling Ten what a shit deal he just got being traded to an expansion team. Was that not you just saying all that in your whiny Boston accent? Get out of the way, Boof. Jamie removed his ginger cat from the laptop keyboard.

      Brady was on that like white on rice. "Okay, for one thing I do not have a Boston accent. He really did. But if I did, I’d be proud of it even if it was whiny. Secondly, I’m not saying that some expansion teams haven’t done well for themselves over the years but…"

      My mother sat down beside my dad with her own cup of coffee. She gave me a smile. I knew it was for me, because it was her special ‘Tennant is my baby’ smile. Mom was the exact opposite of the Rowe men: fair, blonde, and petite. She still taught music at the high school all three Rowe brothers had attended. It was Mom who’d loved hockey to death but still insisted that her boys learn to play one musical instrument so they had skills outside shooting pucks and knocking people on their asses.

      But nothing. Who won the Stanley Cup last year? Yeah, that’s right, an expansion team. Suck. My. Dick.

      "James!"

      Sorry, Mom, I didn’t see you there. Boof was in the way.

      I’m sure Tennant knows what suits his life best, my mother said.

      I don’t really feel bad about it, I said yet again, as I pondered easing out of the Skype group call and fading to black. My brothers and father wouldn’t even notice I was gone for at least five minutes.

      The conversation about me and my butchered career ran on as my mother and I made silly faces at each other. When Brady had to go give the twins their baths, Jamie remembered he had to scoop out the cat box. Dad kissed Mom on the cheek, and then padded off to watch an old western starring James Coburn.

      Well, now that the know-it-alls have left, why don’t we talk? Mom pulled the laptop across the kitchen table and leaned in close to the monitor. How do you honestly feel about this trade, Tennant?

      I swallowed the mouthful of peanut. It’s really okay. Her thin eyebrows tangled. No, seriously, I’m fine with it. I’m thinking this might be my chance to get out of that huge shadow Tate Collins throws over every center on the team.

      I thought you liked Tate.

      I took a swig of chocolate milk and looked from the laptop on my thighs to the city of Dallas spread out below my condominium. Tate Collins was Dallas hockey. You know that song about the stars at night being big and bright? Well, no star shone brighter than Tate Collins in the heart of Texas. He was the face of hockey, the league’s premier center, and its goal-scoring leader for three years running. No way I would ever be noticed—or have a shot at first line—with Tate on the team. And that was nothing against Tate. Tate was a good guy. Friendly, humble, generous, everything a hockey player should be. But for those who toiled away in his shadow, the darkness got depressing at times. I knew, for a fact, that I could be first line on any other team. For sure, first line on a second-year team like the Railers. That wasn’t ego talking, it was confidence speaking. I knew my skill set, and it wasn’t second line.

      I do, but I’m tired of being in someone’s shadow all the time.

      That’s the curse of being the youngest, honey. Mom gave me a sad little smile. How’s Chris going to feel about you leaving Dallas?

      The half-gallon carton of milk slipped off my lower lip. Chris? I coughed and hurried to wipe my chin with the back of my hand. No way. No way could she know about Chris. He and I had been super discreet.

      Yes, Christine, that bouncy redhead you took to the Texas Athlete of the Year Award over the summer? Mom gave me a look that said she wondered about my brain. She tweeted about it for weeks.

      Oh, Christine, right. Sure, I knew who she meant now. One of several dates who served as beards. Yep, that Chris, not Chris the barista with the beard and man-bun, who I’d been hooking up with on the sly for a couple of weeks. That kind of died off.

      Oh, that’s a shame. She was pretty. Anything on the horizon?

      Nope, not really.

      Dallas shimmered with heat even though it was night. The Texas Athlete of the Year Award. I recalled it well. I’d come in second to Tate for the Brightest Star on Ice award two years in a row.

      That’s probably just as well. You’ll be moving soon. I’m sure there are lots of lovely girls in Harrisburg.

      I’m sure there are.

      Ugh, this sucked. Lying sucked. Being the only kid on either side of the family who was gay sucked. Having to date women sucked. Having to sneak men into my apartment sucked. I worked up a measly grin for her.

      You’ll meet the right person, Tennant.

      My dad called for her. She rolled her eyes, and I snorted.

      I swear that man can never find his glasses. How much do you want to bet they’re on top of his head?

      I chuckled.

      I’d better sign off and let you rest. You’re going to have a busy few weeks packing and moving. We love you, Tennant.

      Love you too, Mom.

      I closed the lid of my Dell, dropped my hands over it, and stared at the city I’d be leaving behind. I’d miss Dallas. It was one hell of a great city, with amazing fans. I wasn’t sure I’d miss Chris too much. Chris with the facial hair, I mean. We’d gotten into some heavy frottage, but that was about it. He was cute, but we were missing that spark you hear so much about. Probably, if I’d been staying, we’d have gone further simply because I was tired of masturbating, and that’s a piss-poor reason to sleep with someone.

      I guessed being traded up North had just had another check mark put in the ‘This might be an okay thing after all’ column. I had a few concerns, such as finding a place to live, what the guys and coaching staff would be like, and had Frank Sinatra or any other big name ever sung any songs about Harrisburg. You know a town has made it when it has a popular song about it. Places like New York, Dallas, San Francisco, Chicago… they all had songs. Hell, even Allentown had a song. A song meant you were a kickass place to live, right? A quick Google search informed me that one dude named Josh Ritter had indeed sung about the town I was moving to. I guessed we were golden, then.

      September. Man... Where the hell had summer gone? Oh yeah, it had been swallowed up by searching for a new condo, packing, visiting the folks, and making sure my address was changed at the post office.

      The first thing I’d noticed, as I crossed the Pennsylvania border with the last of my personal belongings in the back of my Jeep Wrangler, had been the lack of palm trees. No, seriously. Like, I’d known logically that there would be no palm trees, but actually not seeing any had been a jolt. There were lots of other trees, but nothing with a palm frond. Which meant winter was a part of life here. That was uncool. A beach baby like me and temps under forty did not play well—not at all. A checkmark under ‘This might not be an okay thing after all’ was mentally made.

      Thankfully, my aunt was a realtor and had scored me one hell of a nice midtown condo on Front Street with a view of the Susquehanna River from a rooftop deck. The building was massive, brick, and was filled with grace and charm, to quote my aunt. I’d picked up a two-bedroom unit for the same cost as my one-bedroom back in Dallas. Overall, I was happy with the place and had plans to turn the second bedroom into a gym. My furniture had arrived the day after I had, and it looked stupid. The western motif had worked back in Big D. Here in Harrisburg, it looked moronic. I’d sold off the old stuff within a week and was now working on filling the big, empty rooms with furnishings that said I was one successful urbanite. So far, I had a recliner and a bed. Oh, and the TV and my PS4. The essentials were covered, at least.

      Entering the kitchen, I flipped on a light, then made breakfast, which consisted of a protein shake and a mushroom and cheese omelet. Mom and Dad had been up over the weekend, and she had filled the freezer and every shelf of the fridge with good food, aka healthy food. The six-pack had gotten a dark look, but she hadn’t told me about how fattening it was or how stupid I acted with two beers under my belt. This time. Like I didn’t know I had zero tolerance for alcohol?

      As I ate, I scanned the local news apps on my phone. Every single one had something to say about the Railers. Most centered on the argument that the state could not support three pro hockey teams. Which was maybe right—time would tell. Hockey was growing in popularity, but it had a long way to go to catch up with football, baseball, or basketball here in the States. There were a few articles about me and the hopes the sports beat writers had for the team’s offense now that they had a top six center. Scoring had been an issue last season, as had a weak defense. It would take time to build a good roster; the expansion draft only did so much for the team. The alarm on my phone went off as I was tossing my dirty plate into the dishwasher. My stomach knotted up.

      Training camp for the experienced guys like me started today. The rookies on the team had been required to show up yesterday. Today would be all about medicals, fitness testing, and media. The press would be all over me like chocolate on a Ring Ding. Which was kind of cool. It would probably feel good to get some of that spotlight that had always used to shine on Tate. Hell, even growing up I was always hearing, Oh, you’re Brady/Jamie’s little brother! I hope you’re half the student/player he/they are! from teachers and coaches. This was my time now, and I was going to bask in the limelight until I was burned.

      A quick shower, and I was off to the training facility out in Rutherford, about twenty minutes from my condo. Glass Animals supplied the ride-to-work music. Pulling into the parking lot of the East River Arena, home of the Harrisburg Railers Hockey team and seeing press vans scattered around filled me with nervous excitement. I slipped inside without being noticed, the crush of reporters only getting a peek at me when I jogged down a flight of steps to check out the ice. I closed my eyes, inhaled the smell of hockey into my lungs, and smiled. There was nothing like it. The cold air, the sound of blades on ice, the grunts and shouts, the impact of man against glass and board, and the flash of the goal light. It was as good as sex. The ice looked perfect. Pity we veterans wouldn’t be on it until tomorrow.

      Tennant! Hey, welcome to Harrisburg! What do you think you’ll bring to the team?

      I looked over the shoulder of my brand new Railers hoodie at the lean guy hustling down the concrete stairs. He had wild brown hair and big googly eyes. He held his hand out, shook, then glanced at the cell phone in his hand.

      Bob Riggs, he said. I run an online site that deals exclusively with ice hockey in the Harrisburg area. From the pros to peewee.

      Nice. Feel free to tape.

      I leaned against the glass, folded my arms over my chest, and began answering questions. Within five minutes there were probably twenty people gathered around me at ice level. I did my best to answer every question they threw at me. I told them how excited I was to be there, how I hoped I could contribute to the team and the city in a positive way, and how cool it was that professional hockey was expanding. It was an impromptu kind of meet-and-greet, my favorite kind. I related much better to this kind of setting, as opposed to the strictly regulated media day things the teams always set up. Those always felt so staged and stiff. I was about to reply to a question from a burly dude in a tracksuit who had no hair on his head but had massive amounts of it growing out of his ears, when someone pounded on the glass behind me.

      I jumped and spun, my gaze locking with and then getting lost in the most beautiful light blue eyes I had ever seen. Familiar eyes, too, now that the shock began to pass. They belonged to Jared Madsen, or Mads as he was known in our house. I hadn’t seen him in years. He looked so different, and yet the same, if that made any sense. He was incredibly hot now. Had he always been that way? I’d been probably ten or maybe twelve when I’d last seen him, so I totally hadn’t been aware of men, or how attracted to them I would be a few years later. Had his hair always been that shade of golden wheat, his eyes that piercing, his shoulders that broad…?

      TWO

      Mads

      Ten stared right at me with a look of recognition and even a hint of a smile. He was gorgeous—there was no getting away from that. From his chiseled cheekbones to his green eyes,

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