Chapter 1 #2
Layton set a packet of information on the desk and slid it toward me, and I opened it to scan the index.
The usual welcoming information, emergency numbers, banking forms, but lower down, Community and League-Mandated Outreach. Mental Health Resources and Mandated Counseling. My jaw went rigid.
The outreach was my favorite bit—I'd volunteered off-the-record at kids’ skating schools, early mornings, and late nights when no cameras were around.
I’d helped sharpen skates and tie laces, stayed after to clean up cones, slipped equipment vouchers into parents’ hands, and pretended it was nothing.
If I kept it a secret, then my father couldn’t do anything about it.
Hell, he’d keel over and die if he found out about the work I’d done behind the scenes with LGBTQ teens.
In the public eye, I’d worked with a homeless charity in Detroit, unloading trucks and serving food.
In secret, I’d done way more, keeping my head down and my name off sign-in sheets.
I’d donated anonymously if I could, shown up when I wasn’t asked to, done the small, unglamorous things that didn’t earn photos or praise.
Things my father never knew about, and the league never tracked.
It was the mental health resources that made me wince.
Every single team demanded I get counseling—after all, with a father like Aarni-freaking-Lankinen, of course I must be a psycho as well?
Fuck that noise. I must be guilty of on-ice violence, or abusing a partner, or hell, any of the shit Aarni had done.
“You have an issue with something there, son?” Coach asked.
Yes. I don’t want anyone to peel away the layers that keep me sane. “No, Coach.”
“Good. Layton?”
Layton glanced at Coach, then back at me.
“I’ll keep it short, Jari,” he said. “You’ve been around the league long enough to know how this usually goes.
New team, fresh start, same unspoken baggage particular to each new skater who joins us.
There’s no easy way to say this, but you have things that come with you, and your name, and we want to nip those in the bud.
” He rested his hands on the edge of the desk.
Not casual. Focused. “Whatever animosity you’ve run into before—teammates, fans, management—it won’t be allowed to follow you here.
We don’t pretend the league exists in a vacuum, but we also don’t let history poison the room. ”
My shoulders tensed. He hadn’t said my father’s name. He didn’t mention the anti-queer rhetoric my father spewed. He didn’t have to talk about the articles appearing from him as my sperm donor moved further to the right. He didn’t have to.
“The Railers are a family,” Layton continued. “Not in the empty slogan way. In the sense that what one of us carries, all of us feel. You’ll get support and accountability here. No one gets frozen out. No one gets sacrificed to keep things comfortable. Kindness is paramount, and acceptance is key.”
Was he warning me? I guess he would, given he likely thought I carried my father’s hate with me. I froze again, just the same as with every other team. I couldn’t say what I wanted, I couldn’t be the real me, so everyone else filled in the gaps.
“Understood.”
“If there’s noise from you, the team, the fans,” Layton added, quieter now, “we deal with it together. Inside this building, you’re a Railer first, and you’ll respect the team, and in turn, we’ll respect you. That’s non-negotiable.”
I kept my face neutral. Inside, skepticism curled tight. Every team talked a good game. None of them meant it.
Coach nodded along with every word. “Okay, Jari, I’m not walking you into the locker room, that's all on you, okay?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“And the team is all there, and they're expecting you.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“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.