Built for Speed Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue - Lucas

  Complete Game - The League Book 1

  A Second Glance - The League Book 2

  Always Waiting - The League Book 3

  Uneasy Pieces - The League Book 4

  James

  Lucas

  Share Your Thoughts

  About the Author

  Also by Declan Rhodes

  Built for Speed

  Declan Rhodes

  Contents

  1. James

  2. Lucas

  3. James

  4. Lucas

  5. James

  6. Lucas

  7. James

  8. Lucas

  9. James

  10. Lucas

  11. James

  12. Lucas

  13. James

  14. Lucas

  15. James

  16. Lucas

  17. James

  18. Lucas

  19. James

  20. Lucas

  21. James

  22. Lucas

  23. James

  24. Lucas

  25. James

  26. Lucas

  27. James

  28. Lucas

  29. James

  30. Lucas

  Epilogue - Lucas

  Share Your Thoughts

  Complete Game - The League Book 1

  A Second Glance - The League Book 2

  Always Waiting - The League Book 3

  Uneasy Pieces - The League Book 4

  About the Author

  Also by Declan Rhodes

  Copyright © 2018 by Declan Rhodes.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Kay Simone Creative

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  1

  James

  Nowhere on earth is more stunning than Chicago in the Christmas season after a gentle snowfall. It’s a fact. You can’t convince me otherwise. The tall buildings rise through the twinkling snowflakes like the spires of a modern fairytale castle. I’ve visited the city with my family during the holidays every year since I was five years old. When my nine-year-old sister Meredith took her last breath in my arms, I promised her that I would always spend Christmas in Chicago and remember the times that our family spent together waiting for the magical Christmas morning. It was her last wish before her eyes closed to the lights forever.

  Twelve years after we lost Meredith, I checked into a suite in a luxury hotel on North Michigan Avenue with my father, mother, and younger brother Michael. Our traditional trip was always fun, and we bounced back and forth between Michael’s jokes and Dad’s long-winded stories while Mom made sure every need was satisfied from meal reservations to extra towels after a swim in the hotel pool.

  Despite all the togetherness, as a college student, I had a gnawing need to get away from the family cocoon and spend some time on my own. That’s how I ended up gliding along with a few dozen other hardy souls on the public Skating Ribbon near Chicago’s lakeshore. For those who aren’t familiar with the facility, skating the ribbon is something like sailing along on a river that flows in a convoluted oval. It’s in full view of both Lake Michigan and the skyline of the city. There’s nothing else like it.

  I’m a college student first, hockey player second, and my name is James. Some would disagree, but I try not to let it dominate my life. I don’t eat and breathe the sport, but like anything else I take on, I’m serious about it. If I can eventually make it to a professional team, I won’t turn it down.

  I eagerly jump at any opportunity to practice my skating skills. There’s something extraordinarily peaceful about soloing on the ice. Even in the midst of a crowd, I can still be alone with that subtle “shh” sound of the skates kissing the ice.

  My grandmother always said Christmas was a time of miracles, but I stopped believing her for a long time after Meredith died. Christmas continued to be a time of family celebration, but the miracles were gone until an elegant, nameless vision skated past me on the ribbon. The ease of his glide and the long sweeping motions of his legs revealed his athletic background. He effortlessly swept past me and stuck to the outside edge of the ice to avoid collisions with other skaters.

  He was taller than me by three or four inches with a mop of long, shoulder-length blonde hair that swept behind his head as he propelled himself forward. He wore an orange knit stocking cap, and he protected the rest of his body with a puffy down parka and black suede gloves.

  After he lapped me on one of his circuits around the ribbon, I longed to stop him and speak with him. Thirty minutes into my skating, my required alone time was over, and I was ready to interact with the rest of the world again. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to interrupt someone who breezes past with pure grace.

  Two laps later, I saw the mystery skater exiting the ice just ahead of me. I heard opportunity knocking, and I left the ribbon, too. Sitting at the opposite end of his chosen bench, I began to fiddle with the laces of my skates.

  With little forethought, my mouth opened, and I stepped forward as Captain Obvious saying, “You’re a skater.”

  He swept an arm forward making the logical point, “I think they’re all skaters.” I detected a faint accent in his voice. I wondered if it was British, or maybe Australian. I was no expert in identifying accents unless they were from the American South like my cousins.

  I smiled and tried my best to appear friendly. “I mean an athletic skater. You are more skilled than the average person out there on the ribbon.”

  “And you observe well.” He reached out a gloved hand to shake mine. “I’m Lucas.”

  That was the beginning. Our meeting was simple and uncluttered; the way I want my life to be. I shook his hand. He offered a firm grip. I said, “I’m James. So you are an athlete? I play hockey.”

  “Speed skating.”

  I smiled broadly. “Then this ribbon is perfect for you, but I bet you could go much faster without the people in your way.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I do go much faster. And you dart this way and that pushing the puck across the ice.” I saw a slight grin on his face that appeared almost like a smirk.

  I rubbed my hands along the jeans I wore over sweatpants to stay warm while skating. “This might be a stupid question, but where are you from, Lucas? Are you British?”

  “Dutch.” He pointed at his orange cap. I remembered that detail later, but at the moment his gesture was meaningless to me. I was curious about what brought a Dutch man to Chicago at Christmastime.

  Without thinking, I slowed my speech as I said, “You speak English very well.”

  He nodded and continued to smile. “Almost like a native speaker. My friends and I began studying English when we first went to school.”

  “Wow, and I don’t speak any other language nearly that well.” As he gazed back at me, Lucas was handsome even buried under layers of winter clothes. His shoulders were broad, and the thick muscles of his thighs made his jeans tighter than expected for a slim, athletic man. His azure blue eyes were intoxicating.
I wanted to reach out and touch the poofy ball on the top of his cap.

  To continue the conversation, I asked, “Would you like a hot cup of coffee? I’ll walk you to the stand. It’s nearby.”

  “You’re alone?” asked Lucas.

  “I’m in the city with my family, but I’m alone here, yes.”

  “Then race me, James.”

  My eyes widened, and I stumbled over the words. “Race you?

  “Out on the ribbon,” said Lucas. “You play hockey. You can skate fast.”

  “I’m not a speed skater. I don’t know how to race, and with all of those people, I’ll cause a pile-up on the ice.”

  He spoke up as my words began to fade into the wintry air. “You do skate fast in your hockey games? Or am I wrong about hockey players?”

  “I try to.” I knew that he was likely to leave me in the dust with his racing experience, but he was beginning to tweak my pride as a hockey forward. I felt my competitive nature start to rise in my gut.

  “Then race me. We will skate to the side and avoid the other skaters. If you disrupt them, then you lose. It’s a disqualification. Only one lap, James. If you win, then I’ll drink hot cocoa with you. I don’t drink caffeine.”

  “And if I don’t win?”

  Lucas gave me an enigmatic wink and didn’t reply. He stood and walked gingerly on his skates to the entrance to the ribbon. I dutifully followed him. He said, “No mad dashes, and, as I said, we don’t cause trouble for the other skaters.”

  We both stepped onto the ice while the small crowd of skaters slowly slipped past us. I asked, “Should I count us down?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  After a slow three-two-one count, I pushed off and took the lead ahead of Lucas. He moved up next to me and gently nudged me with his shoulder. I said, “I thought there is no interfering with other skaters.”

  “Other skaters. You’re one of us.” I felt an unexpected shiver of pleasure at the base of my spine hearing the words. It was distracting enough that it allowed Lucas to slip into the lead. I pushed off furiously against the ice and propelled myself forward until I pulled even. I was moving much faster than my earlier skating solo on the ribbon. I could feel eyes on both of us, but we were at least three feet away from any other skaters.

  Lucas began to crouch into speed skating form, and I gamely attempted to follow. He began to sweep his arms side to side while I swung mine forward and back like coaches taught me about trying to gain speed on the hockey rink. When Lucas moved back in front, he turned his head to glance over his shoulder. I could see his blue eyes sparkling while the golden hair bounced over his shoulders in the crisp winter cold. He called, “Challenge me, James!”

  I did my best to sweep my feet behind and gather speed. My balance wobbled on the last turn, but I didn’t fall. The end of the race was in sight, and I poured on as much speed as possible. My thighs started to burn.

  To this day, I don’t know if Lucas let up, or my adrenaline carried me forward in a phenomenal last surge, but I edged him out in the end. Leaning over with hands on my knees, I let the momentum of the skates continue to propel me forward. Lucas clapped me on the back saying, “I’ll buy the cocoa. It was a good race!”

  I wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and we skated one more lap. This time it was leisurely. I said, “I’m no speed skater, but I do sometimes gain momentum on the hockey rink.”

  “You did well, and you met my challenge.” He pounded a fist against his chest and said, “You’ve got heart.”

  “And you have about three inches on me plus longer legs.”

  “Compact is good for skating,” said Lucas. “You’re built for speed.”

  I took the words as a compliment from a real speed skater. While we navigated the last turn, I said, “And you’re born with a skate in the crib aren’t you? I mean your country has won a gazillion Olympic medals.” I remembered watching the Dutch teams dominate in the Winter Olympics.

  I heard the soft sound of Lucas chuckling. “It’s a sign of our national sport like American babies given a baseball or that odd-shaped thing you call a football.”

  We stepped off the ice once more. We each found our shoes and changed out of the skates. Lucas wasn’t only graceful on the ice; there was something smooth and fluid about his movements off the ice as well. It was mesmerizing. I wanted to know more, and I wanted to touch. Physical attraction surged inside my body, but I had no reason to believe that he was into men.

  Lucas knew how to break the conversation wide open. As we walked side by side on the way to the cocoa and coffee concession, he asked, “Are you single? A handsome guy like you has no girlfriend with you at Christmas?”

  His question pinned me to the wall. I took a chance and gave more information than a simple affirmation that I was single. I said, “If I were with someone, it wouldn’t be a girl.”

  He took my answer in stride and said, “It would be unlikely for me, too.”

  My entire body shivered. My first thought tried to blame the weather for my body’s reflexive response, but nothing about the crisp air changed quickly enough to make me shiver, and the wind was nonexistent. Instead, it was an involuntary response to the news about Lucas’ interest in men. Was there any chance for a Christmastime miracle with Lucas?

  He stepped up to the window of the concession and ordered the drinks as he promised. Lucas paid the vendor with crispy bills instead of a credit card. He handed me my cocoa and then took his own in his right hand. I watched as he pursed his lips to blow across the surface of the liquid before taking a sip. I couldn’t stop myself from wondering what his lips would be like to kiss.

  I pointed at a picnic table with benches. As we seated ourselves, I said, “You haven’t told me why you’re here. Do you live in Chicago? Or are you on a trip?”

  “My sister Sophie lives here. She married an American. They live in an apartment in a tall building south of this part of the city. I promised to visit, and here I am.” He turned to face me and reached up to push the blonde hair away from his face and over his shoulders.

  “I hope you don’t mind me being bold and brash. It’s unusual for me, but there is something about you. I think you’re handsome, and I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

  Lucas leaned closer, and he reached out with his free hand to place it on my upper thigh. I breathed deep to try and calm my agitated nerves. “Why would I be upset about you complimenting me? You’re handsome, too, James. Almost like a pop star.”

  I tried not to cringe. I hoped that was a compliment, and Lucas didn’t see something plastic in my appearance like a celebrity. I didn’t have time to ask for a clarification. He leaned forward and gave me a quick peck of a kiss on the lips.

  2

  Lucas

  A few days later, James’ response to my text message was almost instantaneous. His message read:

  “Of course, I’d like to see you again. When? Where? I’ll be there!”

  I was two weeks into my visit with my sister Sophie and her husband, Jerry. He swept her off her feet when they met in a pub in downtown Amsterdam while he was working on a graduate school project. She moved to America after they married. She missed our family, but otherwise, Sophie was happy. Jerry was a photography professor at a small college in downtown Chicago, and he could walk to work in good weather.

  It was the halfway point in my visit. I had two weeks left. It was also the day after Christmas, and I didn’t know whether James was still in Chicago or not. We exchanged phone numbers just before saying goodbye after our short race on the ice.

  James was good-looking, and he was an intriguing contrast from the men I most often saw at home. He had a sculpted chin and jaw with dark hair and even darker eyes. I could imagine him suited in pads for his chosen sport hockey. He walked with the swagger of almost all American athletes that I’d met.

  I thought that James might ignore my message, but when he answered so quickly, I called Sophie to my side to ask for suggestions on where to me
et. She was cooking in her kitchen, and she wiped her hands on her favorite apron decorated with all colors of hens and roosters. Joining me in the dining room, she asked, “My little brother Lucas has a date? Here in Chicago?”

  I couldn’t stop myself from blushing and nodded. “Is it such a surprise? We met out skating in the big park by Lake Michigan.”

  She reached out and touched my forearm. “That’s exciting. You will have to tell me more about him.”

  I crossed my arms and stood firmly with my legs shoulder-width apart. “I can tell you later. Right now I need a suggestion. I asked him to dinner, and he wants to know where. Chicago is your city. I don’t want somewhere noisy like those places Jerry loves. Is there somewhere small? Like a cafe we would find at home in Amsterdam? Somewhere that I can hear James talk.”

  Sophie’s concentration was stuck on other things than my specific question. She said, “James. It’s a nice English name. It’s a strong name, too. Is he handsome, Lucas?”

  I set my jaw. “Sophie…the question? I need to answer his message.”

  Before I could successfully redirect her to the subject of restaurants, Jerry’s booming voice erupted from the direction of the living room. “That little Italian joint around the corner! It can’t fail, Lucas! He’ll be in deep lust before you get to the cannoli.”

  Big, bulky Jerry ambled into the dining room and delivered the name Angelo’s. As quickly as I could, I typed in:

  “Angelo’s? 7:00 p.m.?”

  James asked:

  “That little place in the South Loop?”

  I repeated the question to Sophie and Jerry, and I stared expectantly from one face to the other.

  “Yep, that’s the one,” said Jerry. “You’ve got yourself a date, buddy?”

  Ignoring the question, I typed:

  “Yes, that’s the place.”