M/M Charity Hockey Romance Anthology
Changing on the Fly is a celebration of romance, featuring six M/M stories about hockey players falling in love on – and off – the ice. All proceeds from the anthology will be donated to a charity that supports inclusiveness in athletics.
The anthology will be available starting in October, 2016, for a limited time only.
It includes the following stories:
Even Strength by Cherylanne Corneille
Next Season by Avon Gale
Going Home by Heather Lire
On Broadway by V.L. Locey
The Brother and the Retired Player by Mary Smith
Take a Shot by Samantha Wayland
Exclusive Excerpt From On Broadway
“So you’ve lived in the Bronx all your life?” I enquired, eyes on the traffic lights or the passing cars. The interior of the cab had a subtle scent of onion.
“Born and raised. I got to say you got one funny accent, Riley,” the cabby chuckled.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I replied with a smile. I mentally drifted away from the man after that point, making noises when needed at a lull in his talking. We passed Radio City Music Hall. I sat up and watched the famous theater drop behind us. “Let me out here.”
The driver threw a concerned look at me in the rearview mirror. “You sure, Riley? It’s colder than my mother-in-law’s heart out there.”
“I’m sure,” I replied as I began to open the door. The driver pulled over as closely as he could get to the curb. I jumped out after giving him his fare and a hefty tip. “Thanks, Joe.” I slammed the door then jogged to Rockefeller Center, anticipation building inside my chest.
Since it was only eight at night, adults and kids covered the ice. I slid into the spot where I had stood with Otto a couple mornings go, my gaze touching on every person down there. “Shit,” I whispered when I failed to find Skating Fabio among the throngs. I lifted my sight to the spot where the massive fir tree had stood. It was gone now. That made my mood a little darker. I was confused about my actions tonight. I was also worried about how deeply I had hoped to catch a glimpse of my mystery man. I spun from the well-lit rink, the sounds of laughter and music bouncing off the buildings that looked down on us. What the fuck was I doing here on my one night off? Why wasn’t I at home enjoying the loft that had set me back a cool two million bucks last year? Better yet, why wasn’t I spending the night at a discreet club or bar looking for someone to share that big, empty, well-decorated loft with?
Someone tapped my shoulder. My gaze flew to the left. Joe the cabbie stood beside me, his mottled cheeks glowing red from the cold.
“You okay, Riley?”
The concern in his eyes touched me. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. I just wanted to peek at the rink. Reminds me of my days back in Minnesota, you know?”
“Oh yeah, sure, I can see that.” Joe gave me a weak smile. “So you done looking now? You want a lift back to your place, maybe?”
“Thanks, yeah, I need to go home.”
Joe and I walked off side by side, my hands crammed under my armpits and my thoughts on just how pathetic I truly was. Here was Riley Zeally, the golden child of the league, famous, rich, skilled, not terrible looking, and healthy spending the night with a strange cabbie while searching for some mysterious golden-haired puck pusher. With so many people in New York, you would think no one here would ever be lonely.
“9th Avenue, Gramercy,” I told Joe when we were both back in his onion-scented ride.
“Got it,” he replied then began telling me about a road trip to Minnesota he took twenty years ago. Ice fishing with some buddies, he tacked on. I nodded. My attention drifted after a minute or two. Instead of watching the traffic lights or cars, I tried to gaze at the people crossing in front of us at stoplights. They all hustled along without looking left or right. That indifferent and outwardly cold demeanor many Manhattanites moved through life with still set me back on my heels at times. Folks in Sugar Lake never ignored anyone. If you saw someone on the street, you waved or stopped to chat. You didn’t just walk past with a cell phone to your ear. I closed my eyes. My mood was growing more and more dismal with every city block. I missed Minnesota. I missed the family farm, my parents, and my sister. I missed knowing that the people around me loved me for just being Riley. They weren’t after me because of the big contract or the fame.
“Fucking shithead,” Joe snarled and mashed the brakes. The seatbelt snapped painfully across my chest. My eyes flew open just in time to see Skating Fabio standing in the middle of Park Avenue, his left hand on the hood of Joe’s cab. “What kind of moron are you? Don’t you got no idea of what the fucking crosswalks are for?”
“No shit,” I whispered and began frantically fighting with the seatbelt.
V.L. Locey’s On Broadway:
“You’re about as far from being just a guy as I am from being able to play “Rocket Man” on harmonica.”
“Is that the song your mom named you after?” I fell back to the bed, feet dangling to the floor and hands clasped behind my head.
“Good guess.” He appeared behind me after a moment. I tipped my head back to look at him. His green eyes were darker now, smoky jade and hot with desire. “You’re really sexy in a Toby McGuire Spider-Man kind of way.”
“I don’t have any superpowers,” I replied as he leaned over and placed his hands on either side of my head.
“Not true,” Rocket whispered before covering my mouth with his. My eyes drifted shut as my fingers knotted up the bedding. His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue skilled, his taste a subtle blend of Korean buffet. “You’re Riley Zeally,” he murmured between nibbling kisses that made my heart pump faster, “the face of professional hockey.”
I reached up from the duvet to push my fingers into his hair. “I want you,” I panted between his short, maddening sweeps of my mouth.
Samantha Wayland’s Take a Shot:
“There already is someone who loves to spend time with you, who loves hockey and your friends and their ridiculous pranks. Who gets that you have to travel and that you’re tired!”
Tim blinked, appearing utterly bewildered. “Who?”
“Me, you asshole! Me.”
Tim threw his hands in the air. “What about you?”
“I appreciate you exactly as you are. I love our life. Our friends. You. Even the super fucking irritating things, because apparently there is something wrong with me. I love that you can’t hide what you’re feeling, almost ever. And that you say what you’re thinking, even when I can’t do the same. I like living with you, a fucking neat-freak nudist, and working with you, and there’s never been a time, not once, that I was tired of being around you. You’re gorgeous and you’re kind and you’re the best person I know. So shut up about there not being someone who can appreciate everything about you. There already is. And unfortunately for you, it’s me.”
Heather Lire’s Going Home
“What the fuck, man?” Blake growled at Dex.
“What?” he asked, innocently. Too innocently. “I was just making conversation with an old friend from high school. One who helped both of us graduate.”
If he’d known when he started this trip down memory lane that he’d be running into the person who’d had a staring roll in the epic disaster that had been his last night in town, he’d never have started it. Micah had also held a staring roll in every single one of his sexual fantasies back then as well.
“Fuck you, Dex.”
“Think about it like this…this is a new start for both of us. A chance to fix the things in our lives that we fucked up. Me with my career and you with Micah.”
Cherylanne Corneille’s Even Strength
He took a few laps around their end of the rink to loosen his legs. On his fourth pass around the net, he picked up a stray puck and carried it on his stick before shooting it into the net. Boone bumped his shoulder and nodded toward the glass as they rounded their end of the rink again.
What the hell? He glanced in the direction his teammate indicated. Two men around his age wearing New York’s jerseys held up a brightly colored sign that said simply, “Thank you, Nate.” He puzzled on the meaning until he made another lap. One of them also held a small rainbow flag.
Mary Smith’s The Brother and the Retired Player
Our lips touch, and the spark is struck. He pulls me closer and grips my hips. I can feel his hardness already, and my dick twitches at the contact. Our kiss intensifies as our tongues touch. I hold him closer, and the light scruff of his pale beard tickles me. I never want to leave this spot, but finally, I pull back.
Avon Gale’s Next Season
Nick stopped as Sparrow went to get into his Escalade, which he’d somehow remote started the second they got out of the building. Nick drove a 2002 Ford Focus and was lucky if it started when the key was in the ignition.
“So, uh,” Nick said, not wanting to just walk off but still as uncertain as he’d been in the locker room about what to say. “See you in Philly, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Sparrow muttered, yanking the door to his luxury SUV open with too much force. “See you in Philly, kid.”
Nick managed to get his own car door open, grabbed his ice scraper, and turned the car on so he could blast the heat. He watched Sparrow drive away, leaving tire tracks in the snow.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand. She can also be found online on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and GoodReads.
Avon Gale was once the mayor on Foursquare of Jazzercise and Lollicup, which should tell you all you need to know about her as a person. She likes road trips, rock concerts, drinking Kentucky bourbon and yelling at hockey. She’s a displaced southerner living in a liberal midwestern college town, and she never gets tired of people and their stories — either real or the ones she makes up in her head.
Cherylanne Corneille has been writing almost as long as she has loved the game of hockey, so it was inevitable that she would eventually combine two of her favorite pastimes into one hobby. She will watch almost any game but prefers to cheer on the Carolina Hurricanes, Anaheim Ducks, Tampa Bay Lightning, and Tyler Seguin.
When not writing or watching hockey, she enjoys running and has completed 18 half marathons. She also loves Stars Wars, Lord of the Rings, and Captain America.
Cherylanne lives in Central Florida with her cat, who was almost called Puck or Hanifin but sometimes answers to the name Phasma.
Heather has traveled all over the world, speaks several languages, collects romance books like they’re going out of style, and has multiple book boyfriends. Ok, she hasn’t been all over the world, except in her mind. She does however speak multiple languages and collect romance books. Her long-suffering husband and sons roll their eyes at all her book boyfriends. When she’s not busy on her next novel she can be found in her classroom where teaches one of those many languages, at one of her sons many sporting events or on twitter talking about what else, romance books.
Samantha Wayland has three great loves in life; her family, writing books, and hockey. She is often found apologizing to the first for how much time and attention is taken up by the latter two, but they forgive her because they are awesome and she clearly doesn’t deserve them.
Sam lives with her family—of both the two and four-legged variety—outside of Boston. When she’s not locked away in her home office, she can generally be found tucked in the corner of the local Thai place with other socially-starved authors and an adult beverage. Her favorite things include mango martinis, tiny Chihuahuas with big attitude problems, and the Oxford comma.
Best Selling Author, Mary Smith, has been coming up with stories her whole life. She has written A HOCKEY TUTOR and THE NEW HAMPSHIRE BEARS SERIES along with numerous other titles, as well as co-authored THE PENALTY KILL TRILOGY, OH CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN SERIES, and THE NINTH INNINGS SERIES with Lindsay Paige. When not busy writing or rooting for the Chicago Blackhawks you can find her with her nose stuck in her Kindle.