Between the Pipes: The Games We Play - Season 2, page 1
BETWEEN THE PIPES
THE GAMES WE PLAY: SEASON 2
KATE BAUER
Copyright © 2025
All Rights Reserved
Between the Pipes by Kate Bauer
Cover Design by L.C. Chase
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, submitting to an artificial intelligence database, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Note: This is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, people, or places are used fictitiously or with permission. Teams, names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s (or the other contributors to the series) imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
*There was no use of generative AI in the creation of this book nor cover art.*
This author does not support the use of generative artificial intelligence in any creative sphere.
CONTENTS
Content Warning
Between the Pipes
1. Chase
2. Sam
3. Izzy
4. Chase
5. Sam
6. Izzy
7. Sam
8. Chase
9. Izzy
10. Sam
11. Izzy
12. Chase
13. Sam
14. Izzy
15. Chase
16. Sam
17. Izzy
18. Chase
19. Izzy
20. Sam
21. Chase
Epilogue
The Games We Play - Season 2 CONTINUES!
Song Playlist
About the Author
More Books By
Books By
Trade Up
Sneak Peek
A Little Christmas! Johnny
Sneak Peek
CONTENT WARNING
WHILE MY BOOKS ALL HAVE A HAPPY ENDING FOR THE MAIN CHARACTERS, SOMETIMES THERE ARE THINGS THAT HAPPEN TO THEM OR AROUND THEM THAT CAN BE UPSETTING FOR SOME READERS. SOME THINGS THAT OCCUR IN THIS BOOK ARE:
Invisible Disability and Able-istic Discrimination
Cheating (not between MCs)
Fear of abandonment
Age Gap of 15+ years
Accusations of child grooming and predatory behavior
Some homophobic language and slurs directed at MCs
Other items may be added to this list at a later date as things are brought to my attention
BETWEEN THE PIPES
BY KATE BAUER
Isaiah Charming was the hottest goalie in his college division last year. He hoped to make it all the way to the big leagues. Unfortunately, he got drafted to the worst franchise in the league and stuck on the lowest tier of the minors to start the season.
Chase Kinsey had two things he loved - hockey and Tim. Only Tim has moved on to a younger man, taking control of the season tickets Chase paid for. After moving to a completely different state, Chase is looking for a fresh start to forget.
Samwise Talbot loves his job despite working for a losing franchise. It allows him to be a part of the game he loves while having zero skill on the ice.
When the hot new goalie is called up, Sam and Chase find that what they're looking for might just be between the pipes.
The Games We Play - Season 2 is the second season of this multi-author minor league hockey romance series! All titles run concurrently through the same hockey season.
THE GAMES WE PLAY HOCKEY LEAGUES
NAPH (North American Professional Hockey) - Major league.
PHL (Professional Hockey League) - Minor league.
HLENA and HLWNA (Hockey League of Eastern North America and the Hockey League of Western North America) - Second tier minor league
CHAPTER 1
CHASE
It’s the first weekend in October. For the first time in my life, I’m going a hockey game and not wearing a jersey. For eight years, I had season tickets for the local Tier One Junior Hockey team in the city where I grew up. There is this magical feeling being a part of the start of these boys’ careers that used to make me proud every time I would see them lace up their skates in the pros.
But I lost those tickets along with my dignity and self-worth in the divorce. After Tim cheated on me, I didn’t think he could rip my heart out more than he already had. I was wrong.
Now, every scrape of a blade on the ice is like a blade ripping out my heart.
He stole my love of the game. He polluted the memories of damn near every player we interacted with. And yet, he is the one who is still welcomed with open arms by the organization he manipulated while I have essentially been cut out of the family. Eight years of friendships were destroyed by his selfishness, but I was the one cast out.
Somewhere deep inside, I understood that my having played in college likely played a big role in Tim approaching me back then. Not to sound cocky, but I was a damn good D-man. I had offers to enter the draft. I even had a few scouts from overseas come watch me play. But hockey was never meant to be my life. It was my escape from responsibilities. It was my joy, my passion play, but I never wanted it to be my whole identity. I felt how much playing had taken its toll on my body by the age of sixteen and promised myself and my parents that once it paid for my education, I would quit.
And I did. I turned down every single offer from scouts, even with their attempts to skirt the gifting rules. Tim loved all of the fancy dinners and VIP treatment at the night clubs, but I wished they would all take the hint and leave me to my studies. As a poor kid from East Youngstown, hockey was my only hope to break free and take my parents with me to somewhere better. I know my coaches always believed I would go pro. I know I had the skills, but I have always been a realist. Even if I went pro, I would have needed to make it all the way up to the Majors to even attempt to make enough money to support my parents, myself, my husband, and the family I always hoped to build one day.
Plus, going pro would mean I would have to take on the stigma of outing myself. Being gay in professional sports is tough enough without adding the media circus that the Major leagues force players to navigate. I knew the odds were stacked against me despite my talent, so I focused instead on my degree – using the sports scholarship to pay through my Master of Finance.
And since my parents refused to leave the home they raised me in, I settled back in the Northeastern part of Ohio – albeit in a much more affluent neighborhood – with my fiancé and allowed myself to indulge in supporting the guys just starting their own journey to the Bigs. With how much I made as a financial advisor, I was even able to open our home up as a billet family for some of the players that made their way through our small city on their way to college and beyond.
That’s where I made my biggest mistake. That’s how I discovered that my husband has a thing for players and was using the fact that we opened our home to hide his affairs. I’m not sure how long the infidelity had been going on before I caught him in the act, but looking back, I could see a ton of red flags.
It takes more effort than I expect to extract myself from the never-ending spiral of negativity thinking about Tim brings up. Pulling on my charcoal suit jacket, I debate between the red and blue ties. My new company had a Chinese auction at the picnic last month and I unfortunately won the season tickets for the Harrisburg Pickaxes – the PHL farm team for the DC Gladiators – and I can’t seem to break the habit of wearing team colors. I never should have let the boss’s kids put my name in the cups, but fuck if he doesn’t have the most adorable munchkins on the planet.
You know what? Fuck the tie.
It’s bad enough that I have to go watch the worst team in the league. I’m not going to be choking myself out all night just to impress the boss who happens to have the tickets for the seats in front of me. The only thing I need to do is make sure that I don’t start crying in the middle of the game. It’s been almost two years since I caught Tim in bed with a barely legal former player, so hopefully enough time has passed that I don’t make a fool of myself.
An hour later, I make my way into the arena. While the organization’s NAPH team has a metro stop right at their arena, the Pickaxe arena requires a half mile walk from the closest bus stop. I refuse to pay what these arenas ask for parking. At least the Juniors team had free parking as a perk for season ticket holders. Today, I parked at the office and walked across the city to save on parking, but I might cave when the weather starts to turn around mid-season. The temperature here is nothing like what I dealt with during my travel team days on the U18 team… Then again, that was a body twenty plus years younger and practically lived on the ice.
I shiver a bit at the familiar sights of a hockey crowd ready to kick off a new season while I wait in the line for security. Memories assault me while I wait for all of the people ahead of me argue with the staff because they apparently haven’t been to any event for the last decade. The first game is always a nightmare to get in because of the self-entitled pricks who don’t bother to check out the arena’s bag policy before trying to come in with Mary Poppin’s carpet bag. Tim always managed to sweet talk his way into getting contraband past security. It was always a point of contention betwee
n us.
“Kinsey!”
As I enter the arena, I notice my boss waving me over to an alcove near the refreshments stand. Plastering on the fakest smile that anyone has ever smiled, I walk over to where he is wrangling his six-year-old son and five-year-old daughter. From the corner of my eye, I notice his teenage son trying to flirt with the woman working the counter. Oh, the confidence and ignorance of youth. I feel my smile becoming a little less forced until reality crashes through my mind.
“Chase, you remember my kids from the picnic?” Mr. Sanders asks. Before I can respond, he’s introducing them again. “This is Mikey, Allie, and the one currently getting shot down while retrieving our nachos is Roger. Kids, you remember Mr. Kinsey, right?”
Tim’s new piece is barely older than Roger.
The little ones stop running around long enough to give me a wave before resuming their game of whatever the hell they’re doing to keep themselves occupied. I push back the wave of sadness that threatens to take over. Tim never wanted kids. I gave up my dream of being a dad for him. I mean, yeah, I can afford to find a surrogate and everything, but I’m almost in my forties. Even if I get a baby this year, I’ll never be able to do the things I always wanted to do on my own. Maybe, I’ll be able to teach them to skate and throw a ball while they’re little but forget anything once they become teenagers. Would I even live long enough to see them get married?
“Come on, Mr. Kinsey!” Allie’s adorable voice calls out from within the throng of people heading toward the seats from the concourse. “We gotsta do the battle cry!”
I adjust my glasses to disguise the few tears that have slipped out and follow the happy family toward our seats.
I fucking hate Tim.
CHAPTER 2
SAM
For a home opener, it wasn’t too bad. At least we had about half of the arena full for a change. I know everyone was looking forward to seeing the rookie goaltender the Glads picked up in the draft this year, but he’s got a while until we can bring him up. Since Clarke has to clear waivers to go down and the dickhead refuses to retire, we don’t have the roster spot for Charming just yet. Pretty soon, the ownership isn’t going to be giving Clarke the choice if he keeps pretending to be Swiss cheese.
“Good job with the diva, Talbot!” Jason Callahan, this year’s captain, barks out and taps my shin with his stick before he set it on the rack behind me. “I can’t wait until Gramps gets it through his head that it’s not his age preventing him from making the Bigs.”
Jason and I struck up a friendship three years ago when he showed up at open tryouts as a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old kid with a dream. I had just finished my degree program for sports management. He refused to leave his fate up to the draft, while I refused to move away from Pops while he was battling prostate cancer.
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. There’s barely enough time to brace before a blood red blocker is flying towards my face. I might be shit on ice, but I was one hell of a catcher for my college baseball team. And with the way the asshole has been playing lately, my reaction time is probably better than his. If I didn’t look like Bambi on ice, I think Coach might actually suggest putting me in the net for a period to see if I could do better.
“What the fuck did you do to my lacing, Talbot?” he whines loud enough for all of the guys in the locker room to stop and look. Thankfully, Coach comes in before Jason can jeopardize his position as captain coming to my defense. Clarke has gone so far beyond everyone’s last nerve already and it’s only the third game of the season.
“That was a shit showing out there, gentlemen…”
I tune out the rest of his usual speech – losing with Clarke between the pipes has become routine over the last four years. While Coach drones on, I start the long task of organizing the equipment for the guys into categories according to needs and preferences. Some of the guys want their gear cleaned after each game – not all of them, though. I’ve managed to develop a system that allows me to tackle the smell without actually cleaning the gear. That took me two seasons to perfect. It’s a secret I will take to my grave – job security in today’s society is important.
“… meet them after the game. I know we all want to lick our wounds, but I need a few volunteers.”
Whatever Coach asked of the guys makes them groan. Sometimes, scouts from the ownership in the NAPH show up, but this sounds more like international scouts. A lot of those leagues that come to our games are from places where hockey dreams go to die. I’ve got nothing against Australia, the UK, or even South Korea, but they aren’t exactly the places anyone thinks of when it comes to high skill and intense ice hockey. Generally, once a player leaves North America to play for a league in another country, they don’t come back until retirement. A few from the NAPH have done it, but no one from the PHL has come back that I’m aware of.
Of course, Jason steps up, but the only other person who remotely looks interested is Walendziewicz, our other tendie. Where Clarke is pushing forty with the joints of a sixty-year-old and the attitude of a toddler, Wally is in his late twenties and fully committed to whatever is best for the team. Right now, unfortunately, that means management has him riding the pine in order to keep his geriatric counterpart from making us look even worse – not that there’s much more negativity that could spread at this point.
Ignoring the drama in the locker room, I keep up my routine, making sure to put Clarke’s gear away exactly how he’s specified he wants it. After my internship term four years ago – also known as two weeks of hell before my mentor quit on me and the team – I got into the habit of photographing his cubby with a meter stick propped next to it after I set it. It manages to keep most of his tantrums off my shoulders so that I don’t have to deal with him more than necessary.
The last of the guys clear out while I’m still working. This is typical for me. I’m supposed to have a few people under me to help with this, but the guys from last year are all done with school and working in the corporate world now – and good for them for making money because my position as the equipment manager barely covers the bills. My assistant from the last two seasons, Anna, just got hired by the Vipers – the NAPH team in New York. They originally offered the position to me, but Harrisburg is home. Even with Pops gone now, it will always be home.
“Sammy, you still here?”
Coach’s voice breaks through my thoughts of how last season ended hurt in more than just a professional capacity.
“What’s up, Coach?” I yell over my shoulder as I slam the lid on the laundry cart that the cleaning company will grab in the morning. I’ve managed to break most of the guys of the superstitions around not cleaning their jerseys and socks by pointing out that maybe their superstitions only need to be followed when you’re winning. It’s really helped cut down on the funk day to day, but nothing will ever truly eliminate that smell without total demolition of the building.
“Do you have any openings for a high school kid? One of our long-term season ticket holders has a sixteen-year-old kid looking for a part time gig.”
I glance at my watch, surprised to see that it is almost midnight. With a full team under me, I’m usually home by now after a game. Even with the hour restrictions on a kid, it would definitely help to cut my time down and hopefully get me into my bed at a reasonable hour after games.
“If the kid can handle the stench, he’s more than welcome to fill out the paperwork,” I tell him as I lock the door to the equipment room. “I need to replace Eric, Stan, and Anna as well. Can you get Elise to put out some ads for me?”
Coach shakes his head in exasperation before waving me out ahead of him.
“I still can’t believe that both your guys just bailed without telling anyone,” he says as we wave to James, one of the arena security people. “I get that they got better jobs, but what happened to giving notice?”
