5. Finn
FIVE
Finn
River Grierson was shorter in person, and all around smaller. He reminded me of a meerkat, constantly staring off in different directions, then glancing back at me as if he were guarding something important.
Which he was.
The script for The Cup was in his hands and he clutched it to his chest. He was hyper focused as he absorbed the view from the window.
He was a private person, no one knew much about him, and some called him weird, others called him eccentric.
I called him the answer to all my prayers.
Oscar-worthy material in a sports film was hard to come by, but it was unique enough that I could get people talking about me in ways that didn’t involve words like beefcake, dumb, or wooden.
The last one hurt—a critic had called my acting in Rapid Recall wooden, and it freaking bit me in the neck and wouldn’t leave me.
Even if the reviewer was right.
The script had been shit—a rehash of Rapid 1—the entire thing was made for money.
Boy did it make money. Only there were only so many ways I could say things like “Get down! Get down!” or “who the fuck is shooting at us”?
or “I promise if we take that ancient cursed artifact, ghosts won’t chase us.
”. I mean, it hadn’t been an inspiring script at all, and I was committed to improving my art, I have an acting coach who followed me up from my soap years, but the reviews had reflected my lack of dialogue and the lazy use of special effects and random jump scares involving skeletons falling on the leads, to further the plot.
In fact, Frankie Culpo the sidekick got way better lines, the serious nerd in touch with the afterlife, who spent the entire first third of Rapid Recall encouraging my character not to wake the ghosts.
Which of course my character did, without listening to said psychic sidekick—and try saying that three times in a row—and because, that was how shit the story was.
I should say something to River Grierson director-extraordinaire, right? Maybe he was doing the meerkat thing because he was waiting for me to speak.
“So, umm, you called me to attend a meeting about the part?
His gaze snapped back at me so fast it startled me. “Yep,” he offered, but the grip on the script didn’t ease, and he didn’t expand on the answer.
I was about to suggest he let go of the script and let me read a few lines, but the words died in my throat when he glared at me.
“I don’t like the Rapid films,” he blurted.
You and many others. “Okay?” Why was I here then? Was this some kind of setup? Had someone decided to show me the slim chance of getting this part only to laugh in my face? Heat bloomed inside me, a mix of embarrassment and anger.
“You’re wasted in those,” he added. Which sounded a bit better than implying me in the Rapid films was a crap idea.
“Okay?” Oh my god, is that all I’m going to say? “Thank you,” I added with caution because I thought he was giving me a compliment.
“Hmm,” he murmured and nodded. “Do you recall when Tony was kidnapped by aliens?”
I blinked at him, not quite putting things in order to make sense of that, until it hit me.
He meant the character I played in the Angel Cove soap for fifteen years, Tony, who indeed was kidnapped by aliens.
Twice. Although one of those times it was his evil twin brother—also played by me—who was spirited away, never to return.
“In Angel Cove?”
“Yes. Yes,” He nodded, and the grip on his script eased and his knuckles weren’t so white.
“I was ten when I started watching that, the same episode where you turned up as the heir to the family fortune who was actually the twin disguised as the original heir who he’d kidnapped. You were ten then as well.”
“I was.” I’d had no idea what I’d been doing when I was ten, plucked from obscurity after winning a local talent show in which I did some breakdancing before launching into a scene from the Twilight movie.
“We grew up together, me and Tony.”
I smiled at him, and he winced, so I dropped the smile for being one hundred percent serious. “So did I.” I started Angel Cove aged ten, left at twenty-five, was in Rapid 1 at twenty-six, and now heading for thirty-one I’d never really known life away from the camera.
“So, you remember the alien thing?”
“For me or my evil twin?”
“Both.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I liked that.” He slipped into silence and then smoothed out the script on his desk, the big confidential on the front along with much smaller writing I couldn’t see, faced me.
“So, I saw something in you, when you were standing in the backyard and you did that whole monologue about your heart being destroyed by knowing you’d never find love like the one you did with the alien, Sapphire-Ray.
It was seminal. A moment on camera that I can’t forget.
I mean, I was high when I watched it the first time, but it made me cry. ”
I blushed then. Yes, it might not make sense for a daytime soap to have an alien romance in it, but then daytime soaps never professed to be high art, and they often ran out of ideas.
“Thank you.”
“And that’s why I want you to read for the part, because I think if you can bring that emotion to this script then you’ll be amazing.”
A PA came in with herbal tea and a plate of vegan cookies (or so the little flag stuck into one explained).
Said cookies were not on my approved diet list, but I took one anyway, and nibbled at the edge.
I’d make up for the taste of whatever the hell this was—cardboard—later in the gym.
Or not. Hell, I still ached everywhere from the skate this morning, and I could imagine that when I woke up tomorrow I’d be one messed-up dude.
Shame I was only messed up and achy from hockey, when I’d rather be messed up and achy because Cameron bent me over the back of a sofa and pegged my—
“So, it’s the last game of seven,” River interrupted my fantasy.
I focused on what he was saying. “Okay.”
“You’re thirty seconds from the final buzzer. You’ve put everything into the team, you’ve led them from adversity at the beginning of the year, and the score is tied at three goals each. You have the puck, you ache, your chest is hurting, you’re gassed, and you have a broken ankle.”
“A broken ankle.”
“It’s okay; it’s taped up.”
“That’s good,” I said, because he seemed to expect an answer.
“So, you shoot the puck. Imagine it in slow motion.” He made a square of his hands as if he were checking through a viewfinder.
“The crowd is a blur, sweat trickles down your face, the pain is insane, and you have the puck on your stick, and you shoot.” He slid his fingers to one side and then back.
“We don’t follow the puck, we follow your expression, and there’s a montage of failure in your head, and then the puck—BANG! ”
I jumped in my seat.
“BANG! It hits the metal and ricochets away from the net minder, and you’ve lost. In the last few seconds you’ve lost, and it’s on you. You’re the captain, you’re the star, the weight of it all is on you.”
I was tearing up, lost in his words, and shit, this poor captain with his missed shot.
“Now read this to yourself and then I want to see you act this out with that emotion you conveyed over losing your alien lover.”
I read the scene over; there were no words, just action. Falling to the ice, leaning against the wall, broken, surveying the winner’s celebrations and then unable to stare at the score.
I recalled Cameron’s expression at his loss, the quiet devastation, the hopelessness, the pain, and on instinct I stood and pushed the chair to one side.
I recalled losing Sapphire-Ray in my soap days, I remembered the moment I’d decided to stay in the closet, I pulled the pain and the loss around me like a cloak.
And then I fucking acted the shit out of it.
Tears collected in my eyes, unbidden, as I took every ounce of pain I could find and then I slumped to the office floor, staring out at the image in my head of the winners.
I brushed away a tear, buried my head in my knees, silent, stoic, then lifted my head and letting a single crystal tear run down my cheek.
River went quiet. It took me a while to come out of the headspace, the feelings inside me so visceral I could imagine Cameron’s loss like my own, but when I did, River gestured for me to sit in the chair, and he had tears in his eyes.
“That.” He pointed a shaky finger at me. “That is what I want. I’ll get a contract to your agent immediately.”
You will? “Thank you, it’s an honor to—”
“Basic SAG-approved fee, but a percentage of takings, I feel like that arrangement keeps my actors motivated.”
Hell, it wasn’t like I needed money, just the chance to become the actor I wanted to be.
Oscar winner. Free to come out. Free to be me.
“Wonderful.”
“Stuntmen will handle most of the skating,” he began, and a huge well of relief opened inside me, along with a stab of regret that I might not need to spend time with Cameron.
“I mean the hits to the wall and the hip checks, and the hundred mile an hour pucks to the chest, because we don’t want our actors unable to act.
But obviously there’ll be skating from you, action shots, close-ups, and your skating experience will come to the fore there. ”
Fuck. There went all my relief.
“Sure, I’m just working with a trainer to polish my moves.” The first part wasn’t a lie. I was working with a trainer, but polishing my moves didn’t cover me falling on my ass.
River Grierson smiled then, so wide I thought his face would crack. “I have some final edits on the script, then my PA will furnish you with the final copy, but I’m so happy to have the Tony from Angel Cove in my next movie.”
“Thank you.”
“Could you sign this for me?” He passed over a still of me and Sapphire-Ray.
God, I was only sixteen in that photo, and on the brink of everything.
I looked so young, and skinnier. I signed the corner, and he took it back and held it with as much care as he had the script.
Who knew my shitty-ass soap days would get me a role as big as the one I was being offered?
We shook hands, and I backed out of the room as if I was leaving a king, and then nearly stumbled over the PA’s desk. She shot me a glance that said she’d seen this a million times. I bet a ton of people fell over after being exposed to River Grierson’s genius.
Then I headed out, and shot a message to Atlas about the contract. He sent me a grinning emoji, along with what appeared to be a peach. Plus the words, you did good. At yoga, talk later.
And then I headed home, and took the longest bath ever, because that was sure to help with the muscles that were beginning to protest what I’d done to them today, and also, yay, bubbles for success!
Whoever said soaking in a bath helped was a liar.
Waking up the next morning was like I’d turned ninety overnight.
Even my eyeballs ached, although that could be to do with traumatic crying in River’s office.
My watch informed me I had only an hour to get to the rink to meet Cameron, and ten minutes of that was me getting dressed and trying not to give in and go back to bed.
I dragged my aching ass into the rink a small part of me hoping that maybe Cameron would be busy and needed the morning off.
“Morning,” chirpy-sexy-gorgeous Cameron said as he strode into the locker room, wearing purple training shorts and a tight T-shirt. If I wasn’t feeling so shaky, I’d swallow my tongue.
“Gah,” I managed, and slumped into the cubby, pulling at my T-shirt with weak noodle hands and trying to get it over my head.
“Uh oh,” Cameron murmured, and went to a crouch in front of me, his hand on my knee for balance.
I wanted him to let go of my knee because, shit, it was sore, but I also wanted him to stay right where he was, crouched between my legs, his bottom lip damp where he’d licked it, his eyes full of compassion. “You okay?”
“I’m ninety-three and clearly arthritic,” I whimpered, and he rolled his eyes. “I need to be put down. Find a veterinarian stat.”
“Come with me.” Cameron stood and extended a hand to help me.
“I can’t move. Just leave me here. I’ll be okay. Call my parents and let them know I love them.”
“Oh my god, what a drama queen.” Cameron chuckled and gripped my hands, helping me to stand, and allowing me to lean on him.
I liked leaning on him.
I might stay like this. Leaning on Cameron and inhaling the scent of him and creating little fantasies where he gripped me hard, bent me back, and kissed me.
But no. He had other ideas, shuffling me through a door to an office with a long table and a desk.
The table was a low-rent massage space, and when he encouraged me to sit on the edge of it, all I wanted to do was curl up and sleep.
He pulled off my T-shirt, eased my pants over my ass and helped me wriggle out of them, plus shoes and socks, then assisted me in lying on my front.
“Where does it hurt the most?” he asked.
Was it wrong to tell him my cock was hurting and that I needed him to start there?
Probably.
“My big toe is okay,” I deadpanned.
“Okay, hang on.”
He disappeared from my side, and then reappeared with a bottle of oil, and my traitorous cock attempted to get a word in, even if I was lying on it. Oil was good.
Oil was fun.
He rubbed oil into his hands, concentrating so hard a small line appeared between his beautiful eyes, and then he smoothed a hand from my shoulder to the base of my spine, stopping just at the swell of my ass.
Fuck. My. Life.
Was he going to pull down my underwear, start to massage my ass, circles that grew smaller and smaller until he had his fingers inside me.
I groaned, my cock erect and ready to go.
Do not mess with the hockey player. Not everyone wants sex when they see oil.
“Okay. Now relax.”
Relax? When my cock was drilling a hole in the thin cover of the table?
So not happening.