Chapter 8 #3
He was looking back at me, and his expression was careful in a way it rarely was—the banter stripped away, something more direct underneath it. Like he'd said the true version of the thing instead of the version designed to deflect.
I still had no idea what to do with that.
“Fine.” I pulled the henley over my head before I could talk myself out of it.
The air conditioning hit my skin immediately, but that wasn't why I felt cold. It was the awareness that I was standing shirtless in a room with Hartley, with cameras, with June watching everything.
“Alright, gentlemen. Grab the sticks. Let's start with something simple—both of you in a ready position, like you're about to engage in a drill.”
I picked up one of the sticks, the familiar weight grounding me. This I could do. This was muscle memory from decades of playing.
Hartley moved beside me, stick in hand, and dropped into a hockey stance—knees bent, weight forward, stick blade on the ground. His body shifted into pure athlete mode, all that casual energy condensing into focused power.
I mirrored the position, feeling my own muscles engage.
“Good. Now closer. I want you almost shoulder to shoulder. Like you're defending the same zone.”
We moved closer. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin now, could smell whatever soap he'd used that morning mixed with the faint salt of exertion. We weren't even two feet apart.
Taylor's camera started clicking. “Perfect. Hold that intensity. Grant, you look like you're about to check someone into the boards. Love it. This is gold. The dynamic is perfect. Okay, next pose. I want one of you correcting the other's form. Grant, adjust Hartley's grip on his stick.”
This was dangerous territory. But I moved anyway, stepping behind him, acutely aware that we were both shirtless now. Both exposed.
I reached around him, my chest nearly against his back, and placed my hands over his on the stick. His skin was warm, slightly damp.
“Your top hand needs to be higher,” I said, adjusting his grip. My voice came out rougher than intended. “And your bottom hand—” I slid his hand down the shaft, “—needs more space for leverage.”
He exhaled slowly. I felt it against my forearm. “Like this?”
“Yeah. Now rotate your hips. You're generating power from your core, not your arms.”
I put my hand on his hip and guided the rotation. His body was solid under my palm, all controlled strength and barely restrained energy.
The camera clicked rapidly. Taylor was saying something about angles, about authenticity, but I barely heard him over the rush of blood in my ears.
My body was responding. I was too close to him, too aware of every point of contact. The scent of his skin, the heat, the way his muscles shifted under my hands.
I stepped back before it became obvious. Before the compression fabric of my workout pants stopped hiding what was happening.
“Good,” I said, voice tight. “Hold that position.”
Taylor moved around us, shooting from different angles. “Excellent. Now let's try something more aggressive. Face each other. Sticks up like you're battling for the puck. Get close. I want to see the competition.”
Hartley turned to face me, and I saw it immediately—the flush on his chest, the way his breathing had gone shallow. The slight tightness in his jaw that meant he was working to control something.
And lower, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it—the beginning of a visible response straining against his compression shorts.
He was hard. Or getting there.
My pulse kicked. This was a problem. This was a catastrophically bad idea.
But I raised my stick anyway. Met his eyes. Dropped into position.
We faced each other, sticks crossed, close enough that I could count his heartbeat in the hollow of his throat.
“Closer,” Taylor directed. “This is a battle. You should be in each other's space. Competing for control.”
I moved in. Our sticks pressed together, and suddenly we were inches apart. Close enough that shifting my weight forward would put us chest to chest. Close enough that the heat between us felt like a physical thing.
Hartley's eyes locked on mine. His breath came faster.
“Perfect. Hold that.” Taylor's camera clicked. “The intensity is incredible. Stay just like that.”
I couldn't look away from Hartley's face.
Couldn't stop cataloging every detail—the way his lips had parted slightly, the sheen of sweat on his collarbones, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The way he was looking at me like he wanted to close the distance between us and fuck the cameras, fuck the consequences.
My cock was fully hard now, pressing insistently against the compression fabric. There was no hiding it. Not at this distance. Not with the way Hartley's gaze had dropped for just a second before snapping back to my face.
“Grant, put your free hand on his shoulder,” Taylor said. “Like you're about to push him back.”
I reached out, placed my palm on his bare shoulder. His skin was burning hot. Damp with sweat that had nothing to do with exertion.
His breath hitched. Just slightly. Just enough that I felt it.
“Jace, same thing. Hand on Grant's shoulder. Push back. Show me the resistance.”
His hand came up, settled on my shoulder. His fingers pressed in, and I felt that touch everywhere. Felt it like a brand.
“Incredible,” Taylor murmured, camera clicking steadily. “The tension is absolutely perfect. One more—Jace, step in closer. Grant, keep that intensity. Like you're about to make a play.”
Hartley moved in, and suddenly there was no space left between us.
My hand slid from his shoulder down his arm without conscious decision. His skin was slick under my palm. I felt him shudder.
His free hand had moved to my ribs, fingers splayed across my side. Not quite touching, but close enough that the heat of his palm burned through the millimeter of space between us.
The sticks between us were the only thing keeping us from being pressed together completely.
“That's the shot,” Taylor said, and his voice seemed to come from very far away. “That's exactly what I needed.”
The camera clicked one final time, and then Taylor lowered it, grinning. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. You two are incredibly photogenic together.”
I stepped back immediately, putting necessary distance between us. My cock was still hard, obvious and uncomfortable. Hartley's wasn't any better—the outline clearly visible through the thin fabric of his shorts.
“I think we have everything we need,” June said smoothly. “Thank you, Taylor. These are going to be wonderful for the campaign.”
“My pleasure.” Taylor was reviewing images on his camera screen, oblivious to the tension. “I'll have the proofs to you by end of week.”
“Perfect.” June gestured toward the wardrobe area. “Gentlemen, go ahead and change. I'll handle the wrap-up here.”
The dressing room felt smaller on the way back. Hartley grabbed his shirt and pulled it on while I reached for my dress shirt, both of us moving efficiently.
I was buttoning my shirt when Hartley broke the silence.
“So. That wasn't completely terrible.”
I glanced at him. He was pulling on his jeans, not looking at me. “What wasn't?”
“The photoshoot. You didn't look like you wanted to murder anyone. Progress.”
“I rarely want to murder anyone.”
“Your face tells a different story.” He zipped his jeans and reached for his jacket. “But seriously, that went better than I thought it would. Taylor made it pretty painless.”
I finished buttoning my shirt and tucked it in. “It was fine.”
“Just fine?” He turned to face me, grinning. “Come on, Coach. You can admit you had a little bit of fun.”
I pulled on my jacket, considering. Then, in the flattest, most grim tone I could manage: “I had fun.”
Hartley laughed. “You sound like you're confessing to a crime.”
“It wasn't my preferred way to spend an afternoon.”
“But you survived. And hey, maybe you'll end up looking good in the photos.” He grabbed his team bag. “Though I'm definitely going to look better.”
“Your ego's showing, Hartley.”
“It's not ego if it's true.” He headed for the door, then paused and looked back. “Thanks for doing this. I know I strong-armed you into it, but still. It was cool having you there.”
I nodded once. “The charity matters.”
“Yeah. It does.” He smiled, smaller this time, more genuine. “Alright, Coach. Let's get out of here before Taylor decides he needs more shots.”
“Agreed.”
We walked out together. June was waiting by the door, phone in hand, looking like she was ready to get back to the office.
“All set?” she asked.
“All set,” Hartley confirmed. His voice was perfectly normal. Professional.
I didn't trust myself to speak, so I just nodded.
The ride back to the facility was quiet. June took a call about upcoming press events. Hartley stared out the window. I sat in the passenger seat and tried not to replay every moment of that photoshoot.