Chapter 15 #2
“You said my face is the issue. I’d like to understand.” He tilts his head. The overhead light catches the line of his jaw, the makeup still sharp along his cheekbones. “What specifically about my face is a problem for you?”
My eyes trace his jaw before I can stop them. The stubble the stylist didn’t cover. The freckle below his left ear that I know is there even under the foundation.
“The part where it won’t hold a scowl for three seconds,” I say.
“Ah. So you were watching my face closely during the takes. For professional reasons.”
“Yes. For the commercial. That we were filming. For money.”
“Of course. Very professional of you to study my face so carefully.” He leans on his stick. His forearms flex against the shaft. “And what did you observe, professionally?”
My neck is hot. The jersey collar is too tight.
“I observed that you can’t take direction,” I say.
“Phil said I was great.”
“Phil said that because you were standing right there. Phil has been wanting to go home since take seven.”
“Phil got his shot. Twelve takes is not unusual for a commercial. I read about it.”
“You read about commercial production?”
“I read about many things. I’m very well-rounded.
” He circles me again. Slower this time.
I track him in my peripheral vision — the easy glide of his stride, the way his hips shift with the crossovers, the loose swing of his stick in one hand.
My pulse is doing something stupid. “Did you know the average thirty-second commercial takes between fifteen and fifty takes? We’re below average. We should be proud.”
“I’m thrilled.”
“You don’t sound thrilled. You sound like a man who has been wearing makeup for three hours and wants to go home and study histology.”
“That’s exactly what I sound like.”
“Terrible plan. Very boring.” He completes the circle and stops in front of me again. Even closer. Close enough that I can see the ring of darker blue around his irises. “I have a better idea.”
My hand tightens on my stick. I look at the boards. The scoreboard. The banners. Anywhere except his mouth, which is right there, slightly parted, close enough that if I leaned forward six inches —
“We could have been done by five,” I say. “It’s almost seven. I have a histology exam on Friday.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I’m stating a fact.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m looking right at you.”
“You’re looking at the Ashford banner behind my left ear.” He steps forward. The toes of his skates touch mine. My pulse jumps. “Look at me.”
I look at him.
Blue eyes. Freckles under the studio makeup. That mouth — the bottom lip still slightly wet from where he licked it during the take and I can see the exact moment he registers what that does to my face because his expression shifts.
The playfulness doesn’t leave. It sharpens. Gets an edge to it.
“You’re not really mad at me,” he says. Low. His glove finds the front of my jersey. Not pulling. Just resting there, fingers curled into the fabric. “And now we’re finally alone.”
The rink hums around us. The ice is bright and empty and the lights make everything feel suspended. His hand on my jersey. His eyes on mine. The smell of cold air and ice and whatever product the stylist put in his hair.
“Sasha.”
“Mm.”
“Someone could come back. The Zamboni driver. Security.”
“The crew is gone. The rink is ours until nine. I asked.”
“You asked?”
“We have this place to ourselves until security comes to lock it up at midnight.” His thumb moves against my chest through the jersey.
“You planned this.”
“I planned nothing. I simply asked a question and received a convenient answer.” His eyes drop to my mouth. Back up. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“You were about to.”
I wasn’t. But the thing is — and this is the part I’m never going to admit out loud — he’s right.
We haven’t been alone in weeks. Not since the bleachers in September.
Not really alone, not with actual time and no one about to walk in.
Every interaction since then has been public — practice, the podcast, team dinners, this commercial.
All of it with people around. All of it with us performing the roles we’re supposed to be performing.
The texts don’t count. The phone call at 2 AM doesn’t count. I need him in front of me. I need to be able to reach out and touch him and not calculate who might see.
And now we’re on an empty rink in red jerseys that aren’t ours and makeup we don’t need and the whole building is ours alone right now and I’m pretending to be annoyed.
I should step back. I should point out that there are probably still cameras in this building, that security has access to the footage, that this is exactly the kind of risk we can’t afford.
His hand slides from my jersey to the back of my neck. His glove is off — when did he take his glove off? — and his fingers are cold from the ice and they press against the hot skin above my collar and every single thought in my head goes quiet.
“Face it, Aaron Kelly.” His voice is barely above a whisper and his mouth is so close I can feel his breath. “You want me.”
The annoying thing about Sasha Vorontsovsky is that he sees right through me. Every time. Every wall I put up, every deflection, every subject change — he walks through all of it like it’s nothing.
But right now, annoyed is the last thing I’m feeling.