15. Finn
FIFTEEN
Finn
It had only been three days.
It felt like a lot longer.
I’d kept up my practice, the rink emptied of everyone except me and security at the front desk. I’d made friends with Jed and Todd, who seemed to be on duty all the time, and who never worried me or fussed over me or asked me questions.
I wished they’d talk to me instead of staring at various screens.
Because my thoughts were too much, too knotted, too… everything, and I was lonely and veering toward pathetic. I skated the length of the rink crossovers, switching direction, smooth, and then angled my skates to come to a fancy stop, sending ice into the net.
“He scores!” I yelled, balling my fists, and reaching for the sky with my mouth wide open.
Nope that didn’t work, particularly when raising said hands put me so much off-balance I ended up ass over tail into the bench area.
I tried again, skating for the net, icing, and this time in celebration of my imaginary scoring, I shot an imaginary arrow using the stick as the bow.
Nope. That wasn’t the character.
Also, yet again I ended up in the bench.
Maybe I should stick to a celebration the same as Cameron’s, which was a firm nod and a chef’s kiss to the crowd. I could do that.
I spent so long deciding which hand to do the kiss with that, when I managed it, I punched myself in the face with the bulky gloves.
Finesse is not my friend.
“Mr. Kerrigan? Sir?”
I skated over to where both Jed and Todd were escorting in a mountain in human form. A mountain who winked at me, and then returned my grin. Company at last.
“This man says he has permission to be here,” Jed said with a sniff.
“I am Philippe Jacques Andre Pageau. I am team special puck holder. Of course, I should be here,” the man said in heavily accented French.
“That’s Phillipe!” I exclaimed, coming to a sudden stop when my belly met the rink surround. It was Phillipe who reached over and caught me, shaking his head when I clung to him for dear life.
He let out a stream of words, and I could only make out one of them—Cameron—and from Phillipe’s expression, he wasn’t impressed with my landing in his arms.
“He didn’t have a pass.” Todd laid his hand on Phillipe’s arm, which the big goalie soon shrugged away.
To my knowledge, there were passes for a skeleton staff, and one the security company had made Cam wear and sign the back of.
I didn’t think anyone else would want to visit, and Cam and I had been in our own bubble with the staff mostly staying in the office side of the building with a promise that the ice time was to remain private.
I’d paid a ton of money for privacy, and so far, no one had caused any issues.
But seeing Phillipe was a breath of fresh air.
“Add him to the list. Let him in.” It would be nice to have the company, although how he’d known to come here was up for debate.
“There is no official list, sir,” Jed said.
“There is now. Add Phillipe to it.”
Jed and Todd both narrowed their eyes at me, and I sighed. It was Atlas who paid them, Atlas who hadn’t thought to make a list beyond the staff here, but it was me who paid Atlas.
“It’s okay, guys. He’s a friend.”
They muttered together, and Phillipe took the distraction and stepped away from them, a huge bag slipping from his back.
“We skate. We talk about heartache,” he said, and that didn’t sound ominous at all.
He vanished down the tunnel—I assumed to change—and Todd elected to sit in the stands, close enough to watch me, while Jed went back to reception. Boy, they were taking this looking out for me very seriously, but I didn’t want an audience of anyone, particularly not stony-faced Todd.
I clumped after Phillipe, ignoring the glimpse of his ass, and yanking out my phone.
One short message to Atlas later, I headed back out to find Todd taking a call, then moving away with one more pointed stare at Phillipe, who was by the tunnel waiting to come out on the ice.
He wasn’t wearing his goalie stuff, but he was in Storm purple, skates on, and a hockey stick at his side.
He waited until Todd had disappeared, then lifted his face to the rafters and inhaled deeply.
More French—I needed to learn more of the language of love—and then he skated lazy circles, forward, backward, and arrived at my side with a broad grin.
“Skate first, heart things after,” he announced, and then shoved me.
If I’d been expecting it, then maybe I could have stayed on my skates, as it was, I sprawled on the ice and stared up at Phillipe, who laughed.
Who was I kidding—even if I had been expecting the push, I would still have ended up on my ass.
He helped me up and bro-hugged me, then set me away from him and pointed at my knees.
“Bend them!” he ordered. I rolled my eyes at him, and for a second, he gave me a death glare, and I waited for a torrent of French-Canadian abuse.
Instead, he snorted another laugh and pulled me back for another hug. “Skate!”
So, we skated, we circled the rink, we shoved at each other, we shot at goal, and he told me to bend my knees twenty-three times—I know because I counted, and it broke Cam’s record of seventeen.
Then, we stopped. I was exhausted—gassed, to use the official term—and followed Phillipe down the tunnel to the locker rooms. Were we going to talk now? No, it seemed, because Phillipe stripped down and headed for the showers, with me close after.
When I was toweling my hair, he stared at me, and I wondered who was going to start this heart talk he seemed to be so desperate for.
“Don’t break Cameron’s heart,” he warned out of nowhere. “He’s a good man. A fine man with a heart that feels…” He paused, searching for a word. “Big things.”
“What are you’re talking about,” I prevaricated. Had Cam told Phillipe about us? Had he told the whole team? Did everyone out there on Instagram know about what we were doing?
“He said nothing,” Phillipe interrupted my stupid-ass imagination. “But we see things.”
“‘We’?” I asked weakly.
“The team. Cam’ron is our…” Again, he was searching. “Grand gateau.” He frowned. “Non. Ce n’est pas un gateau; c’est un grand c?ur. Ummm, au milieu de l’équipe. Giant sweetheart for Storm.”
I nodded because I assumed he’d just summarized in accented English what he’d said in French. I could read between the lines—Cameron was the heart of the team, a big part, and his friend was worried I was going to hurt him.
I wouldn’t do that.
I missed him.
I wanted to be with him—I wanted to meet his family and earn their friendship. I wanted everyone to see how I felt about him.
“He could have anyone,” Phillipe murmured, and I leaned forward to hear him better. “But I see things, and I can see he could love you. Take care of him. Oui?”
Phillipe was up and gone before I could process what he’d said.
Cam could love me. Was it outside the realm of possibility that maybe he felt the same way about me as I did him?
Could I have fallen in love in just a few weeks?
Or was it the freedom of allowing myself to have this with him? Was I drunk on the possibilities?
What would I be like if he wasn’t in my life anymore?
Would I be okay with that?
No. I wanted more; I wanted Cam for as long as I could imagine.
So maybe this was the start of love, the seed of something more.
After all, why not? When the time is right, the heart knows.
This new love was an enormous pressure in my chest that made me want to tell the world I was with Cameron Chavkin, and to do it now.
Yeah.
Love.
What about my part in The Cup? What about my career? What about not being hired for parts because of who I slept with? What about Cameron and his testosterone-laced team?
The what-abouts were killing me.
The car service took me from the rink directly to the studio, and once dropped off I headed up to the labyrinth of rooms on the fifth floor. From the window, the entirety of Hollywood lay out in all directions, a community of story tellers that loved their work. I was at home here. I belonged here.
I loved Cam.
I wanted it all.
Was that wrong?
“Okay, everyone?” River Grierson rapped his knuckles on the table, but it wasn’t for everyone else’s benefit, it was for me, because what with love and my ever-present battling thoughts, plus trying to channel the character of Hayden “Mac” McKenzie, I was a mess.
I focused in on River, who narrowed his eyes at me, and I could almost read the expression he had as stop-fucking-up-or-you’re-fired.
He cleared his throat. “Okay then, from the top of page seventeen; our hero, Mac, is at home, coming to terms with the loss of the Cup, and go!”
I read my lines, wondering if this was how Cam would say them, wondering what Cam was doing right now. Was he missing me?
“Okay, everyone, let’s call it a day. Finn, can you stay back please?”
Everyone else scuttled out of the room, a couple of them glancing back at me and offering me sympathetic half-smiles.
When the last of them had left, River shut the door and scooted a chair close to mine.
“Talk to me,” he urged.
“Sorry, my head isn’t right today.”
“Tell me what is stopping you from feeling the character—do I need to get the writer in and—”
“No, this is all on me.”
He patted my knee and then, sat back. “Talk to me if you like.”
“I want this role.”
He nodded. “And there is nothing you can tell me that will change that. Unless you’ve killed someone, have you killed someone?”
“No, jeez. No. It’s just…”
“There’s no ‘just’ here, and this is a safe place.
” He waved at the desk in the corner of his vast office space, and for the first time I noticed the strategically positioned rainbows, and a photo of River with another man.
Everything seemed to add up in that moment—River Grierson was queer?
Or at least, an ally? How did I not know that?
Why did he come to think I needed a safe space?
Was I doing the subterfuge wrong? Was I messing this up?
“I can’t skate,” I blurted, and his eyes widened.
Maybe I shouldn’t have opened with that.
“I mean I can now. I’ve been having lessons from Cam, Cameron Chavkin, from the LA Storm, and I can do all the shots you need, but I fell in love with him, and I’m not out and I want to be, but then who will take me seriously because I’m just some half-assed action hero with stupid quippy one-liners and an acting start in daytime soaps.
You say this is a safe space, but what if the studio pulls funding, what if… ” I couldn’t carry on.
He chuckled, and that seemed so wrong. “I am the studio. It’s all mine. I’ve reinvested every single cent I’ve made back into this place. You want to come out, you do that. I don’t have time for any place that forces a person to hide their true self.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope. You don’t have many chances to find love in this world, so do what I did, tell the man you love him, then cling to him until he believes you. Acting is your job, but Cameron…”
“He’s my heart.”
“Exactly. Now, tell the man you love him. Grab that love and don’t let go. Then, tell the world if you want to, or don’t, but either way, you’re playing the role of Mac, and I want you back here two p.m. tomorrow sharp, for another run-through, and this time with a clear head.”
I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even look at my phone, even though I saw the first message was from Cam explaining he might be a bit late in the morning.
If I started talking to him now, I’d probably lose my shit and ruin everything.
River was right; acting might be my career, but Cam was my heart.
I was dressed and waiting by the ice when he appeared, and I was going to play this cool and not leap at him, but he kissed me -- long, slow, drugging kisses that made me cling to him.
It had to be now.
I had to tell him, throw the dice, and see how they fell. “We need to talk.”