Chapter 41
Aaron
The first time I was on a commercial set with Sasha, I spent the entire day terrified my face was going to give me away.
A sportswear shoot in Chicago where Diego wanted intensity, fire, controlled photogenic hate. Two rivals staring each other down for the camera while I tried not to think about the fact that I’d been in Sasha’s hotel room six hours earlier with his hands in my hair.
Now I’m sitting in a director’s chair in a studio in Midtown Manhattan watching a makeup artist powder Sasha’s cheekbones, and in approximately forty-five minutes I’m going to kiss him on camera for a luxury car commercial.
Things have changed.
He’s in a charcoal suit. No tie, collar open, the jacket cut close through the shoulders.
His hair is swept back and his stubble has been trimmed to exactly the right length — not clean-shaven, not scruffy, that perfect in-between that makes him look like he just rolled out of bed in the best possible way.
The stylist keeps coming back to adjust his lapel, and every time she does, Sasha flashes her that grin and says something that makes her laugh.
I’m supposed to be reviewing the shot list. I’m watching him instead.
“You’re staring,” Diego says, dropping into the chair next to mine. He’s in a slim-cut navy suit and he’s holding two coffees, which means he’s been to the craft services table at least four times because Diego doesn’t drink coffee — he drinks oat milk lattes with a specific amount of foam.
“I’m reviewing.”
“You’re staring at your boyfriend. Which, for the record, is exactly what the client wants, so keep doing it.” He hands me a coffee. “Have you seen the call sheet? Nineteen takes scheduled. The director wants to do the driving shots first, then the walk, then the kiss.”
The word sits there. Kiss. On a call sheet. Scheduled between the walk and the wrap.
A year ago that word would have sent me into a spiral. Now it just makes my pulse pick up.
“Sasha’s a natural,” Diego says, scrolling his phone. “The director already loves him. She said he moves like he’s been doing this his whole life.”
“He basically has.” Sasha’s been performing for cameras since he was a teenager. The Russian hockey media machine trained him before Diego ever got to him.
“And you.” Diego points at me without looking up. “Relax your jaw. You clench when you’re thinking too hard. It reads on camera.”
I unclench my jaw. “Thanks.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” He pockets his phone and finally looks at me. “Aaron. You know what this campaign is worth?”
“You’ve told me.”
“I’m telling you again. The contract for this single campaign is more than your entire first-year salary with Albany.
More than every sportswear deal and energy drink spot you did during college combined.
” He pauses. Lets that land. “And there are three more brands on a waiting list. Three. Because every marketing department in the country is watching what happens when a luxury brand puts a same-sex couple front and center and the internet doesn’t explode. ”
All of those sponsorships during college have paid off my student loans, and my dad’s medical bills from cancer — the ones my family thought they might never recover from financially.
Numbers I’ve been carrying in my head for years, and they finally feel manageable.
Not because of hockey. Because of this — because a car company looked at me and Sasha and saw something worth investing in.
“The internet might still explode,” I say.
“The internet always explodes. That’s the internet’s whole thing.” Diego grins. “Let it explode. We’re getting paid.”
A production assistant appears. “We’re ready for you both on set.”
The set is a curved backdrop — matte black — with the car positioned center, angled, every surface catching the light.
It’s a coupe, low-slung and dark silver.
The kind of car I would have stared at in a parking lot two years ago and never imagined sitting inside.
A lighting tech adjusts a reflector. Someone is steaming wrinkles out of a backdrop seam.
Sasha is already there. He’s leaning against the car’s hood with his arms crossed, talking to the director — a woman in her forties with short hair and sharp glasses.
She’s nodding, gesturing at the backdrop, explaining something about angles.
Sasha listens the way he listens to coaches: closely, silently, absorbing everything, then doing it better than they described.
I cross to them. The director shakes my hand.
“Aaron, great. Okay — first setups are simple. Sasha gets out of the car on the driver’s side. Aaron, you’re leaning against the passenger door, waiting. You see each other. That’s it. No dialogue, no action. Just the look.”
Just the look. I almost laugh. We’ve been doing “just the look” for years now. We just used to do it in secret.
“Three, two—”
Sasha slides into the car. The door closes. I take my position against the passenger side, hands in my pockets, shoulders against the metal. The car is cool through my suit jacket.
The director calls action.
The driver’s door opens. Sasha steps out — one leg, then the other, standing, buttoning his jacket with one hand in a motion so fluid it looks choreographed. He rounds the hood. His eyes find mine.
My chest still hasn’t figured out I’m allowed to want him.
“Good,” the director says. “Again. Aaron, less tension in the shoulders. You’re happy to see him.”
I am happy to see him. That’s the problem.
We go again. And again. Sasha gets out of the car five times. Each time, his eyes find mine, and each time my body responds like it’s the first.
“Beautiful,” the director says. “Let’s move to the walk.”
The walk is us side by side, moving toward the camera. Close but not touching. The director wants it slow, deliberate, something about “letting the tension build.” I bite the inside of my cheek because Sasha and I have spent ages letting tension build and we’re very good at it.
Take one. We walk. His hand brushes mine — accidental, or not.
The director likes it. Take two. Sasha’s pinkie hooks around mine for half a second.
The director loves it. Take three. Our shoulders press together and he turns his head toward me and the corner of his mouth lifts and I forget there are cameras.
“Perfect,” the director says. “Don’t change anything. We’re doing the kiss next.”
The set goes quiet. Not tense-quiet — professional. The crew adjusts lights. Someone repositions a camera. The director confers with the DP about framing. It’s all very routine, very calm, like filming a kiss between two men for a national car campaign is just another Tuesday.
Maybe it is. Maybe that’s the point.
Diego is standing off to the side with his arms crossed, phone finally put away, watching with an expression I’ve never seen on him before. He looks proud. Not business-proud — not the we’re getting paid grin from earlier. Something quieter.
“Okay.” The director comes back. “Same setup. You’re facing each other. Aaron, hands on his lapels — like you’re straightening his jacket. Sasha, one hand on his waist. The kiss is slow. Take your time. We’ll cut when we have it.”
Sasha is standing in front of me. The lights are bright and hot and the crew is a ring of shadows around us.
His suit is perfect. His face is perfect.
His eyes — vivid, blue, locked on mine — are exactly the same as they were in every hotel room and locked door .
The same eyes. The only difference is that now there are cameras, and I don’t have to look away.
I reach up and take his lapels. The fabric is smooth under my fingers. I smooth his slightly rumpled shirt, like I always do. A small, private thing that has never been on camera before.
Sasha’s hand settles on my waist. His thumb presses into the space above my hip. Warm. Steady.
“Action,” the director says.
I look at him. He looks at me.
“Forty million people watched me tell you I love you,” I murmur. “This is the easy part.”
I pull him in by the lapels and kiss him.
His mouth is warm. Familiar. His hand tightens on my waist and I feel it everywhere — the pressure, the heat, the way his fingers spread wide like he’s trying to hold as much of me as possible.
I kiss him the way I kiss him when we’re alone, because that’s all I know how to do.
There’s no performance version of this. There’s no camera-ready kiss I’ve rehearsed.
There’s just his mouth and my hands on his jacket and the sound he makes — quiet, almost inaudible, just for me — when I tilt his head and go deeper.
Someone on the crew says something. I don’t hear it. I’m aware of the lights and the set and the camera but none of it feels more real than the press of his body against mine.
He pulls back. Not far — an inch. His forehead rests against mine. His breathing is uneven. Mine is worse.
“Cut,” the director says. “That’s it. That’s the one.”
Someone claps. Then more people. The crew is applauding — not big, theatrical applause, just the quick, genuine kind that means they know they got something good.
Sasha’s hand is still on my waist.
“Hi,” he murmurs. Just to me.
“Hi.”
“I think they liked it.”
“I think so.” My hands are still on his lapels. I should let go. The take is over. The director has moved on to checking playback on the monitor. “I think I liked it too.”
“You think?” His eyebrow lifts. There he is. The arrogance. The grin pulling at the edge of his mouth. “Aaron Kelly, we can do another take if you need to be sure.”
Diego materializes beside us, both hands raised. “That was — do you know what that just was? That was a car commercial that’s going to win awards. I’m not joking. That is the best thing I’ve ever seen my clients do on camera.”
“I need to make some calls.” Diego’s already pulling out his phone. “Congratulations. You two just became the most marketable couple in professional sports. Don’t let it go to your heads.”
He’s gone before either of us can respond, phone to his ear, pacing toward the exit with the walk of a man who has seventeen ideas and needs to execute all of them in the next hour.
Sasha watches him go. Then turns back to me.
“Most marketable couple in professional sports,” he repeats.
“Don’t.”
“I’m just quoting our agent.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Correct.” His fingers are careful on my collar. His eyes are warm. “I am enjoying this exactly the right amount.”
The crew is breaking down the set around us. Lights clicking off. The car being covered. Someone wrapping cables. The director waves at us across the studio with a thumbs-up and a smile.
I look at Sasha. His suit. His face. The man I spent two years hiding, who I’m now being paid to kiss on national television.
A year ago I was on a set like this, performing hatred I didn’t feel, swallowing every real thing about myself so the cameras would see what Diego needed them to see.
Now the cameras saw the truth. And it’s worth more.
“We just spent all day in a luxury car,” I say. “And now we’re taking the subway home.”
“We could buy the car now.” Sasha grins. “Two, probably. Thanks to Diego.”
“I think it’s good for you to be in New York City, Sasha. The subway will keep you humble.”
He laughs. Loops his arm through mine — casual, easy, the way couples do on the street in New York where nobody looks twice.
We walk out of the studio and into the October afternoon — sharp air, low sun, the city moving around us the way it always does. His arm in mine. No cameras. No crew. Just us, on a sidewalk in Midtown, heading for the train.
A year ago, this would have been impossible.
Now it’s just a Tuesday.