“…That bad?”
“You don’t look celebratory…more like…”
“Constipated.” Cash Harrington shouted from behind us, losing his patience. Several other irritable Forge players had queued for the promo, awaiting their turn. The camera crew did their best to herd the sea of frost blue jerseys into an orderly line.
“Listen, Adrian,” Cash said. “Skate into the frame, take a shot, and hoist your arm into the air. You’re supposed to excited; not like you’re getting electrocuted.”
“Christ.” Adrian’s stick struck the ice hard enough to echo over the rink. “This is ridiculous. I should be in the weight room, not pissing away my day with photoshoots.”
“You’re the captain,” I said. “They’re using your image everywhere. Gotta get used to taking some staged portraits.”
“I don’t know how to act like I’ve scored a goal. I just do it.”
And yet, when he got excited on the ice, he had an amazing smile that lasted just long enough to seem genuine but disappeared fast enough to not look unsportsmanlike. His usual celebrations were quick fist-bumps with the team or a dogpile for a particularly critical goal in overtime.
But this?
We reviewed the last take, and Adrian still looked like someone was sticking a damn knife between his shoulder blades, telling him to smile or he’d blow up the entire arena.
And that was the best video we’d gotten after an hour of shooting.
I pushed him toward the director once more. “Just smile after the shot, and you’ll melt the panties of any woman watching.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
I winked at him. “That’s why I’m not wearing any.”
He groaned and retreated to the safety of the camera.
I should’ve known better than to flirt.
It was dangerous. Stupid. Reckless.
Sex with my best friend was risky enough, but flirting? Like our friendship wasn’t complicated enough. Sex was easy. Playful banter and sexy promises?
Recipe for disaster.
The director did his best, positioning Adrian between the green screens and adjusting the set lighting into what would become the Forge’s classic color scheme of icy blue and frenzied silver.
“Okay!” The director silenced the frustrated crew with an equally impatient grunt. “One more time, Adrian. You’re gonna skate into the frame, line up the puck, take a shot, and then get excited like you’ve just scored. Nice and quick.”
“Got it,” Adrian said.
The director didn’t believe him, but he pointed to the cameras. “Take Twelve.”
Adrian had the skating part down.
And the shooting. Always did have perfect form. The puck blasted off his stick and would’ve cratered into the boards if not for a temporary net.
But…then came the celebration.
This time, it was more a I’m glad my car finally started because I was worried about the battery and less I’ve just scored a winning goal and didn’t take a puck to my personal trophy.
The director nearly launched his iPad into the stands. “Raise your arms! Shout! Come on, Adrian! There’s gotta be a reason why this team is paying you millions of fucking dollars!” He turned, bitching at his assistant without lowering his voice. “Fucking ice-brained rink rats, shitting on my entire schedule.”
Bad idea.
Adrian’s eyebrows rose, and he waited for my nod as his temper piqued.
The team murmured in quiet shock—amazed the asshole would dare to disrespect a man like Adrian. They awaited his response.
Seemed like a teaching moment to me.
The director called for quiet.
Adrian took his spot once more, blinking as the ring of cameras around the screens all flashed at the same time.
He skated forward.
Lined up the shot.
And the puck careened off his stick like a bullet, overshooting the temporary net.
A sudden explosion of glass and the sizzle of electronics echoed over the rink.
Now Adrian did celebrate, his grin widening as he and the rest of the team cheered.
One of the more expensive looking studio cameras tumbled from its base, the puck imbedded in its lens.
“Aw…” Adrian shook his head with mock sympathy. “What a shame. Hope you got a good shot before all the shattering. I can do it again if you like.”
The director mourned the loss of his camera with a choked cry. He flailed his arms, directing Adrian far from his stage.
“Go.” He shouted for his pillow, a bag of ice, and some form of tranquilizer. “Head to Sports Nation’s setup. You’re their problem now.”
Adrian snickered as we escaped from one green-screen hell into another.
“How’d it really look?” he asked.
I hummed. “Petty and childish, but well-deserved.”
“You know, I only misbehave when you’re around.”
“Guess I’m a bad influence then,” I said.
“Leading me into a life of vengeance, violence, and unprotected sex.”
“Get out now before I teach you how to steal extra packets of ketchup at the airport fast-food counters.”
The team and networks had graciously plopped a carpet over the rink for the camera crews and journalists to skuttle across. Adrian glided alongside me, apparently not forgiving himself for our trip in the fourth grade to the local frozen pond. I had sprained my ankle and then fallen through a patch of thin ice into the frigid water—the first and last time I ever strapped on a pair of skates.
His arm cautiously encircled my waist, prepared to catch me if I fell. But he didn’t touch me. Just hovered over my hips.
And the disappointment stung more than if I had slipped and fallen head over heels.
The Sports Nation video team was set up near the far goal, but a woman wrapped in a first-kiss-pink dress waved from the tunnel leading from the bench and to the locker room.
“Adrian Alaric…” She called to him, her tone singing with the authority of a lady who had corralled her fair share of wayward athletes. “A moment, please?”
He offered me a gloved hand as we moved from the busy carpet to the slippery rink. When my first steps were too timid, Adrian sighed, hoisted me around the waist, and lifted me a few inches off the ice.
He didn’t even grunt as he carried me to the tunnel.
Show-off.
Adrian deposited me next to the beautiful woman—one who shared my dark skin and petite stature. She held an iPad in her hand and flashed a practiced smile toward any curious player.
But I knew that expression. It was an all-work-and-no-play-please-let-me-survive-this-madness-until-we-either-land-or-I-get-a-sip-of-something-from-a-tiny-bottle smile. The sort she’d perfected to remain professional and courteous, even when she was at her most irritable, vulnerable, and frustrated.
I liked her already.
The woman extended her hand—manicured with pink nail polish to match her dress and the little clutch dangling from a gold chain. Adrian shook her hand, apparently surprised by the force the little lady packed in her grip.
“Hi there, I’m Magnolia Mallory, correspondent for Sports Nation. I’ve been assigned to document the Ironfield Forge’s first season—offering our fans an exclusive behind-the-scenes and on-the-ice glimpse into this brand-new expansion team.”