Page 12 of Script
The fuck?
The last line was a kicker.Sources confirm the anonymous man is Cameron Chavkin, star of the LA Storm, the hockey team that recently lost to the Boston Rebels in the finals. More to follow.
I checked the photos and winced. Yep, that was definitely me staring up at the stripper, but I’d been staring because I was curious, I mean, howdothey keep those tassels on? And the girls were so flexible—I wish I was that flexible, but I was all about the muscle needed for parts and less about the bendy bits. Also, I was possibly the single Hollywood holdout who didn’t do yoga.
And yep, the second photo was me staring at Cameron. I zoomed in as far as I could to check out my expression because I don’t recall staring at him in anything other than a friendly way, but the picture was a little grainy so I zoomed back out.
It was a perfectly innocent photo, and less worrying than the time I’d been caught naked next to the pool in my backyard, by a paparazzi drone flying at three hundred feet. The resulting picture had been good, and it was gratifying that the publication the pap sold it to, had used a ton of pixilation to cover my cock, which was no slouch in the size department.
Well, so said most of social media, anyway.
I opened another tab to check for stories of Cameron sleeping with anything that moved, Atlas’ words, not mine—but immediately closed it down. We all deserved our privacy, including CameronstudChavkin.
Who I wasnotstaring at in the club photo, with sex on my mind and heart eyes.
I’m not that easy.
* * *
Oh shit.
I’mway tooeasy.
Cameron was so sexy, that I couldn’t help but stare, and I bet the sex in my head was front and center with the hearts in my eyes. I’d arrived at the private rink I’d hired, in my less obvious SUV with the tinted windows, parked up next to a similar SUV with custom plates and headed inside, dragging the bag of what Cameron had said I’d needed to buy. Which was a lot.
He’d sent me the list, as well as a copy of the NDA Atlas had made him sign. It was embarrassing how long I’d stared at his strong signature while spinning stories of how Finn might look with a spiky surname like Chavkin. I could do amazing things with the K in that last name.
And now I was here in a locker room that smelled a little funky, and yes, I was staring at the sex god himself.
“And this is what we call a cup,” Cameron explained, and thrust something at me.
“I’ve played sports, I know what a cup is,” I defended as I took it from him, and he rolled his eyes.
“Strip to your underwear and I’ll go through what we need to do to get ready.”
“Okay, yeah, method acting, I like that.”
He was already dressed, but not in LA Storm colors, which I now knew were purple and blue. Instead, he wore a generic black jersey, no name, no number, and mine hanging up, was white. If this was a movie, then he’d be wearing black to indicate that he was bad to the core, but in real life it just made his smoky eyes pop, and his lips seem even more lush.
Of course, me wearing white was all about my purity, and innocence.
Which was diametrically opposite to the lust uncurling inside me.
“Did you hear me?” he asked.
I started, and undressed rapidly down to my jersey boxers, and then held the cup to my groin, staring down at it.
“It’s not going to cover your junk by magic,” Cameron said, and reached forward to help me. I scrambled away because I was already half hard, and the idea of Cameron anywhere near my dick didn’t bear thinking about.
“What do you feel when you put yours on?” I asked instead, and he stared at me.
“I’m sorry?” He frowned.
“Like your motivation in the scene,” I expanded.
“My motivation is not letting a one hundred mile an hour puck crush the boys,” he said.
“Well obviously, your boys are very nice, and uhm… important.” I gestured at his groin, and then sat back in the cubby, knowing damn well my cheeks would be bright red soon. “But I mean, what are you feeling when you put it on.”
