Page 8 of Script
“True, yeah, that was why I chose you. Closer to home base. This is amazing! I generally don’t like citrus drinks because the acid makes my lips tingle.”
I glanced around the club. It felt as if I’d stepped into an alternate reality. Finn Kerrigan seemed nothing like the man I’d seen in the movies. He was… bouncy and light, whereas the guy on the screen was stoic and emotionless. Typical action star. Finn, the real Finn, was the opposite of what I expected from movie star Finn.
“So, I’m a little confused still,” I confessed as a young couple came over to get Finn to sign their cocktail napkins. I didn’t mind being recognized, but he was on a different level and if we weren’t careful he’d be mobbed, even in this venue, which was used to the stars. He seemed embarrassed at first, then signed what they offered, pulling down his cap and asking them not to let anyone else know he was here. They agreed with him when he smiled and showed the world his dimples, and then he waved a hand at me.
“This is Cameron Chavkin, the star hockey player for the Los Angeles Typhoon,” he exclaimed, his attention moving from his fans to the woman on stage wearing only a G-string and pasties. “Man, how does she swing those so hard and fast and not hit herself in the chin?”
“Storm. I play for the Storm,” I clarified as I added my name to the napkin. The fans nodded at me, obviously not sports people, then faded back into the dark corners of the club. “So, Finn, as honored as I am to have had you follow me in a totally stalker way—”
His sapphire gaze flew from the stripper to me. “Oh shit, was I being creepy?” I pinched some air between my fingers. “Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be a creeper. I just wanted to talk to you about some work. I know you’re not doing hockey now because you lost.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” I took a loud sip of my drink.
“Ouch, yeah, that must have sucked seeing the other team get all those touchdowns.”
I wasn’t sure how to reply to that. “Why do you need me to teach you hockey?” A pastie fell to our table. Finn’s eyes rounded. “I mean, it’s clear you know nothing about the game, despite being Canadian.”
His eyes widened. “How do you know that? I’m using my American accent to blend in.”
I lifted an eyebrow. Didn’t the world know he came from the frozen north, or Vancouver anyway? “Yeah, it slipped a bit,” I lied, and he winced, and then rolled his shoulders as if he was getting back into character. “Anyway, why do you need me to teach you hockey?
“Man, those are the bounciest things I have ever seen,” he murmured as the other pastie flew to the table next to us.
“Finn?” I called as I tapped his arm.
“Oh yeah, sorry. I get distracted easily.” He turned in his chair to face me, those bright eyes now trained on me.
I found I liked having his attention on me. He was so damned pretty. I moved a little to shield him from other people, the same as I’d shield a teammate on the ice—he seemed way too innocent to be out in public like this, on his own. Unless he had a bodyguard. But I couldn’t see one, and no one stopped me from getting closer. Was he a big enough actor to need a bodyguard? I wasn’t sure at what level an actor became so big they needed protection. Maybe he had people out there who wanted to hurt him.
I winced as a sudden need to protect surged inside me.
“I’ve been chosen to star in a River Grierson movie,” he said.
“Wow.” That was a name everyone on the planet knew. “Congrats.”
“Thanks. The only tiny issue is that it’s a story about a hockey player and I don’t skate. Or know how to play hockey.”
“Oh. That is a problem. And you want me to do what, exactly?”
The crowd clapped as the stripper exited stage left.
Finn rolled his head to the stage, then sighed. “Dang it, I wanted to see how her show finished. What did I miss?”
“She gets naked,” I filled in. “So, you need me to do what?”
“Coach me. Teach me how to skate and be a hockey player. I know, I know, you were going to say that I’m Canadian, so how can I be so hockey-illiterate?”
“I wasn’t—”
“So go on and say it.”
“No, actually, I wasn’t going to say that again.”
“Good.” His gaze moved from the stage back to me. “My agent said it enough. So, will you coach me to skate and be a realistic hockey star? It’s totally okay that you’re a losing hockey player. I’ll still pay you the same as if you weren’t a loser.”
“Do you say those kinds of things on purpose, or do they just fall out of your mouth?” I had to ask. I mean, sure, I have tough skin but ouch man.
“They just fall out. My agent is always putting out fires. He says he should be called Smokey Bear instead of Atlas.”
