Reluctantly, he let her take his hands. Meeting her eyes proved more of a challenge.
“You deserve to be happy.”
Aww, jeez. Right for the throat. Finn felt his ears burn. “Holls—”
“No, listen to me, Finn. It has beenso longsince I’ve seen you like this. If I ever even have.” He could hear thebutcoming and braced himself for it. “However,as your producer, I can’t encourage you to pursue this.”
He blinked.
“As your producer, I don’t want to see you sneaking kisses with your dance partner or hear rumors about any philandering that might be going on behind closed doors.”
Oh shit. Was she—
Holly squeezed his fingers. “As your producer, you understand that would be a conflict of interest for me. So I definitely don’t want to hear anything about it. For at least eight weeks, Finn. Do you understand?”
Finn swallowed. “Yeah. I—thanks, Holls. I understand.”
She pulled her hand back. “Don’t thank me, I just definitely told you not to pursue a relationship with Robbie Zeiger. I love you. Now go away. I have work to do.”
Finn skedaddled before she could change her mind.
On-ice practicesbegan on day three.
Robbie had been nervous before hitting the rink before, a few times—big games, away games in Toronto before the final contract that brought him home and close to Sawyer, games on the national stage.
Needing something familiar to ground him, Robbie brought his favourite neon sock tape to the arena and wrapped his calves in the same pattern he used when he was playing. That was good enough for a practice, surely? He’d probably have to order a special meal on performance nights, but the tape could tide him over for now, even if the bright lime looked ridiculous over his plain black track pants.
Finn was already skating when Robbie arrived, breezing around the ice ass-first. “Hey, Robbie.” He raised his eyebrows as he went past. “Nice fashion statement.”
“Big talk from a guy wearing a sweatband.” It was holding his hair back from his face, which Robbie figured had to be the point; it would get tough to see otherwise, going backwards.
Finn twirled to a stop and leaned against the boards. “I thought it was very Julia Stiles.”
God damn it. It was. Robbie shook his head and stepped onto the ice.
Countless media productions had harped on the difference between figure skates and hockey skates. Mostly they meant players’ skates, which had a curved blade. As a goalie, Robbie was used to flatter ones.
The toe pick was going to take some getting used to, though. He stumbled when he instinctively put his foot at an angle that would’ve worked fine in his goalie skates, because the toe picks dragged on the ice and stopped his leg cold.
Finn smiled as he slipped past. “Having fun?”
Robbie, a professional and a mature responsible adult, stuck out his tongue.
Taking another step, Robbie tried once again to explore the ice and his skates. He managed to go a minute or two before he tripped on the toe pick again.
Finn glided past him, backwards, and Robbie glared.
“You planning on doing anything other than laugh at me today or…?”
Smiling, Finn came to a graceful stop in front of Robbie—show-off—and clapped his gloved hands enthusiastically. “Right, so today is basics. Which means I’m gonna make sure you know ’em. Let’s see your crossovers.”
Robbie couldn’t help it; he pulled a face.
“Not a fan?” Finn asked.
“More like they don’t like me.” Somehow, he could never manage fluidity or grace when passing one foot over the other.
“The skating move doesn’t like you…”
