So Holly was worrying about the stability of her job—and Finn’s, by extension. “Any indication yet of which way they’re leaning?”
“No.” She fussed with her hair. “Enough has been said or not said that makes me think they’re looking at all the options—replacing her, changing directions, or ending things.”
Oh. “Well, shit.”
“Pretty much.”
They stared at each other in miserable silence. The benefits of years of friendship meant no words were needed; they’d always had a knack for reading each other’s minds.
Robbie found them a moment later. “Not interrupting anything, am I?”
Holly curled her lip. “Gross.” She shook her head. “Don’t go spreading rumors, Finn. I’ll see you later, Robbie.”
She flounced off in typical fashion. She liked to drop a bombshell and then vacate the premises.
“Cryptic,” Robbie offered. “Everything good?”
“Definegood.” Finn shook his head. “It’s…. Later. It’s complicated. But fine. One more run-through, and then I think we have to call it for the day.”
But unfortunately the end of the workday didn’t mean their schedules aligned to let their bodies align.
“Tomorrow?” Robbie asked hopefully in the locker room.
Finn grimaced. “Can’t. Tickets to see a musical with Holly after work. She’ll kill me if I bail. Especially since she’d totally know why and I have been forbidden from telling her. Sunday?”
“Promised Sawyer I’d take him and Imogen to dinner and bowling after practice to keep his mind off the shit with his grandparents.”
Damn it. Monday their families would be here for the show again. A whole week from the last time Robbie had touched Finn’s dick. Finn silently lamented the hardships of his poor unfucked body. “Tuesday,” he said.
“Tuesday,” Robbie agreed heavily.
The next three days were torture. Finn spent his mornings and afternoons with Robbie’s hands all over him everywhere except where he wanted them most.
Producer Paul had called the meeting for Sunday before regular practice and filming, because he was some kind of sadist. Finn filed into the biggest conference room at the arena with an extra-large double-double from Tim’s—it might not be “good” coffee, but it was familiar and comforting—and malice in his heart. The principal cast and production staff squashed in too, Holly somehow wrangling her way next to Finn, even though she should have been at the head of the table with the other important people.
Fortunately for Finn’s patience, Producer Paul didn’t beat around the bush. “Right, the rumor mill’s had enough time to circulate. Michelle’s retiring. We’ll be looking at our options, whether we want to find a replacement cohost or change the format of the show, assuming the numbers make sense. Everyone in this room is someone we’d like to keep on moving forward.”
A wave of murmurs went through the room. Stef was the first to raise her hand in question.
“Go ahead.”
“What sort of format changes are we talking about?”
Producer Paul looked at Holly. For the first time, Finn realized she must have been more involved in the behind-the-scenes planning than she’d let on. “There are a few options. We’ve tossed around the idea of doing a sort ofDancing with the Stars On Iceshow, where we’ll recruit musicians and actors as well as athletes outside of hockey. That show, if greenlit, would probably tour nationally or even internationally after airing.”
Another murmur. Finn understood. That was good, steady work that would last long past their usual film schedule—a reliable paycheck that would let them cut back on the brutal evening-and-weekend hours many of them spent teaching and coaching.
But it also meant a lot of time on the road. Finn hadn’t minded the travel when he was competing with Paris; it was part of the job, and having his girlfriend with him meant he didn’t get as homesick.
“But there are other options too. The situation is fluid, and we’re still looking at what makes the most sense.”
“We’ll be having individual meetings with all of you over the next few weeks. You can ask any questions or voice anyconcerns, and we’ll also talk to you about the various roles we’re considering for you. Keep your eyes on your calendars.”
If Producer Paul tried to schedule Finn’s meeting for Tuesday, when he was supposed to be getting railed, he would have a fit. But there wasn’t much he could do, aside from sigh with relief when the calendar invite popped up for lunchtime on Wednesday instead.
By the timeSunday-morning practice rolled around, Robbie was starting to question the life choices that had led him to this moment. He’d just spent the last sixty excruciating minutes manhandling Finn around the rink for their last on-ice practice before the next performance, and Robbie wanted to eat him alive and then cuddle him about it.
But like a good parental figure—and a total sucker—he’d let Sawyer talk him into an afternoon-andevening-filling set of plans. Why was life conspiring against Robbie’s dreams of spoiling his dream guy?
