I held it for exactly as long as I needed to, then stepped back and put my hands in my pockets, which had the dual benefit of looking casual and keeping them somewhere that wasn't useful for getting me into trouble.
June had stopped making notes on her clipboard and was just watching us with an expression I didn't have the bandwidth to interpret right now.
“Beautiful,” Taylor said, checking the screen on his camera. “One more setup and we're nearly done. I want something a little more dynamic—both of you with the sticks, full intensity, like the game itself.” He looked at me. “And Grant, this one works better with you shirtless too. I want the physicality of the sport. The strength of it. The history in it.”
Every sensible instinct I had fired at once.
“I don't think that's necessary?—”
“It's for the charity,” Hartley said quietly beside me, and there was something in his voice I couldn't fully read—steadier than usual, less like a dare and more like an offering. “Kids want to see what hockey looks like. What the people who live it actually look like.” He paused. “Coaches who used to play included.”
I looked at him.
He was looking back at me, and his expression was careful in a way it rarely was—the banter stripped away, something more direct underneath it. Like he'd said the true version of the thing instead of the version designed to deflect.
I still had no idea what to do with that.
“Fine.” I pulled the henley over my head before I could talk myself out of it.
The air conditioning hit my skin immediately, but that wasn't why I felt cold. It was the awareness that I was standing shirtless in a room with Hartley, with cameras, with June watching everything.
“Alright, gentlemen. Grab the sticks. Let's start with something simple—both of you in a ready position, like you're about to engage in a drill.”
I picked up one of the sticks, the familiar weight grounding me. This I could do. This was muscle memory from decades of playing.
Hartley moved beside me, stick in hand, and dropped into a hockey stance—knees bent, weight forward, stick blade on the ground. His body shifted into pure athlete mode, all that casual energy condensing into focused power.
I mirrored the position, feeling my own muscles engage.
“Good. Now closer. I want you almost shoulder to shoulder. Like you're defending the same zone.”
We moved closer. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin now, could smell whatever soap he'd used that morning mixed with the faint salt of exertion. We weren't even two feet apart.
Taylor's camera started clicking. “Perfect. Hold that intensity. Grant, you look like you're about to check someone into the boards. Love it. This is gold. The dynamic is perfect. Okay, next pose. I want one of you correcting the other's form. Grant, adjust Hartley's grip on his stick.”
This was dangerous territory. But I moved anyway, stepping behind him, acutely aware that we were both shirtless now. Both exposed.
I reached around him, my chest nearly against his back, and placed my hands over his on the stick. His skin was warm, slightly damp.
“Your top hand needs to be higher,” I said, adjusting his grip. My voice came out rougher than intended. “And your bottomhand—” I slid his hand down the shaft, “—needs more space for leverage.”
He exhaled slowly. I felt it against my forearm. “Like this?”
“Yeah. Now rotate your hips. You're generating power from your core, not your arms.”
I put my hand on his hip and guided the rotation. His body was solid under my palm, all controlled strength and barely restrained energy.
The camera clicked rapidly. Taylor was saying something about angles, about authenticity, but I barely heard him over the rush of blood in my ears.
My body was responding. I was too close to him, too aware of every point of contact. The scent of his skin, the heat, the way his muscles shifted under my hands.
I stepped back before it became obvious. Before the compression fabric of my workout pants stopped hiding what was happening.
“Good,” I said, voice tight. “Hold that position.”
Taylor moved around us, shooting from different angles. “Excellent. Now let's try something more aggressive. Face each other. Sticks up like you're battling for the puck. Get close. I want to see the competition.”
Hartley turned to face me, and I saw it immediately—the flush on his chest, the way his breathing had gone shallow. The slight tightness in his jaw that meant he was working to control something.
