All Finn needs is to be discreet about his love life until filming is done on the movie that could change his career. But falling in lust, and then love, with Cameron, a sexy hockey star with a perfect smile, shatters his best laid plans.
Actor Finn Kerrigan is at a crossroads. After growing up a soap star, then starring in the hugely successful Rapid trilogy of action movies, he's finally given the chance to read a heartfelt and passionate script that could change his life forever. The role would be enough for people to see him as a serious actor, and maybe even win him an award or two (and no, a golden raspberry award for Rapid doesn't count). Once established as a serious actor he’s sure he can come out of the closet and finally live his truth. When he lies to get the part of a hockey player on a struggling team, he suddenly has nowhere to hide. He might be Canadian, but the last time he skated he was ten, and no, he doesn't have hockey in his blood. With only a month until filming starts, he about to be exposed, but partnered with a player who’s supposed to be giving him tips, he doesn’t realize how many of his secrets will come to light. Falling in lust, one heated kiss at a time, is inevitable, but giving Cameron up at the end of the shoot could break his heart.
Cameron Chavkin is the face of the LA Storm. And the body, and the hair, and the smile. He’s at the prime of his career, men and women want to be with him, and he’s skating better than he ever has before. His house sits next to a famous rock star's mansion, his garage is filled with expensive cars, and he’s even been asked to mentor a once-famous actor in a new hockey movie. Life is pretty sweet. Until the bad boy of hockey meets Finn, a man on the edge with more secrets than Cameron has endorsements. Knowing better than to get involved, Cameron is swept up despite himself, and when it's time to say goodbye to the Storm’s most eligible bachelor is finding it hard to follow the script.More info →
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- Second – coming December 2023
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Unedited Excerpt 1
“But you’re Canadian.” Atlas stared at me in shock. “Wait, Vancouver is in Canada, right?” My agent pulled out his cell phone as if he were going to check where in the world my hometown was.
I stopped him. “I am, and it is.” Where did he think it was? South of LA?
His shock turned into bewilderment, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d been my agent since the early days when I was a child actor in a soap and was an uncle-type figure who’d watched me grow up. It was him who’d gotten me a lead in the low-budget Rapid Action from Byrnes-Rose studios, which, after becoming a surprise hit, had spawned two sequels, Rapid Start, and Rapid Recall, and made me a lot of money. And him. In all that time I’d never seen him so confused in all that time
He had a raft of clients, and was used to having things dumped in his lap, but it seemed I’d finally done something way beyond his understanding.
“But you want to read for the lead in a hockey movie.”
“And you can’t skate.”
I closed two of my fingers together. “A little. I skated when I was younger, but then… acting. I mean, I can stay upright. Or at least I could when I was ten.”
“But don’t all Canadians do the hockey thing? From birth? I mean, I’ve seen videos of teeny tiny Canadian babies skating around with those penguin trainer things.”
I sighed. “Not every Canadian is into hockey, just like not every American is into football.”
Atlas inhaled sharply. “Blasphemy!” And for a moment he waved in front of him as if he were making the sign of a cross—I’d insulted him and the rest of the U.S. in some way. I enjoyed watching football highlights—mostly because of the men in tight pants—but being picked up to star in a soap at ten meant my formative years had been all about the role, the marketing, being a public figure, and not anything to do with funny-shaped balls.
My life had always been way too filled with other things for me to get into sports.
Unless you counted me getting into Roscoe Lewinsky, the tight end for the LA something or other, because I got into him, and he was tight and just as much in the closet as me.
I snorted a laugh, and Atlas stared at me with a comic-book open mouth and wide eyes, as if I’d lost my damn mind and wasn’t paying attention to his meltdown at all.
He pointed at my chest, turning a dark shade of red. “You told me… you said you could do this…”
“No,” I began with exaggerated patience. “What I said, when I was drunk, I hasten to add, is that as a Canadian it’s my civic duty to be the star of the next Grierson blockbuster featuring the great sport of hockey. That is what I said.”
Unedited Excerpt 2
Standing at center ice, my eyes on the scoreboard as they showed the game-winning goal for Boston, all my exhausted brain could keep playing on a loop was…
Not again. Our barn was quiet as a tomb save for the few Rebels fans who had made the trip from the east coast to west. They were loud. They were happy. Our fans? Not so much. And rightfully so. We’d fucked up once more.
My sight flicked from the chaos on the screen over my head to the desolation on the ice. Off in one corner were the Boston Rebels, this year’s Cup champs, ebullient, some weeping with joy. And then there was the Storm.
Our goalie Phillipe was still splayed out in his crease, belly down, the grill of his mask resting on the ice, the very image of dejection. A stuffed storm cloud bounced over to me. There were several on the ice now, our fans’ way of telling us that we sucked. Which, yeah, we all kind of were feeling that vibe—thanks gang.
My teammates were stunned, shock and grief playing on their faces. Our captain, Charles Zhang, seemed to have shaken off the stupor of last-minute loss, but we could see right through him.
“Next year, guys,” I could hear him saying as he skated to each man on the ice. He moved to Phillipe and got him up on his skates. The man was devastated. We’d all tried so hard for him, knowing his time in the crease was limited. He was thirty-eight now. And this might have been his last chance. Fuck. This sucked, and not in the good way. “Handshakes now.”
Fuck. Me. One of the toughest things to do was get in that line and congratulate the other team on achieving your goal. But that was what was expected. Hockey players were nothing if not humble good sports. Inside, we all felt like beating ourselves over our heads with our sticks, but on the outside, we were in a conga line of sorts, only there was no joyous dancing. At least on our side.
Credit to the Rebels, they were good sports. Their captain, Xander Holden, took an extra moment with each Storm player, patting them on the shoulder while telling them that they played one hell of a series.
I wasn’t so sure about that. His freaking team had taken us down in five games. This last one of the series had been tight, yes, but the previous losses were anything but. We’d won the first game here at home, lost the second in front of our fans, then flew to Boston where they trounced us, and now here losing again… it was just fucking shit on a shit stick at a shit barbecue.
“Hey, man. Congratulations,” I said to Austin Rowe, his sweaty face aglow with their well-deserved victory. His cousins—Jamie, Brady, and Tennant—must be super proud. My family would be waiting for me to get home, then the calls would start and every single one of them would be proud of me, but they’d also commiserate. “Great series. We’ll get you next year.”