The Inside Edge, page 3
“And we’re hoping to tap into a new market,” she reminded him. “Young, left-leaning viewers who are tired of hockey being an old boys’ club”—he wondered if she were throwing Aubrey’s words back at him intentionally—“and want a little less xenophobia with their sports commentary. Not to mention Aubrey’s got a horde of Twitter followers from his skating days, and hey, maybe they’ll follow a new sport if we get a hip, hot, visibly gay athlete to feed it to them.”
“You’re a mercenary,” Nate said glumly, nonplussed at the implication that he was neither hip nor visibly gay. Then, “Things are that bad?” Because he loved this show, but with video-streaming services on the rise, with entertainment budgets in the tank, advertising revenue took a hit, and so did their profit margins.
For the first time, he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. He’d been so involved in his own problems he hadn’t even seen them. “Things aren’t great. But that’s why we’re making changes, okay?”
He nodded, mostly because he could tell she needed him to believe her for now. “Yeah, of course. I trust you.” And if the show flopped, it wasn’t like he’d be out on his ass. He hadn’t been the best-paid hockey player of all time, but he’d played professionally for over a decade and managed to avoid major financial disaster. He didn’t need to work. “Just keep me posted, okay?”
“Promise,” Jess said, flashing a quick, brittle smile. “All right, that’s it. Get out of here. Let’s go home.”
Chapter Three
MIRACULOUSLY, AUBREY did not get fired, even if, as he stood on the sidewalk waiting for his Lyft ride, he could still hear Jess’s clipped words ringing in his ears.
Or maybe that was his phone.
He barely glanced at the caller ID before picking up just as his car arrived. He got in and confirmed his destination with the driver.
“Jackson,” he said finally, doing a little mental math. Just after ten thirty on the West Coast. “Shouldn’t you be on the ice right now?” They’d been giving score updates during the show.
“Game’s over. We won. No points for me, but Fishy scored on a penalty shot, so I ducked out while everyone was talking to him to call my best boy. How’d it go?”
Aubrey leaned back in his seat and stared at the ceiling of the car. “Well, Jess Chapel didn’t pull me into her office immediately after the show and fire me, so I guess it wasn’t that bad.” She did bawl him out for inappropriate conduct, though, which he deserved enough that her anger actually made him feel better.
“What! Man, I am glad I set my DVR. What did you do?”
Aubrey explained in as much detail as he dared while sitting in the back seat of a car where he might be recorded. Fortunately the drive only took a few minutes at this time of night, so by the time Aubrey was waving goodbye to the driver, he’d only just gotten to the good part.
“And I just kept… trying to make conversation, but it was like talking to a wall, like the guy had the world’s biggest chip on his shoulder. So I figured, fuck it, he doesn’t want to talk.” He waved to his doorman as he went inside. “And that would’ve been fine! Okay! But it was my first day of work, and I was kind of hoping to actually get along with my cohost, and when I got frustrated I, uh, I did something dumb.”
There was a pause as Jackson digested this. Aubrey thought he was thinking about what Aubrey might have said—it wasn’t a secret that Aubrey hated to be ignored, and while Aubrey had been working on how he handled that, sometimes he backslid—but instead Jackson asked, “You managed to piss off Nathan Overton?” His voice hit a register that indicated extreme incredulity. “That guy is so nice.”
Oh hell. “You know him?”
“Yeah, didn’t I tell you? We did that PowerPowder Camp—God, that must’ve been, what, six years ago? I was still green as grass, couldn’t keep weight on to save my life. Donut gave me a couple tips, helped me get the hang of altitude training.”
Ugh, of course. He was probably a super nice guy if you didn’t try to flirt with him. Now Aubrey felt like even more of an asshole.
He couldn’t even enjoy that Jackson had called him Donut. “Great.”
“So what the hell did you do?”
Aubrey sighed as he stabbed the button for the elevator. “I… may have implied that he needed to… loosen up some.”
This time the pause held a note of definite horror. “Aubrey. What did you say?”
“I said he needed to get laid. On a hot mic with the whole production staff listening in.”
“Jesus. You’re lucky you didn’t get fired.”
Aubrey nodded glumly. The elevator began to climb. “Yeah. That’s what Jess said too.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends in leftover frustration. “He just got under my skin. And in my defense, I mean, can I be honest, Jacks? The man is insanely hot. He should not be that uptight. Like, does this guy’s husband have his legs glued together or—”
“You’re not helping your case, here, buddy.”
The elevator stopped at his floor, and Aubrey groaned and rubbed at his face as he stepped out. “I know. Anyway. I think the show itself went fine. It was just everything else that was godawful.”
“That’s something, at least. Hey—” Jackson’s voice went indistinct for a handful of moments, and Aubrey could hear a few other people talking in the background.
“Nakamura, let’s go! Fishy says you’re buying!”
“—we’re gonna go out to celebrate, but I’ll hit you up tomorrow after I watch your debut?”
“At least I didn’t fall on my ass doing a triple axel.”
“If you’d done that, I’d be watching it tonight, I promise.”
“Thanks for the support, asshole. Have a drink for me.”
“With a fruity little umbrella.”
That was Jackson’s drink. Aubrey unlocked his apartment. “Go. I’m gonna shower and crash.” Maybe by the time he poured himself into bed, he’d have forgiven himself enough to get some sleep.
NATE WOKE up determined that he’d make it an improvement on the day before. “Could hardly be worse,” he muttered to himself as he stumbled bleary-eyed into the shower. Last night he’d been so hyped up over the divorce, the flight, the show, and not least, his maddening new cohost, that it had taken him ages to fall asleep.
On the upside, his apartment had a great bathroom with a huge shower and fantastic water pressure. Nate had thought more than once that he could spend an hour in it, especially if he had some handsome company.
Nate could hear the words again—someone needs to get laid—and he could imagine Aubrey’s smirking mouth saying them. God, he’d like to wipe the smirk right off that pretty, petty face.
Something stirred in Nate’s groin as he thought about Aubrey’s face, and he froze before he could do anything he’d regret. Lust for his asshole coworker was the last thing he needed. He turned the temperature a bit cooler and hurried through the rest of his shower. Coffee. Coffee was what he needed. Coffee and some fresh air.
He knew the perfect location for coffee, and not just coffee now that he was past his PowerPowder and nutrition-plan days. As long as he could control himself enough that his suits fit, he could have an almond croissant or two. Or four.
The cafe was less than two blocks from the building, a totally pleasant walk when the weather was good, and today the sun was shining. A newsstand out front featured a spinner rack of trashy novels. Nate could spend the morning stuffing his face with carbs and his brain with spy stories and he’d feel better by lunchtime.
He accomplished the first two parts of his plan—pastry and coffee to go—without a hitch, but while he was choosing a book, he heard an irritatingly familiar voice.
“Good morning, Roger!”
“Aubrey! I have a new flavor today—cinnamon cappuccino! You want to try?”
“How could I not do the classic iced mocha?” Aubrey said, and Nate heard Aubrey walk down the aisle toward the refrigerator case. He held the copy of Adventure in Andalusia in front of his face as he ducked behind the newspaper display. He waited there like a coward—no, like someone healthily avoiding conflict before the first meal of the day—while Aubrey and Roger discussed the apparent virtues of cold canned coffees. Nate shuddered as he tried to sip his latte quietly.
After what seemed like a ridiculous amount of time, Aubrey left the shop. Nate dawdled a minute longer, then checked out so he could head back home. But when he turned the corner outside the shop, he stopped short.
Aubrey was a few yards in front of him, window-shopping and sipping from his can of “coffee.” He looked back and met Nate’s eyes before Nate could decide whether to turn around and walk the long way around the block to get back to his apartment. “Done hiding?” Aubrey asked, and Nate went from embarrassed to pissed off in half a second. Nate was almost impressed. Even his ex-husband usually needed more than two words to inspire that kind of turnaround.
“Done stalking me?” he sniped back, because if Aubrey knew he was there, he wasn’t exactly innocent.
Aubrey absorbed this rebuttal with a neutral expression, then blinked, inhaled deeply, and rolled his shoulders. “Let me try that again, okay? Good morning, Nate.”
Nate eyed him suspiciously. “Good morning.” Though it hadn’t been good so far, between his shower frustration and now this. And he still hadn’t gotten to eat his pastries; they were cooling in the bag even now.
Aubrey dropped his gaze to the sidewalk and then looked up and met Nat’s eyes. “Look, I just need to apologize. I was so out of line yesterday. It was unprofessional of me, and I’m sorry.”
For a moment Nate couldn’t think of anything to say. He hadn’t expected an apology, much less a sincere one. “Okay,” he finally said when he realized Aubrey was waiting for verbal confirmation that Nate had heard him.
“Okay,” Aubrey repeated, some of the tension visibly melting out of him. “That’s all I wanted to say. I know making comments about a coworker’s sex life isn’t okay, and it won’t happen again. I promise I’m normally better at keeping my foot out of my mouth.”
Nate felt his lips twitching in amusement despite his poor mood. “Yeah, isn’t that a move figure skaters practice?”
Aubrey barked out a laugh, the smile transforming his face into something kind and almost magnetic. “So you do know who I am.”
Aubrey was a two-time Olympian. Yeah, Nate knew who he was. “My mom used to love watching you skate.” Nate didn’t watch figure skating as a rule, but he couldn’t say he’d exactly torn himself away from the screen when Aubrey skated either. He’d exuded some kind of forbidden allure in his flamboyant, sparkling costumes and glittery, overdramatic eye makeup.
By mutual unspoken agreement, they had begun to walk back toward Nate’s apartment. “I could totally send her an autograph,” Aubrey offered. “Token of goodwill.”
Nate couldn’t decide if that was sweet or narcissistic. Both? His mother would love it, though, and it might forestall some of her nagging about Nate’s unpleasant on-air attitude. “I’ll think about it.” But he didn’t want to soften up too much. He needed to keep this professional. Which, speaking of—he belatedly added, “Thanks.”
“Seriously, it wouldn’t be any trouble.” Aubrey swung in a wide arc around a woman pushing a double-wide stroller. Nate increased his pace to catch up. “If you want to come up, I can—”
Oh no. “Come up?” Nate interrupted, his stomach dropping.
“Yeah.” Aubrey gestured to the building behind him. “I’ve got a folder full of professional shots somewhere. You can pick one out and I’ll personalize it. ‘Dear Mrs. Nate’s Mom, Sorry I made inappropriate sexual comments about your kid. Enjoy this glossy testament to self-centeredness.’”
Nate said, “You live here?”
“Yes?” Aubrey frowned. “If you don’t want the picture, just say so. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.” He rubbed his left wrist and then amended, “Much.”
No. Nate could not afford to let himself be charmed. It was one thing to make peace with a coworker and another to… just, no. “Since when?”
Now Aubrey was looking at him like he’d just said the Kings had a decent shot at the Cup this year. “Since when are you not going to hurt my feelings?”
“Since when have you lived here?” Nate corrected, exasperated, and tried desperately not to panic. Or smile. Fortunately the impulses almost canceled each other out. “I’ve never seen you in the elevator or anything.”
Aubrey raised his eyebrows. “You live here? What floor?”
“Fifteenth.”
“Huh.” Aubrey shrugged. “I’m on seventeen. I wonder why we’ve never run into each other.” They turned and went into the building, both waving at the doorman.
“Different schedules, probably.”
Aubrey acknowledged this with a tilt of his head. “Well, that’s changed. No wonder we’re running into each other now.” Then he quirked his lips. “So. You coming up for that autograph?”
Nate followed him into the elevator and pushed the button for his own floor. Was that an innuendo? Surely not. An autograph was just an autograph. Aubrey had just apologized for sexual harassment. He was hardly going to start again. “Ah, no. I think….” Crap, he needed an excuse. Right—he was still holding the bag of pastries with three fingers and his thumb. “Breakfast, and then I’m going to hit the gym.” Old habits died hard. Pastries could be added to the diet plan, but he’d feel like lukewarm garbage if he skipped his workout.
With a shrug, Aubrey hit the button for his own floor—so high up he had to swipe his key card. Right, Nate remembered—he hadn’t made his money, he’d been born into it. His parents owned a hotel chain or something. “Suit yourself.”
The doors closed, and so did Aubrey’s mouth. Nate kept quiet too, thinking that this was perhaps the longest elevator ride he’d been on in a while. Every second seemed to stretch endlessly as his sexual frustration ratcheted up along with the floor count.
But finally the doors slid open on his floor, and Nate was free. “See you later,” he called over his shoulder.
The doors closed again before he could catch Aubrey’s reply.
Inside his apartment, Nate dropped his keys, coffee, and pastries on the console table, left his shoes on the rack, and then crossed the entryway into the living room, where he lay down on the couch and pulled a throw pillow over his face. When screaming into it only half helped, he tossed it onto the floor.
He’d spent the last two years of his marriage convinced he and Marty had low libidos and that it was normal, that they were just getting older and it didn’t mean anything. But clearly his dick wasn’t as old as he thought it was if it thought getting to know his new cohost better was a good idea.
On the one hand, at least now he knew he wouldn’t be walking into a potentially hostile work environment every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. On the other hand, developing a sudden hard-on for his flamboyant coworker seemed like a recipe for disaster. In personality, Aubrey was as far removed from Marty as a gay man could probably get.
Maybe this was some kind of weird psychological divorce phenomenon. After all, Nate didn’t exactly go out and meet people. Only rarely did he encounter available gay men in the wild, and his dick had just chosen the first one that had come along. Obviously Nate couldn’t act on it. It’d probably go away in a few weeks, anyway.
He groaned and rolled over on the couch, pastries forgotten. “This is your fault,” he said in the general direction of the ugly vase on the console table which always reminded him of Marty. They had bought it on their honeymoon in Murano, half drunk on wine, and had somehow managed to have it shipped home in one piece. Now it stood in Nate’s living room as a monument to his failures, in case he ever forgot to be humble.
Finally he sighed and got off the couch. His appetite had deserted him, but the gym was still calling. Maybe he could make those pastries his reward for working out instead of jerking off to unwanted fantasies about his coworker.
Chapter Four
THEY DIDN’T have a show Thursday, preempted by some kind of network special on Michael Phelps or something; Aubrey didn’t care enough to pay attention. Instead he took the time to grocery shop, catch up on his Twitter feed, and work out in the gym in his building. Jackson had texted him a blow-by-blow breakdown of the show when he watched yesterday, and Aubrey was pretending to give him the silent treatment for insinuating that Aubrey wanted to get in his cohost’s pants. He did—Nate was, like, five-alarm-fire hot, with an absurd shoulder-to-waist ratio and the hockey ass and that carefully clean-cut image that made Aubrey want to mess him up—but Nate was married, and Aubrey was a grown-ass man, and he wasn’t going to be a creep. But if he said that to Jackson, Jackson would say “methinks the boy doth protest too much,” and then Aubrey would have to fly to Seattle and maim him.
He capped off the day with a trip to his therapist, who handed him a notebook and no-nonsense instructions. “You’ve got to stop believing everything is about you or has to be about you,” she said, waving the book until he took it. “So next time you find yourself getting worked up because you think someone’s ignoring you, I want you to write down what other things they might have on their mind. And every time someone spends time with you or does something considerate of you, you’re going to write that down too.”
Aubrey had thought graduating from high school meant the end of homework, but apparently not. He couldn’t exactly say he didn’t need to do this work either. He wanted to change, so he accepted the assignment with a mental note to get a really obnoxious sparkly plastic cover for the book.
Friday morning he got a text from a guy he used to train with—free ice time in exchange for a practiced eye and some feedback while he worked up a routine to audition for one of the on-ice Cirque shows in Vegas. In Chicago it wasn’t so much about paying for ice time—Aubrey’s trust fund handled that—but finding an open slot could be challenging. Besides, he hadn’t seen Greg in ages.
