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Alex’s phone buzzed with an email notification, but he didn’t look up from his laptop until it started buzzing rather insistantly a few moments later, this time with an incoming phone call. “Did you get that email?” Greg said in greeting when he picked up, and Alex sighed.
“Maybe,” he answered honestly, putting his phone on speaker so that he could pull up the email in question. “You do realise that you can see everyone who’s been CC’d on an email, yeah? All you have to do is click the little arrow—”
“Didn’t we just do a photoshoot for promo pictures?” Greg interrupted grumpily. “Why’re we doing another? And where the fuck is this place?”
Alex’s brow furrowed as he scanned the brief email from Andy Cartwright before clicking the helpful Google Maps link provided, another bit of technology seemingly beyond Greg. “Oh,” he said, then, “Oh.” The first was said with mild confusion; the second, a guilty sort of realisation.
“What?” Greg asked warily.
“Nothing,” Alex said, on instinct alone. “Only, er, Rachel made a joke.”
“Okay…”
“And I repeated it.”
Greg tutted patronisingly. “Stealing material, naughty boy,” he teased.
But Alex didn’t smile. “I repeated it to Andy.”
He could imagine the look of bemusement on Greg’s face as he waited for the shoe to drop. “Even worse.”
Alex exhaled heavily. “And, er, I don’t think he realised I was joking.”
“Do you plan on getting to the explanation of what exactly this joke was sometime this century, or am I meant to somehow guess what horseshit joke you made to Andy that apparently involves us needing to be at an ice rink at the break of dawn tomorrow?” Greg asked patiently.
Alex winced and scratched his cheek. “Have you heard of Heated Rivalry?” he asked, hoping against hope that Greg would recognise the show and forestall any additional explanation.
“No,” Greg said. “Sounds like the title of a gay porn film, though.”
“Well,” Alex said, “you’re not far off.”
For as many times as Greg had talked about swimming, Alex had never really believed it until he saw it with his own two eyes: Greg just made sense in water in a way that he didn’t on land.
Greg on top of (frozen) water, on the other hand…
“There are easier ways to replace me, you know,” Greg said through gritted teeth as he clutched the dasher board of the ice rink with both hands, wobbling unsteadily as he inched his way forward on ice skates. “You haven’t got to resort to killing me.”
Alex huffed a laugh, watching his breath fog in the artificially cold air. “You’re the one who said the only way you’ll stop being Taskmaster is if you die,” he said in his most reasonable tone in the hopes that it’d make Greg laugh.
It didn’t, though Greg did look up from his feet just long enough to glare at Alex and subsequently almost lose his balance. “Avalon’s insurance had better cover me snapping both my fucking ankles,” he grunted, hugging the wall rather like a child.
A six-foot-eight child decked out in full hockey pads and a black-and-red hockey jersey that Alex had been assured by the Andys would have the Taskmaster logo superimposed on it in post.
He wore pads and a jersey of his own, white and black in his case, and he skated with somewhat more confidence over to Greg. “I’m fairly certain they stuck a liability waiver in our most recent recommissioning paperwork,” he said mildly. “Which is why I do always recommend that you read something before you sign it…”
“This isn’t funny,” Greg said through gritted teeth, and Alex softened.
“Come here,” he said, skating closer to him and holding his hand out. “Come on, at the very least I’ll cushion your fall if you fall over.”
“Tiny fucking if there, mate,” Greg grumbled, half-heartedly swiping for Alex’s hand before giving up and gripping the wall again instead.
Alex tugged his hockey gloves off with his teeth, tossing them aside, and reached out to take Greg’s similarly gloved hands in his. “Right,” he said decisively, pulling Greg’s gloves off as well before squeezing his hands. “Hold onto me. I’ve got you.”
He’d never been a great ice skater, but had at least the basics down better than Greg, who was barely able to move his feet more than an inch at a time, even while gripping Alex’s hands so tightly he was fairly certain he might bruise. “See?” Alex said brightly as they made it another meter towards the far end of the rink, where the photographer had set up. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”
“As soon as they give me a hockey stick, I will smack you,” Greg said through clenched teeth, wobbling dangerously until Alex managed to steady him. “And only because I can’t smack your wife for suggesting this in the first place.”
Alex honked a laugh. “Don’t blame Rachel,” he chided. “She just thought with how popular Heated Rivalry is, it’d make sense that we try to capitalise on it. I’m the one who suggested it to Andy, and Andy who took it to the network.”
“Then in order of people whose necks I’m going to be wringing, it’s Andy, then you, then Rachel.”
Alex hummed unconcernedly. “Since that would require you to get yourself off the ice on your own, I’ll take my chances.”
Greg was cut off from whatever retort he was planning by his skate getting caught on a piece of ice, and he stumbled forward. Alex launched forward to catch him around the waist. “Oof,” he managed, holding him upright. At least mostly. “When you, erm, when you said you were going to wring my neck, I didn’t think you meant it quite so literally.”
Greg’s arms, flung desperately around Alex’s neck to stop his fall, loosened their grip, just slightly. “Sorry,” he muttered, sounding genuinely embarrassed, which was unusual, to say the least, for a man who routinely talked about his various bowel issues in front of thousands of people.
“Don’t let anyone hear you say that,” Alex teased lightly, carefully skating them backwards toward the Andys and the waiting photographer. “They’ll think you’re going soft on me.”
Greg managed a slightly shaky version of his usual smile. “Never,” he said.
Alex grinned in response, but before he could reply, the Andys met them, each taking one of Greg’s elbows and pulling him off of Alex. “Why didn’t you say that you didn’t know how to ice skate?” Andy C asked, exasperated, as he and Andy D shuffled with Greg toward where the photographer was gesturing.
“Why would you ever think that I could?” Greg protested, though he managed to stand upright when they put him in place, helped by the hockey stick they put in his hands. “Look at me, I’m shocked the ice hasn’t cracked underneath me!”
“Yet,” Alex interjected as he skated into position across from Greg, who scowled at him.
“Don’t even fucking start, mate.”
Alex’s lips twitched. “Sorry.”
Greg just sighed. “No you’re not,” he said. “Prick.”
Andy D cleared his throat. “Well, let’s at least get a few still photos while we’re here,” he said, nodding at the photographer. “I think we’ll have to scrap the plans for video footage, at least for the moment.”
“Longer than a moment, I’d fucking think,” Greg muttered.
The photographer stepped up onto the short platform that had been set up. “Let’s try a face-off,” he suggested, “see how that goes.”
Andy D manoeuvered Greg into position, while Andy C did the same for Alex, both men having clearly conferred ahead of time and knowing what position the photographer was looking for. Alex bent forward, hunching over his hockey stick, and he gave Greg a small, furtive grin, one Greg did not return, instead mustering something far more like a grimace.
“Right, perfect, now stay just like that,” the photographer said, taking a flurry of pictures before saying, “Greg, bend a little closer down towards Alex—”
Greg winced. “If I bend any further, I will fall over,” he said, half to the photographer, half to Alex.
“I’ll catch you again if you do,” Alex assured him.
Greg didn’t look amused by that. “I hate you,” he huffed instead, leaning forward just a little more, glaring at Alex as if he was going to make good on his threat to whack him with the hockey stick.
“That’s the spirit,” Alex said cheerfully, which even he had to admit was probably pushing it.
“All right, just like that,” the photographer said, taking another set of photographs. “Just a few more, please – now looking into each other’s eyes—”
Greg and Alex looked at each other and immediately both cracked grins, especially when Alex told Greg in an undertone, “Thought you were going to kiss me there for a second.”
“Christ, don’t make me laugh or I really will fall over,” Greg muttered, trying and failing to hide his grin.
“Sorry, Greg,” Alex said, not meaning a word of it.
The photographer took a few more pictures before he hopped down from the platform. “All right, I think we’ve got it.”
Both Greg and Alex straightened, Greg leaning on his hockey stick like it was a crutch. “Why are we doing this and not the contestants?” he complained. “Aren’t the usually the ones that are made to look stupid?”
“We’re doing separate shoots with them,” Andy C assured him. “Their schedules are a bit harder to coordinate.” He exchanged glances with Andy D. “Of course, now that we don’t have much footage to work with…”
Alex cleared his throat. “I’ve had a thought, actually,” he said.
“Thought I smelled something burning,” Greg muttered.
Both Alex and the Andys ignored him. “Well, Greg’s got a point, really,” Alex said, leaning on his hockey stick. “If the contestants are going to be hockey players, it doesn’t make much sense for us to also be.”
Greg perked up, just slightly, clearly following Alex’s train of thought. “Yeah,” he said. “Shouldn’t I be a referee or something?”
“Think I’d be the ref, what with the whistle and everything,” Alex said. “You’d make a fantastic coach, though. On the sideline, off of the ice.”
Greg brightened even more. “Oh, yes, please.”
Andy D cleared his throat. “We’ll discuss it,” he said, giving Andy C a look that Alex couldn’t quite read. “See if we can come up with something.”
“Does that mean we’re done here?” Greg asked hopefully.
Andy D rolled his eyes affectionately. “Yeah, we’re done here.”
“Oh, thank Christ,” Greg sighed happily, and for his efforts, almost immediately pitched forward.
Luckily, Alex caught him, yet again, wrapping a steadying arm around Greg’s waist to help keep him upright. “Time to get off the ice, I think.”
Greg sighed again, leaning heavily on Alex as they slowly inched their way towards the rink exit. “Yes, please.”
Alex bent and rested his elbows against the railing along the pavement overlooking the Thames. He stiffened for only a moment when he felt someone behind him, but relaxed almost immediately when he heard Greg’s voice in his ear. “All right, baby boy?”
He straightened but didn’t turn, and Greg pressed closer to rest his chin on his shoulder, stretching out to grip the railing on either side of Alex. “I think I’ll survive,” Alex said dryly. “Though I think I’ll tell my personal trainer that I can skip arm day for the next week or two.”
Greg laughed, but Alex knew him well enough to hear the sheepishness in the sound. “Sorry,” he offered.
“No you’re not,” Alex said good-naturedly, glancing over at him. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you scared like that before. Nervous, yes, but…”
Greg snorted a not-quite laugh. “Dying on my arse onstage is one thing,” he said. “Dying on my arse literally from the force of impact of 30 stone hitting ice is quite another.”
“A svelte 20,” Alex corrected. “Besides, I caught you.”
“Yeah,” Greg agreed quietly, nestling his chin more firmly against Alex’s shoulder. “You did.”
Andy Cartwright paused from where he was carrying equipment back to the car, and he caught Andy Devonshire’s arm. “D’you see that?” he asked.
Andy D followed his gaze, his brow furrowing as he looked at Greg and Alex, oblivious to anyone else around them, as per. “Am I meant to be scandalised after all this time?” he asked dryly.
Andy C just shook his head. “Of course not,” he scoffed. “But I think I’ve got a new idea for promo.”
Andy D’s eyes narrowed as he examined Greg and Alex closely for a moment before brightening with recognition. “Titanic?” he asked, clearly seeing Andy’s vision of how Greg and Alex were accidentally mirroring the rather famous image of Jack and Rose on the bow of the ship.
“We could do a whole series,” Andy C said.
Andy D nodded slowly. “Iconic love scenes.”
“We can even use some of the pictures we shot today, still do the Heated Rivalry tie-in,” Andy C said. “That’ll keep the studio happy, at least.”
But Andy D hesitated for a moment. “Rachel won’t like it.”
Andy C raised both eyebrows. “Oh?”
“She’ll be cross she didn’t think of it first.”
Andy C laughed. “I’m sure if we invite her to contribute some ideas, she’ll forgive us.” He looked over at Greg and Alex once more before glancing at Andy D. “Fancy a flutter on the whole thing?”
“Which part?” Andy D asked warily.
“When you think they’ll catch on to what we’re going.”
Andy D barked a laugh and shook his head. “Those two?” he said dismissively. “I’ll take the over on never.”
Andy C watched as Greg whispered something in Alex’s ear that made him laugh, watched as Greg’s grin widened into something like delight as he watched Alex laugh. “Dunno,” he said, finally turning to take the equipment to the car. “I think they just might surprise us.”