Larry Szymanski slumped in the rink-side booth, resolutely ignoring the cameras. It didn’t really matter since they could record his misery almost as well from the side as from the front, but these days he had to hoard every ounce of freedom he possessed.

Out on the ice, the beautiful, horrible creature who’d put him in this position skated on. He seemed oblivious to Larry’s pain, but that was just an act. Everything about Jimmy DeVere was an act, right down to his fragile appearance. Larry would have sworn the kid was made of matchsticks and feathers, but put him on the ice and he turned into the Tasmanian Devil. Then take him off the ice and he become something worse. Much worse.

A single song looped endlessly over the speakers, making Larry wish he was free enough to scream. This was the music he’d be skating to in a few more days, in front of these same cameras and a sold-out auditorium. Larry Szymanski, one of the best hockey players in the game today, would be figure skating. With Jimmy. As half of a pairs team. “How did it come to this?” wailed the guy in the song, and Larry mouthed the words along with him.

Less than a month ago, Larry’s biggest non-hockey accomplishment had been getting “killed” in a Jason Statham movie, but he’d always had bigger dreams. Larry wanted to be a crossover movie star, so working as a glorified extra was just Stage One in his master plan. Stage Two would be playing characters with actual names, and Stage Three saw him breaking out of the action mold entirely.

Larry wasn’t bad looking and he knew how to get laughs, so why shouldn’t he go out for a comedy role? Hell, why not a romantic comedy? Personally, he hated chick flicks, but the actors who starred in them worked with some of the hottest ladies around. Then they attracted even more hotties, just by being in those movies. Larry would happily embarrass himself for a deal like that.

Enter agent Ronnie Chester. He hadn’t landed Larry any big roles yet, but he swore it was only a matter of time. Larry had the makings of a movie star, he said; the only problem was his lack of name recognition. “Not everyone reads Sports Illustrated,“ Ronnie lectured him. “You have to tell the rest of the world who you are before they’ll let you read for the big roles.”

Larry already knew that; he wasn’t an idiot. In fact, he was smart enough to come up with a “big break” idea on his own. All Ronnie would have to do was arrange the details. Reality TV: that was the ticket. Athletes went on Dancing with the Stars all the time, and some of them even won the damn thing. The beauty of Larry’s scheme, though, was that he didn’t have to win anything; he just had to make a good showing. If the viewers liked him well enough on TV, they’d pay to see him in the movies. It just made sense.

Now, Larry wasn’t keen on ballroom dancing, but he felt sure he could do well on some other kind of show. He’d watched plenty of reality TV, and he knew what it took to succeed there. He had what it took. Not only was Larry a world-class athlete, but he was a pretty good strategist; and even more importantly, he knew how to laugh at himself. Viewers didn’t like players with big heads.

Yeah, Larry had the angles figured. Ronnie would be impressed.

At least, that was what Larry expected.

Chester didn’t shoot him down entirely, but he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic, either. He sat for a good half minute, just thinking, and finally shrugged. “Okay, sure. We can go that route. You might make an ass of yourself, but at least you’ll get some name recognition out of it. The question is, are you willing to look like an ass?”

Larry had already thought about that. Given the right footage, editors could make anyone look like a jerk. But Larry thought he was a pretty good guy, and he knew how to think through problems. He wouldn’t give the editors anything they could use against him. “I know it’s a gamble,” he told Ronnie, “but I can handle it. It’ll be fun.”

“As long as we don’t put you on Dancing with the Stars, eh?” Ronnie leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “Okay, fine. I wouldn’t want you on that type of show anyway. You’re too...rough around the edges to dress up in spandex and sequins. Let’s find something that showcases your aggressiveness instead. Something on cable, maybe, so you don’t have to worry about the censors so much.”

Larry had done his homework there, too. He pulled out the list he’d made of potential shows and crossed off all the ones on network TV. Then he picked a name at random: Life Swap. He didn’t watch that one regularly, but he’d seen enough to consider it a safe bet. He could picture himself being paired up with a farmer and learning to plant corn, or maybe a baker who’d teach him to make cakes. Or hey, he could even end up with a sweet young kindergarten teacher who’d let him read to her kids. That would be cute.

So...go on Life Swap, learn a new skill, and teach someone else about hockey. Not so hard, unless he really did get paired with a kindergarten teacher. She might not do too well in the rink. But then again, the Life Swap producers might actually pair him with another athlete. A pretty little figure skater would be nice.

And a pretty little figure skater was what he’d gotten.

Thinking back on it now, Larry buried his head in his hands. He should have backed out the moment he read the proposal, but damn Ronnie Chester had convinced him to stay on. He said it didn’t matter that DeVere had only come out of the closet a few weeks ago; no one had ever mistaken him for straight anyway. Besides, Larry had to be comfortable with gays if he wanted to make it in Hollywood.

Ronnie’s most convincing argument, though, was that no one would ever think Larry was gay, so showing he was at ease with a gay man would actually be a good thing. “You want name recognition, Szymanski?” the agent had grinned. “Here it is, right here. Show the world you’re a modern man who’s comfortable with his own sexuality, and they’ll eat you up with a spoon.”

So Larry had signed the contract, agreeing to host DeVere in Detroit for the first week and be hosted by DeVere in Boston for the second week. Just fourteen days, he’d told himself: two hours of TV, once the footage was whittled down. It wasn’t much, and when it was all over with, he’d have his Sensitive Man credentials and a potential ticket to stardom. Not that the two weeks would be easy, but Larry planned to make them just as hard on DeVere as they would be on him.

According to Life Swap’s contract, both participants had to experience each other’s life as fully as possible. As hosts, they made the rules; and as guests, they followed the rules—no exceptions aside from physical and legal restrictions. The scenario could make for comedy, drama, schadenfreude, or even romance; it all depended on how the participants felt about each other.

Larry knew how he felt about DeVere before he even met the guy, and he could guess how DeVere felt about him. Thank God he had the home team advantage first. He’d break the kid down so hard, so fast, that DeVere wouldn’t recover for weeks. He’d do it in a “tough drill sergeant” way, though; and once he was sure he’d broken the little fucker, he’d ease up just a little. The viewers would admire his attitude; and DeVere would know exactly who was in charge.

That was Larry’s plan, anyway.

DeVere arrived at the practice rink decked out in platform heels, a sloppy black pompadour, and a tight red T-shirt with the word “bitch” spelled out in silver sequins. The kid’s profile had said he was 23, but Larry thought he looked more like a teenage drama queen.

Larry stood in the door of the Wolverine practice rink, folding his arms reflexively. A small team of cameramen, directors, and production assistants hovered around him, while a second team followed DeVere out of the Life Swap bus. He was grinning like a kid at Disney World. “Detroit Wolverines,” he exclaimed, reading the giant blue letters over Larry’s head. “I’ve never been to a hockey rink before. This is going to be so much fun!”

Then he spotted his host. “Larry Szymanski!” he beamed. “It’s so nice to meet you!”

Larry shifted uncomfortably as DeVere rushed toward him. He couldn’t fuck up their first meeting, but God help them both if the little shit tried to kiss him.

DeVere thrust out his hand; and, relieved, Larry shook it.

Huh, the kid actually had a strong grip. Larry made a note to talk about it during his first daily trip to the “Confession Closet.” He’d promised Ronnie to compliment Jimmy at least twice a day, but he hadn’t said how he’d compliment him. The Closet would work just fine.

Ronnie’s second demand would be trickier to abide by. He’d drawn up a list of all the words and topics about...people like DeVere...that were off-limits and made Larry promise not even to think about them. Larry told himself that was a little like telling him not to think about an elephant, but he got the point: if it never entered his mind, it wouldn’t slip out of his mouth. He’d agreed to do his best; after all, they were both looking out for Larry’s reputation.

“Welcome to Detroit,” he said, staring DeVere firmly in the eye. “Come on in, and I’ll show you the routine.”

The morning started just like Larry thought it would. DeVere took almost forty minutes to put on his hockey gear, and Larry didn’t help at all. Why should he, when there was more comedy value in letting the kid figure things out on his own? Larry parked him in one corner of the dressing room with a pile of stuff, then walked to the opposite corner and turned his back while he donned his own gear. He worked as quickly as he could, then made idle chitchat with the cameras for awhile so DeVere would have enough rope to hang himself.

The kid might have done better if he’d watched Larry more carefully, but he’d been too busy cracking wise about girdles and groin protectors. When Larry turned around, he found DeVere with half his gear in place and the other half still sitting on the bench. He’d laced his skates correctly—no surprise there—but he hadn’t put on his hockey shorts yet; and he was studying his hockey socks in utter confusion. Larry could just see the tops of DeVere’s anklets above his skates.

“You have to put the shin guards on first,” Larry told him, trying not to snicker, “then the socks, then the shorts. The skates come last.”

DeVere groaned and rolled his eyes. “I tried putting the shorts on first, but they’re too stiff; I couldn’t lace my skates. And why the hell do you need a second pair of socks when you’ve got all this other shit on? Even football players don’t wear this many layers...do they?”

Larry just shrugged. “You’ll understand when you get out on the ice.”

He showed Jimmy how to straighten his gear, then gave him a shelf of helmets chose from. That was when DeVere impressed him for the second time, picking a half-mask with a clear visor rather than a more protective full-face shield. Okay, Larry thought, there was his second compliment for the Confession Closet. He was done for the day. Still, it was weird how DeVere had known what to do about the helmet.

Then the kid paused to grin at himself in a mirror, and Larry understood. DeVere hadn’t picked a clear visor because it was more professional; he just wanted his face to be seen. That was even funnier when you realized DeVere’s looks would only be improved by having a few teeth knocked out. The implants could be set in straighter, and maybe he’d have his canines filed down at the same time. Shit, Larry’s own teeth looked better than his figure-skating guest’s.

He led DeVere into the arena, where five other Wolverines were waiting. DeVere seemed thrilled. “I didn’t know I would get to meet any of your teammates!”

“Normally you wouldn’t, not during the off-season. These guys came out just to meet you.”

“How flattering!”

For the first time, Larry noticed the hint of sarcasm that had been lurking in DeVere’s voice all along. He glanced at the kid sideways, but DeVere’s smile looked perfectly innocent.

Never mind, Larry told himself. That grin’ll be gone by lunchtime. He’d recruited five of the biggest, meanest guys on the team, including their enforcer, to put Jimmy in his place; and thanks to the Life Swap contract, he didn’t even have to say what he was doing.

The Wolverines spent barely five minutes showing DeVere the basics. Then they split into teams and let him try for a goal. Larry, Paul and Bud made a show of cooperating with him; but they barely put the puck within his reach and gave him almost no protection. Larry expected DeVere to bawl like a baby after a few checks, and Larry expected to love every minute of it.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t how things worked out. In most ways, DeVere fared like any other first-time hockey player. He’d never handled a hockey stock before or skated in such restrictive gear, so he made plenty of mistakes. On the other hand, he turned out to have some unexpected advantages: he skated faster than any of the Wolverines; and no matter how brutally they slammed him into the boards, he bounced back laughing.

It was frustrating—no, it was unreal. Never once did the kid complain, or rub an aching body part, or even pause to catch his breath.

When they finally broke for the day, Jimmy plopped down happily in the booth next to Larry. “That was fun,” he said, waving at the others as they filed out. “Will I see any more of them?”

“You bet,” Larry answered grimly.

He decided to record his first Confession as they left the practice rink. The Life Swap bus didn’t have much extra room, so the Confession Closet wasn’t much bigger than an airplane toilet. On the other hand, it was soundproofed and the door locked from the inside. Larry joked to himself that he could hide in there if things really went south.

He was still smiling when the camera switched on, so it wasn’t hard to sound glib as he summarized his day. Even the compliments came easily, since DeVere had caught onto the game pretty well in the end. Really, the hardest part was trying to criticize him without sounding like a bully. Larry thought he did all right.

After the Confession Closet, Larry took DeVere back to his apartment. He had no choice about that since the contract said they had to share living quarters. Fortunately, it didn’t say he couldn’t install locks on the interior doors, or that he had to make DeVere’s sleeping space particularly comfortable. Larry hadn’t cleaned the place in a couple of weeks, figuring that would just make it look like a typical “man cave;” and he’d dumped a wad of not-quite-clean sheets on the couch for Jimmy to arrange by himself.

The kid didn’t complain, but maybe was saving that for his own Confession. Larry chuckled at the thought.

He just hoped he wouldn’t have to sleep with Jimmy in Boston. That was one reason he’d made the sheets on the couch a little smelly. He didn’t want the little f-, uh, twerp thinking he’d make a good bed partner. It wasn’t that Larry thought DeVere would do anything too disgusting; the law was the law, even on reality TV. He just didn’t want to touch the guy any more than necessary.

Besides, they were filming for cable. Sometimes participants flirted and sometimes they got it on, right there on camera. DeVere was sure to push the boundaries. Hell, the producers probably counted on it. That was why Larry had installed the interior locks; he couldn’t keep DeVere’s hands off him entirely in Boston, but he’d be damned if anything would happen in Detroit.

DeVere unpacked; then Larry took him to dinner at the greasiest sports bar he could stomach himself.

He’d gotten used to the cameras by now, but having other patrons stare at them made Larry nervous all over again. First he wondered what they must think, seeing him with a...guy like Jimmy. Then he wondered what the Life Swap viewers would think, seeing his expression when DeVere asked the waitress about low-fat salad options.

For the hundredth time, Larry reminded himself that he was playing Mister Sensitive. Then he forgot all over again when Jimmy ordered a mojito.

Hearing Larry’s snort, Jimmy folded his arms on the table and leaned toward him. “What?” he said. “Were you expecting me to ask for a cosmo?” He winked at Larry. “Don’t worry, Szymanski; I never drink vodka.”

Larry forced himself to remember that he didn’t mind being laughed at. He chuckled and apologized, then went back to ignoring the stares. Thank God he hadn’t taken DeVere to one of his regular hangouts; he’d never have been able to eat there again.

Jimmy wanted to chat, but Larry was too uncomfortable to do more than lecture him about the games playing out on the big screens. Whenever the kid tried to change the subject, Larry just found some reason to cheer and kept it up until DeVere stopped talking.

At last his cheeseburger was done (DeVere had only picked at his salad), and Larry burped and pulled out his cell phone. “So you wanted to see the other guys again? Well, hang on, kid, ‘cause the night’s just getting started.”

The Wolverines took Jimmy to a strip club—one they rarely visited, of course.

DeVere seemed as excited as ever, saying he’d never been to a place like this and couldn’t wait to see what it was like. As they stepped up to the entrance, he even put his arms around Larry and Frank’s shoulders and squeezed them like old pals. Larry had drunk enough by this point to ignore DeVere’s touch, but he was surprised when Frank didn’t flinch. Maybe the enforcer had already downed a few beers, too.

They pointed Jimmy toward a front-row table, then let him steer the way since their own eyes were fixed on the stage. Two girls in thongs and heels were humping the poles while a third showered herself and the crowd with champagne.

Jimmy stage-whispered as they took their seats. “I thought they’d be prettier,” he said.

The Wolverines laughed long and hard; then Bud attempted a comeback. “You’re not looking at their faces, are you?” he leered.

Jimmy just rolled his eyes. “God, no! How could I, when their tits keep getting in the way?”

Not bad, Larry told himself. He should probably be a good sport and join in. Very deliberately, he patted DeVere on the back and drawled, “Kid, that’s how you know it’s a good strip club. These ladies put a lot of effort into making us appreciate them.”

Jimmy’s eyes grew wide and childlike. “But if they put out any more effort, I’m afraid they’ll tip over.”

Larry pulled his hand away and silenced the others with a glare. What were they doing, laughing with the little shit?

He drew out his wallet to change the subject. “Hope you brought some bills,” he said DeVere.

A look of calculation flashed across Jimmy’s face. Then he laughed and pulled out a stack of his own. “Haven’t you ever been to a drag bar, Szymanski? Your clubs aren’t that different from mine.”

Larry’s cheeks reddened, but he bit his tongue while DeVere tucked a fifty between two fingers and waggled it at a stripper. She danced over and he air-kissed her, then tucked the bill so far into her thong that his fingers disappeared. She wiggled in a way that made Larry wish those were his fingers.

Before long the Wolverines’ table was the most popular spot in the club, with half a dozen girls congregating around them between sets. Maybe it was Jimmy’s bottomless wallet, or his endless wisecracks. Maybe it was the cameras tempting the strippers with a chance of being on TV. Or maybe it was all of that and more. The only thing Larry knew for sure was that these girls didn’t gave a damn about hockey. If they did, they’d have recognized his face, at least.

One of them gave a damn about figure skating, though. Somewhere around 2:00 AM the girl in Jimmy’s lap took his face in her hands and studied him carefully. Then her eyes lit up. “I knew it!” she squealed, wiggling closer to his chest. “You’re Jimmy DeVere, aren’t you? I love to watch you skate!”

Larry wanted to crawl under the table.

A couple of the other strippers had heard of DeVere, too; and before Larry could protest, the little dickhead was autographing every tit in the room. It took him a good fifteen minutes

When he was finally finished, he winked at Larry and he swept his eyes around the table. “So, ladies, how about lap dances for all my friends?”

Larry was so angry, he almost couldn’t enjoy his.

“Goddammit, Ronnie, this isn’t working out.” Larry glanced over his shoulder to be sure the cameras weren’t on him. They weren’t; the Life Swappers were all filming DeVere and Larry’s teammates. Even though he’d wanted some privacy, he hadn’t expected to get it this easily. He gripped his cell phone like a beer can ripe for crushing.

“What is it, Szymanski?” Ronnie sighed. “Is DeVere giving you gay cooties?”

“No! No. He’s not.” Larry gritted his teeth, then glanced behind himself again. “It’s more like the opposite.”

“Oh, he’s butching up for you?” Ronnie sounded amused.

“Knock it off, Chester. Just....Look, it’s been four days now and the kid isn’t...he isn’t....”

“Breaking?”

Larry blinked. He’d never imagined his agent might be onto him. “Okay, no,” he admitted. “He isn’t breaking. And Ronnie, I’m not paying you to make me look like an ass.”

“Funny, I thought we already had this conversation.”

“No, listen. He’s mocking me, Ronnie, and I won’t put up with it. Not from a- well, you know. Anyway, if DeVere has this much attitude in Detroit, what’s he going to be like in Boston? I’ll end up looking like a total idiot, and no one will ever take me seriously again.”

“You signed the contract, Szymanski,” Chester said. “You can’t back out now, not without looking like an even bigger idiot, and not without paying the biggest fines of your life.”

Larry rubbed his forehead. “That’s not what I’m suggesting. We have to up the ante, Ronnie. Breaking DeVere’s going to take a little longer than I expected.”

“Okay, the only reason I’m talking to you now is that I think you’re suggesting more airtime.”

“Well, yeah. Now, listen, Ronnie. I’ve been talking with some of the Carnivores out in Denver. They hate us, we hate them, we beat the shit out of each other every time we play. So get this: we can put together a pickup game, but it’ll take another week at least to draw in enough players. We’ll have to recruit from some of the other teams, from the minor leagues, maybe even find a couple of college kids with potential. The idea, though, is that it’ll still look like the Wolverines playing the Carnivores...on the Carnivore’s turf...with Jimmy fancy-ass-figure-skater DeVere right in the middle of it!” He couldn’t help pumping his fist at the thought.

Ronnie started to object, but Larry rode straight over him. “We’ll schedule the game for a week from Saturday, make it the big finale of the Detroit show. We’ll sell tickets, have DeVere signs a no-fault agreement in case he gets hurt—and I know he will sign it, Ronnie. I know him now. So anyway, win or lose, we make a ton of money and I fly off to Boston to meet a shithead too beaten down to lift his own dick for a piss.”

There was a long pause on Ronnie’s end of the line. “Okay,” he said at last. “Okay. That might actually work, as long as DeVere really signs the agreement—and doesn’t get himself killed. ‘Cause if he does-”

“Don’t worry, Ronnie. At the very worst, he might end up with a broken bone or a concussion.”

“You’d better hope you’re right, Szymanski. If he gets seriously injured, your ass is on your own. In jail. Oh, and one other thing. You realize two weeks in Detroit means two weeks in Boston, right?”

“Sure I do, Ronnie. But it won’t be a problem after the game.”

That was the plan, anyway.

By the following Saturday, DeVere had buddied up to all twenty pickup players, including eleven Wolverines who’d signed on just for a chance to kick more Carnivore ass. In fact, not only did they like DeVere, but come game night, they went out of their way to protect him.

Larry knew Jimmy didn’t need it, but it still pissed him off because the kid wasn’t taking his fare share of licks. His only real satisfaction of the night came when DeVere get boarded so hard it should have knocked him cold. He bounced back just like always, but at least Larry got to laugh at the Carnivore’s expression.

He didn’t laugh again. By the final seconds of the game, Larry’s teammates had racked up two cracked ribs and three lost teeth, but DeVere was as perky as ever. The score was tied at 1-1 and Larry was charging toward the goal when Pete LeTerrier swept in from the side. He stole the puck from Larry, then lost it to Frank—who passed it on to DeVere coming up along the left wing. Jimmy angled in and snapped his wrists like a pro, whipping the puck into the net just over the goalie’s glove.

As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, Larry then had to return to the Confession Closet and reflect on his two-week hosting experience. The contract said he had to do it, but it didn’t say how long the Confession had to be. Larry gave the camera just one sentence: “It didn’t go like I expected.”