Even as Connor sat watching the approach to Vancouver airport, he could hear his friends’ voices telling him he was losing it. You’re a teacher, not a writer. What about your career, your pension, your prospects? You realize we’re in a recession? The education system is job safe; people always need teachers. He had given the same answer to every one of them. Just the weekend, just three days. I want to take the script to them personally. It is just something I have to do. And so he sat, in a window seat, 23A, looking down at snow-covered Canada, his heart in his mouth, his script in his carry-on bag, and an address for the set in his head.
This was possibly his only shot at getting his work seen, maybe even getting the creator of the show to read his words. He could possibly be holding the next big hit to be filmed in Vancouver in his hands, the next X-Files, the next The Vampire Diaries, and it was a thrill he would never, ever feel again. His script was a story of a man—a gay man—secret organizations, life in a small town, and the tragic death of a lover all rolled into one; it was edgy and new, and his nerves twisted in his stomach as the plane touched down. Maybe it was pushing it too far. Maybe the world wasn’t ready for a gay hero. But unless he handed the script to the director or writers of the current super-hit End Game himself, he would never know.
Finding where the production head office was based was easy. It seemed a few carefully placed questions on various Internet communities brought forward a raft of information, not just production HQ for End Game, but the bars that technicians and stars visited and even a home address. Connor wasn’t really impolite; he was a well brought up kind of guy, and the thought of approaching someone in their own home was not on his to do list.
So the production office it would be, and after a quiet night in the Days Inn, he felt he could handle anything. He delayed a little, psyching himself in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling at his blond hair, trying to get it to stay spiked, hazel eyes gazing back at him from what he considered to be a very ordinary face. He wondered what it would be like to meet the people behind End Game, wondered what the writers of the popular buddy cop show were like. Would they laugh at him? Think his ideas were nothing? He sighed, slipping on his jacket and straightening his tie. This was going to be easy. That was what he had to believe. Easy.
Of course, he hadn’t completely counted on the security on set being as tight as it was, watching as some fifty girls of various ages hovered at the gate. It was close to eight a.m., and he assumed they were here waiting for the arrival of Darin Ramírez or Rob Kelly, the male stars of the show. He smiled at the thought of maybe catching sight of them in the flesh. After all, there wasn’t that much of a call for an End Game convention in the middle of Tennessee, and both men were gorgeous. He stood back. While catching sight of Darin Ramírez, in his opinion one of the most stunning men on the planet, would be a bonus; it was the director or script writers he was really here to see.
There was a buzz in the group of girls: a black truck had been spotted approaching the main gate, and a sudden surge of excited girls pushed at Connor. The force of the group moving en masse was enough for him to fall flailing into the slush at the side of the road, the script in his hand flying under the wheels of the sliding truck. In slow motion, he saw his work ruined in water and mud and the truck stop inches from his outspread fingers reaching for the loose papers. He heard, rather than saw, the crowd of girls gasp in horror, a door slam, and heated words, and then a man, squat, built, and in an irritable hurry, pulled him one-handed to his feet, snapping out a hurried “Are you okay?”
Connor didn’t know what to say. He felt like his whole life had just been stomped on. The script was ruined. Of course, he had a copy on his laptop. He wasn’t stupid. But this script had been specially bound and had his notations on it, ideas in pencil he had added on the flight, which he could never recover. Still, he nodded he was okay. His elbow hurt like a bitch where he had landed on solid asphalt, but other than that, he was just fine. Shaky and shocked, but fine.
“Jim, is he okay?” a voice from inside the tinted windows asked, and the girls moved in a swarm, all shouting the same things: Darin, it’s Darin, OH MY GOD, Darin, Darin! The man holding Connor swore, pushing the girls back and pulling at Connor, even as Connor was trying to reach for his script, which was now torn up under fifty pairs of shoes. Without ceremony he was shoved into the truck, and he sprawled on the floor, the huge workhorse of a bodyguard following him and pulling the door shut behind him, locking all the doors in seconds. Connor felt other hands pulling at him, helping him up from the floor.
