I kept it all under the surface until early in the third period. We were up 4-2, and we had Charlotte on their heels. The fourth line kept them hemmed into their end theway they were so good at doing—keeping them busy and unable to do even a partial line change despite their players being absolutely gassed. Then our guys started to peel away one after the other, and my line along with Eminem and Trews hit the ice to push hard against the exhausted Charlotte players.
Davis was the last to join us, and his timing was perfect—a Charlotte defenseman had made a desperation play, flinging the puck toward the penalty boxes to get it out of the zone without icing it. Two of them had seized the opportunity to drag their tired asses toward the bench, probably thinking the puck was about to leave the zone, so we’d also have to leave, regain possession, and re-enter the zone to keep it onside.
What they didn’t expect was Davis intercepting the puck just before it would’ve crossed the blue line.
Now it was still onside, they had two players way out of position, and the remaining three were ready to collapse.
Davis passed to Eminem, who shouldered his way past a breathless defenseman, and fired the puck toward the goal.
Peyton was waiting at the edge of the crease, and he tipped it in easily.
The horn sounded. The red light came on. The crowd lost it.
And fuck me, but the absolute joy radiating off Peyton almost dropped my knees out from under me.
How had I landed such an absolutely stunning man?
And how the hell was I supposed to keep my hands off him for another—I glanced at the clock—seventeen and a half minutes?
Fuck it.
Just before we were going to skate to the bench forfist bumps, I couldn’t resist, and I asked, “You care if the fans know about us?”
Surprise took over his expression, but only for a second. Then his grin lit up the whole arena, and he pulled off his helmet. “Absolutely the fuck not.”
My heart went wild, and I took off my own helmet, glided a little closer, and kissed him.
I thought the crowd had gone nuts when my name was announced or when I’d scored, but I was utterly unprepared for the way they responded to the two of us kissing. If anyone didn’t like it, their distaste was completely lost in the deafening, stadium-shaking roar that went up.
We broke the kiss and looked up, and sure enough, we were on the Jumbotron. We laughed and waved, which only egged the crowd on.
No one needed a delay of game penalty, though, so we kept it short, and we went to the bench so Baddy’s line could go out.
I had my nose buried in the iPad a moment later, watching the replay of our last shift, when the crowd started going nuts yet again. I snapped my head up to see what was happening.
But… there was nothing really happening on the ice. There’d been an icing call, and everyone was getting ready for another faceoff.
Then Peyton elbowed me and pointed up.
As soon as I saw the Jumbotron, my jaw went slack.
The camera was onus.
And there was a pink heart around us with the words KISS CAM blinking below us.
Suddenly all our teammates were banging their sticks on the boards and telling us, “Give the fans what they want!”
“Oh my God,” I said.
“You heard ’em.” Peyton touched my face and turned me toward him, and…
And oh, wow, we gave the fans what they wanted.
Brief. Chaste. Nothing that would cause a scandal beyond“OMG two men kissing.”But I could guarantee thatno onein this building or watching at home hadanyquestion about if Peyton and I were together.
Yeah, we’d probably hear about it from PR.
Quite frankly?
