Admission is FREE (because love, laughter, and hashtags should be shared).
#Packo #PackoForever #PowerPlayOfLove #EnemiesToLovers #TwoMinutesForFlirting #StickHandlingAndFeelings #ProHockeyButMakeItGay
Don’t forget to tag your pics and reactions.
Before I knew it, I was slamming the phone against the seat and shouting curses that would have made my grandmother disown me.
Packy stared at me with wide eyes. “That’s my phone, Nix.”
Hearing the nickname snapped me out of my anger. He hadn’t used it in years, and back then, he only said it when we were alone. Did he mean to call me that now? “Sorry,” I said, handing it back.
“What the hell is this ad, though?” he demanded. “Tell me it’s fake. Please say some intern made it up, and it’s not actually running in the paper.”
“Icouldtell you that, but we both know I’d be lying.”
He groaned and read aloud, “‘Grouch-to-grin chemistry.’ Damn it. We sound like a Hallmark movie with skates.”
“I’m sick of that name,” I said. “Packo?Why do you get the main part of it and not me? Why couldn’t it be Nipa? Or even if you are first, it could be Pacco with two Cs. Or even Paco with one C.”
He smirked. “Paco? Rhyming with ‘taco’?”
“Fuck off. Nipa then.”
“I didn’t pick the name, you know.”
“Whatever.” I gave a big huff. “Those hashtags.PowerPlayOfLove?Who approved that?”
“You know exactly who, and I’m calling her now.” Pack dialed and hit speaker.
“This is Marissa Helms. Your call is very important to me. Please leave?—”
Pack stabbed the disconnect button and bounced the phone off the seat like a basketball. Something about the sheer ridiculousness of it cracked me up. “Easy,” I said, biting back a laugh. “Your phone’s already suffered enough.”
He glared at me. “You’re enjoying this.”
“No.” It was a half-lie because I’d always enjoyed seeing Packy go over the top when he got riled up. “I’m weirdly impressed. The HFNA has officially lost its mind.”
He groaned. “They’re turning us into a rom-com franchise. Next week it’ll bePacko 2: Power Play Proposal.”
I cackled, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. Packy held out for a few beats before he broke too. We were both howling, the sound so loud that the limo driver looked back like we werelunatics. Maybe we were, but for a few minutes, it was Pack and me against the world. That made it easier to take.
By the time the car pulled up to the Brown Palace, we were wiping tears from our eyes. We’d spent the last few minutes inventing increasingly unhinged hashtags, and Packy had capped it with, “Power play of dicks.I swear to God, if anyone says that, I’m retiring. After I punch their lights out.”
We were still laughing when an attendant opened the car door. As we headed inside, the echo of our merriment stayed with me. Something had loosened between us, and for the first time since this started, it seemed like old times instead of barely restrained dislike.
The reception was crowded, and as we walked in, applause washed over us. Banners from every team hung on the walls, the lights were bright, and voices echoed through the room. It seemed like half the crowd wore Boulders jerseys.
The host came over and led us to the front while we tried to ignore chanted hashtags. She introduced us, and we gave our usual speech before moving into the crowd. It was the same as always with small talk, pictures, and autographs. My cheeks got sore from smiling.
Every time someone yelled “Packo,” Packy tensed beside me, then smoothed it over with another grin. At least he laughed when a woman asked if we had two minutes for flirting.
I put a hand on his back and said, “Sure, but my buddy will need the full two just to think of something clever to say.”
Packy rolled his eyes. “Ten seconds and a ref’s whistle. I’ll have him in the box.”
She laughed, giving us an opportunity to escape.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Pack whispered.
