I’m probably not supposed to be down here—NHL regulations or something, but Clark hasn’t let me go.
I have a slow-motion moment when everything is out of focus—somehow blurry and sharp at the same time.
A chant starts up around us and if I’m not mistaken, they’re saying, “Kiss, kiss, kiss.” Or maybe Miss? Hiss? Sis? Is Elise here? Oh, wait. Everyone knows Clark thinks of me as a sister. That must be it.
He wears an uncertain smile, yet his gaze is locked in again, but … on me.
This can’t be what I think it is.
I glance up at the Jumbotron and sure enough, there we are. A big red heart withKiss Camflashes around the live image of us.
This confirms that the crowd is chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Clark looks at me, eyebrows raised. “We don’t have to?—”
Oh, but I want to. I’ve been waiting ten years for this.
The buffalo are in a standoff. Half of them are like,Let’s ride!The other half seek shelter as if the tornado this could unleash bears down on them.
“What will happen if we don’t?” I blurt, because apparently my mouth has disconnected from my brain.
His eyes spark. “I don’t want to find out.”
He doesn’t want to find out what will happen if he kisses me—it’s not like I have bad breath! Or he doesn’t want to find out if we don’t? I’m confused. My brain is foggy. My heart is at risk of being trampled and I …
But Clark leans down.
I tilt my face up.
And then his lips are on mine.
It’s brief. Appropriate. The kind of kiss he’d give for a kiss cam in front of thousands of people.
But it’s also more than I ever dreamed of.
His lips are softer than I imagined (not that I’ve imagined, except I have on repeat). He smells like evergreen and home. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, gentle and sure, and for several perfect seconds, I let myself believe this isn’t for the cameras.
Time turns elastic. Three seconds stretches into forever and also not nearly long enough.
My skin tingles everywhere Clark touches me. The buffalo have gone completely still, like they’re holding their breath too. This is what coming home feels like, I think hazily.
It’s somehow better and worse than I imagined. Better because it’s real—his lips, his hand, his warmth. Worse, because in approximately five seconds, it’ll be over and we’ll go back to pretending this didn’t shatter something fundamental inside me.
Before the moment breaks, I have one daring, dismal thought. This is what I’ve been missing my whole life without knowing it. And then reality crashes back—the noise, the cameras, the fact that this is a kiss cam performance, not a promise.
When we break apart, the crowd has gone wild.
Clark smiles, waves to the fans, and plays up the moment as if Whitaker is whispering in his ear, reminding him that he can’t be a hockey recluse in a woodland cabin with just his dogs.
I mean, I wouldn’t object, especially if a warm fireplace was involved. But the flames in my imagination, coupled with the buffalo, have collapsed my lungs. I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
For the briefest moment, Clark’s brow is heavy, but then his smile returns—bright and camera-ready and just slightlyoff. Like he’s remembering his lines in a play. For half a heartbeat, his eyes held something raw and unguarded, but now they’re twinkling for the crowd.
I wish they were just twinkling for me.
“Good save,” I joke weakly, because what would happen if a couple declined the supreme order of the kiss cam?
“Best one all night,” he says.
