“We’re here with Clark Culpepper and his girlfriend, April Hansen, the faces of this year’s Love at First Wag campaign,” Billy says to the camera. “Clark, amazing save in the second half. How does it feel to be up two-nothing?”
Clark gives the standard hockey answer about taking it one period at a time and crediting his teammates. But his arm is around my waist, I’m pressed against his side, and I can feel his heartbeat through his jersey.
“April, you’re a professional dog trainer. What made you want to get involved with this campaign?”
I somehow form coherent sentences about animal welfare and the importance of adoption. Clark’s thumb traces small circles on my hip, and I’m ninety percent sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“One more question,” Billy says with a smile that suggests he knows something we don’t. “What’s your favorite thing about being a couple?”
We both freeze. Look at each other. Stare.
I should say something cute. But my thoughts helicopter because I’ve lost track of what’s real and what’s a fantasy.
Clark pulls me closer and says, “She makes everything better. Even losing streaks and bad practices and days when nothing goes right. She’s my best friend. My everything.”
If this doesn’t work out, I’ll need a heart transplant.
Billy beams. “And April?”
I look up at Clark, at his green eyes that are focused entirely on me, and the truth spills out. “He remembers my favorite flavor of Goldfish crackers and never judges me for drinking from juice boxes as a fully fledged, functioning adult. He reminds me that choosing dogs over law school was the smartest decision I ever made. He’s the only person who laughs at my terrible puns and doesn’t think I’m weird for talking to dogs in different voices and somehow makes me believe I can do impossible things—like open a dog bakery. He’s my favorite human to do nothing with and the first I call when anything happens—good or bad. Clark is my person.”
There’s a long, pregnant moment of silence, and then Billy says, “Ladies and gentlemen, you are witnessing true love in hockey town!”
The crowd cheers, but I barely hear it over the pounding of my heart.
Out of frame, Sandra signals. I can’t tell what she means as she gestures with her first two fingers. She presses the pads of them together. I look from her to Billy to Clark. The sports announcer leans in and whispers. “They want you to kiss.”
This is it. The candid kiss. The staged moment for the cameras. My poor nerves!
Clark’s hand comes up to cup my face, and his eyes search mine. “Okay?” he whispers, so quiet only I can hear.
Breath trapped in my throat, I nod, not trusting my voice.
He leans down so slowly I have time to notice everything. The way his eyes drop to my lips. How his inhale catches. The slight tremble in his hand against my cheek.
And then his lips are on mine.
It’s not like the kiss cam. That was brief, appropriate, and over in threeseconds.
This is a few degrees warmer.
His mouth is soft and sure, and when I gasp slightly, he deepens the kiss just enough to make my knees weak. His other hand slides into my hair, gentle but possessive, and I’m gripping his jersey to keep from melting into the ice.
The crowd is going wild, but it’s just white noise. All I can feel is Clark—his warmth, his strength, and the way he’s kissing me like it’s real.
When we finally break apart, I’m dizzy. Clark’s eyes are dark, intense, searching my face like he’s looking for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked.
“Beautiful!” the photographer calls out. “Perfect! That’s the shot!”
We separate slowly, and I’m vaguely aware that we’re still on center ice with thousands of people watching. Clark’s hand finds mine, squeezes once, and then we’re being ushered off the ice.
“That was amazing!” Sandra gushes. “The chemistry! We couldn’t have asked for better content!”
Chemistry. Right. Content. Because it was for the cameras.
Except the way Clark won’t let go of my hand suggests maybe it wasn’t. A girl can hope.
18
