Cole sees her first. He breaks into a jog, still in his Under Armour, hair soaked, his jersey with the championship patch already sewn on clutched in one hand by an equipment manager who works fast. He reaches her and lifts her off the ground. Her legs leave the concrete. Both arms go around his neck, her bag swinging against his hip as her face presses into his chest.
“Put me down,” she says into his jersey.
“Never.”
“Cole. My feet.”
“Your feet are fine. Your feet are experiencing championship-level elevation.”
“My feet are experiencing a man who smells like a hockey bag.”
He sets her down. His hands go to her face. He kisses her, quick and hard, a tunnel kiss after a win while the blood is still up.
She is laughing when he pulls back. Her hand stays on his chest. Then she looks past him.
At me.
I am ten feet behind Cole. The tunnel is concrete and fluorescent and smells like Zamboni exhaust, and I am standing in it in my Under Armour with wet hair and the championship still buzzing under my skin.
She crosses the distance. Her boots hit the concrete. Her eyes stay on mine. She reaches me, and her hands land on my face, both palms on my jaw, her thumbs braced high under my cheekbones.
Then she kisses me.
The noise drops behind her kiss, behind her hands locked on my jaw.
When she pulls back, her thumbs move across my cheekbones. Her eyes search my face.
“That pass,” she says. “The empty net. He gave it to you.”
“He always gives it to me.”
“You could have shot from center. You had the angle.”
“I had the angle.”
“But you waited for him.”
“I always wait for him.”
“The play you two run,” she says. “The cycle, the give-and-go, the timing. I’ve watched it from the press box for four years. I’ve written about it. The way you find each other before the lane opens.” She pauses. “I know what it looks like from sixty feet up.”
Her hands tighten on my face.
“I didn’t know what it looked like from here.” Her voice drops. “With your face right in front of me and the sweat still on you.”
Her thumbs press harder against my cheekbones. Her eyes are bright.
Her gaze catches on the sweat at my temple, the drag of my breath, the tremor still running through my hands.
The tunnel empties around us. Equipment carts roll past. A reporter with a camera pauses, then moves on.
Cole steps back in beside us. His arm goes around her shoulder. His other hand lands on the back of my neck. The three of us stand in a concrete tunnel under a championship arena.
“For the record,” Cole says, “the empty-net pass was a hockey decision. Best angle. Better percentage.”
“It was a hockey decision,” I say.
“Pure strategy,” Cole says.
