AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It’s no excuse for what happens next. I should have shaken off my Quinn-induced stupor and noticed. It may have been years since my last NHL game, but I still know what it means when Cher pumps through the loudspeakers. I know the “Shoop-Shoop-Shoop” and what comes next. And yet it isn’t until I glance at the bench and met my brother’s eyes, until Vic points up to the big boxy Jumbotron, that I realize that not only has The Stand brought out their Kiss Cam, but that someone with a sick sense of humor has turned in on a couple wearing jerseys from the opposing teams.
Me and Quinn.
At first, I’m not sure what causes Erik to freeze up on me. We’ve been chatting. I’m going for broke with my flirty smile because he’s hot and I deserve to have a bit of fun—especially when he seems interested too—and then he looks out over the ice and his muscles lock down one at a time.
“No pressure.” His lips barely move as he forms the words.
Erik tips his golden head towards the center of the rink, and his pink tongue brushes along the edges of his mouth. I copy him, wetting my lips before I realize what I’m doing, and his eyes drop to follow the movement. And yes, Viking gods like Thor can afford to be picky about who they kiss, and strange girls wearing their dad’s jersey to a hockey game they don’t want to watch rarely fit the bill, but I know that he’s at least thinking about slicking our mouths together. I am too.
“Pressure?” I ask, but instead of an answer, Graham makes an exaggerated gagging sound.
I flinch and spin, hands out to—I don’t know—catch whatever is coming, but Graham points at the Jumbotron and makes the sound again. I can’t even be mad about the scare. I’m just grateful he didn’t lose his cookies all over me. That would cut the flirting and the fun time off at the knees.
“Ew,” he says to me, “You aren’t going to kiss him, are you?”
Ihadbeen thinking about it. I’m pretty sure Erik had been thinking about it too, but I follow Graham’s finger and now I know what had Erik so weird. Centered on the giant screen are me and Erik. We’re surrounded by a big red heart frame and the words KISS, KISS, KISS blink along the top. The camera slides away to another couple, bored waiting on us, and the crowd roars its displeasure at the missed opportunity. An adorable older couple shares a quick peck and then the camera pans back to us. I watch camera-me wave, looking confused and stunned. Next to me, camera-Erik looks pissed.
It’s strange staring at myself and not seeing me stare back.
I don’t know where the camera is and I don’t want to look for it. I’m more interested in looking at the man sitting next to me. He seems smaller on the screen. Or maybe I do. Not as imposing as he is in person, although that glare isn’t something I’ve seen before. This should serve as a friendly reminder that I don’t know Erik as well as it feels like I do. The covert smiles, the heat in my belly, the connection and chemistry are well and good, but they can’t take the place of understanding someone. Knowing them.
On screen-Erik shakes his head in a slow but firm “no” as the Arctic players bang their sticks against the boards. A chant that sounds a lot like “Do it, do it, do it” practically rattles the teeth right out of my head.
“Is it just me, or are people overly invested in whether we kiss each other on camera?” By people, I mean the hockey team. I’d have thought they’d have more important things to worry about. Like the game. The hooting and the catcalls pick up steam.
“We’re cheering for different teams,” Erik says, and I frown. Is that really that exciting?
I must ask out loud because Erik looks a little less murdery as he says, “It’s more fun for the crowd if its two people who aren’t together. Teammates, siblings, anything to get the crowd riled up.”
So perceived enemies would do it.
The kiss cam ends as play resumes and everyone’s attention turns back to the game. I breathe a sigh as Erik and I leave the spotlight. Two players speed down the ice, light blue and red spiraling together as they slam into the boards, battling for dominance. The crowd seems to hold its breath until the Arctic player emerges from the scuffle with the puck. He makes a break for the net and the crowd goes wild. My heart is pounding and my palms are sweaty and watching at home from the couch feels nothing like this. Not that I ever watch.
The Chicago goalie stops the puck and despite the roar of the crowd, the silence between Erik and me feels heavy. I want the smiles, the flirting, the fun back.
“The Kiss Cam is weird anyway,” I say. “Why force strangers to kiss each other? By strangers, I mean people you don’t know, because even if you think they’re a couple, they might not be. And it’s all so hetero-normative. They only show men and women, but what about queer couples or nonbinary fans? Don’t they deserve the chance to participate in the tradition?”
“I thought you said it was weird?” Erik’s mouth twitches and I know he’s holding in a laugh.
“It is, but then everyone should have an equal opportunity at being humiliated.”
“So that’s what it is? Weird and humiliating?” He sits back in his seat, his bicep brushing mine. There is real muscle there. Heat and muscle and I lean away to give myself some space. It practically puts me into Graham’s seat, but the kid is small and doesn’t seem to notice me taking the lion’s share of the armrest.
Erik is looking at me with shadows in his hooded hazel eyes and I can’t figure out what he wants from me. Had he wanted a kiss? Well shit. Kissing him wouldn’t be humiliating, not when he’s fun and funny and he looks like that. But rejection? With an arena of fans watching? Well, if I’m wrong and he doesn’t want a kiss, if he’s weirded out that someone thinks we’d be an appropriate fit, then yes. Humiliating would be the understatement of the century.
“Yes,” I say. “No. Depends on the person I’m supposed to kiss. I guess.”
Erik nods as if my jumble of words makes perfect sense and turns back to watch the game. Two players collide along the rail and a helmet goes flying as the Chicago player slams back into the ice. The crowd’s volume crescendos with approval as the Arctic player takes control of the puck and leaves the man lying there. The Chicago player rolls to his hands and knees, but he doesn’t get up. He stays there, forehead pressed to the rink, rocking back and forth. The other players continue to battle out the game as if someone isn’t injured.
“Oh my god.” I clutch Erik’s arm as more players skate right past the downed man. “He’s hurt.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll take him off and check him before allowing him back out.” Erik covers my grasping fingers with his opposite hand. His thumb rubs over the back of my knuckles.
“Why haven’t they stopped the play? Shouldn’t you care more? That’s your player there.” I can hear my voice getting shrieky, but seeing a grown man fly off his feet and slam on a rink of ice is a lot more gruesome in person than on a television screen. It never occurred to me they wouldn’t blow a whistle and stop the game. Aren’t they going to get him out of here?
“It wasn’t an illegal hit,” Erik says. “The refs can’t stop play until his team has the puck.”
Graham can have his whole armrest at this point. I’m halfway in Erik’s lap, my stomach in my throat, because the Chicago player, number 12, still hasn’t gotten up.
