The wake-up call came at 5:03 a.m. in the form of Connor's tongue tracing the shell of Hudson's ear and a hand already shoved down the front of his boxer briefs.
Hudson made a noise somewhere between a squeal and a prayer.
"Rise and shine, superstar," Connor murmured, teeth scraping his neck. "You've got a country to lie to in two hours."
Hudson tried to roll away. Connor pinned him with a thigh between his legs, his crotch sliding agaist Hudson's ass and a grip that said 'try me if you dare'.
"Connor, we have to shower. Separately. We smell like sex."
Connor inhaled deeply against Hudson's collarbone. "I like it. Eau de 'I wrecked you."
Hudson shoved at his chest. "They're doing close-ups. In 4K. I have a hickey the size of Alberta on my throat."
Connor grinned, proud. "Wear it like a medal, Hudd."
They did, in fact, shower. Together. Which meant they were twenty minutes late to hair and makeup and Hudson walked into the dressing room with wet curls, swollen lips, and a limp he tried to play off as "old knee injury."
The makeup artist, a tiny woman named Tia who clearly feared nothing, took one look at Hudson's neck and said, "Concealer or turtleneck, pick one."
Hudson squeaked, "Turtleneck in June?"
"Then sit your ass down and let me work miracles."
She painted his neck like she was restoring the Sistine Chapel. Connor watched from the doorway drinking coffee, smirking so hard the barista probably felt it in Toronto.
GMA's producer, a perky blonde named Lauren, clapped her hands. "Okay, loves! We're doing the couch, the cooking segment, then the puppy playpen. Very wholesome, very 'just bros being bros' typa thing."
Connor raised an eyebrow. "Puppies?"
"Yes! Rescue pups! America loves when hot athletes get climbed by golden retrievers."
Hudson whispered, "I'm allergic."
Connor whispered back, "You weren't allergic when I made you call me 'good boy' last night."
Hudson choked on air.
Segment 1: The Couch of Lies
They sat. Shoulders touching. Thighs pressed the entire length because apparently personal space was canceled. Robin Roberts leaned forward, warm smile, lethal eyes. "So. That photo."
Connor, smooth: " It's an old photo. Locker-room prank. We get… intense."
Hudson, brain buffering: "Yeah! Like, he tackles me a lot! In a sport way! With padding!"
Robin's eyebrow went up. "You tackle each other without padding in that picture."
Connor's hand, hidden between their thighs, squeezed Hudson's knee so hard it was definitely revenge.
Hudson's voice cracked. "Not that. A different kind of padding!"
The control room lost it. Someone's laugh came through the IFB.
Segment 2: Cooking with Hudson & Connor (Sponsored by Hellmann's Mayonnaise)
They were supposed to make breakfast sandwiches but they lasted forty-two seconds before chaos.
Connor cracked an egg one-handed, flexing for the camera like a sociopath.
Hudson tried to flip a pancake and launched it directly onto the overhead light. It sizzled. The smoke alarm chirped.
Connor, without looking, reached over and pinched Hudson's ass.
Hudson yelped, dropped an entire stick of butter, and slipped in it like a cartoon villain.
He went down hard: legs in the air, shirt riding up, abs on full display for the entire Eastern Seaboard.
Connor crouched over him, fake-concerned, real-devil. "You okay, buddy?"
Hudson, flat on his back, whispered through his teeth, "You're hard. On live television."
Connor glanced down at his apron. The apron that said KISS THE COOK in massive letters. The apron that was currently tenting like it was housing circus equipment. He looked back at the camera, smiled, and said, "He brings out the competitor in me."
Twitter exploded. #KissTheCook became the number one trend worldwide in six minutes.
Segment 3: The Puppy Gauntlet.
Eight golden retriever puppies. One rug. Hudson sneezed immediately. Then again. Then a third time so violently he fell sideways into Connor.
Connor caught him, arms around his waist, and one of the puppies took the opportunity to hump Hudson's leg like it had a vendetta.
Hudson froze. Connor lost his entire shit laughing, face buried in Hudson's neck to muffle it.
The puppy kept going.
Hudson, redder than a power-play light: "This is… a very enthusiastic dog."
Connor, gasping: "He's living the dream, man."
A second puppy latched onto Connor's shoelace and tried to drag him across the set.
Connor went down. Hudson followed, trying to save him, and they ended up in a pile: limbs tangled, puppies climbing them like they were Mount Everest, Hudson's face in Connor's crotch by pure demonic physics.
The camera zoomed in 'as it should' and America saw everything.
Robin Roberts off-camera: "We're going to commercial. Possibly forever."
The Aftermath.
Back in the green room, door barely closed, Connor had Hudson against the wall before the lock clicked.
"You slipped in butter," Connor growled, mouth hot on Hudson's jaw. "On national television."
"You got a boner from an apron," Hudson shot back, already yanking Connor's shirt out of his pants. "We're even."
Connor bit his earlobe. "I'm adding that to the list."
"What list?"
"The one titled 'Reasons I'm going to edge you until you cry in every city on this tour.'"
Hudson moaned so loudly someone knocked on the door asking if they needed medical.
"No we're good thanks" Hudson responded.
They did not need medical. They needed a priest.
Their phones were graveyards. Top text from Hudson's mom:
Hudson James Williams. Call me. Right now. And bring butter.
Top text from Connor's agent:
You owe me a new liver. Also Nike wants to talk "apron campaign, possible?"
Top text from the NHL PR group chat:
'Please stop trending for the love of Gary Bettman.'
They had a flight to Chicago in three hours for the next stop: a joint podcast with Spittin' Chiclets.
Connor zipped Hudson's hoodie up to his nose like that could hide the hickeys. "We're never surviving this tour."
Hudson grinned, manic and in love. "Good. Die historic on the press tour, baby."
Connor kissed him until the makeup Tia had so carefully applied was completely ruined.
Chicago was going to be worse.
They couldn't wait.