(...the One Where Hudson Becomes a Human Piñata on the Kings' Jumbotron)
Los Angeles greeted them with 94-degree heat, a paparazzi swarm outside LAX, and a life-size cardboard cutout of them making out in the penalty box that someone had already put in the team store at Crypto.com Arena.
Hudson saw it first. Stopped dead in baggage claim. Pointed.
Connor followed his finger. "Is that… us?"
The cutout was labeled "Storrie-Williams Kiss-Cam 2.0 – $49.99 – Limited Edition."
Hudson wheezed so hard his suitcase fell over. Their handler for the day, a perky Kings social-media girl named Kaylee who clearly lived on three Red Bulls and chaos, greeted them with iced coffees and a manic grin.
"Morning, husbands! Today's schedule:
- Morning radio with Valentine in the Morning on 104.3 MYfm
- Lunchtime fan meet-and-greet on the plaza
- Tonight: guest commentators for Kings vs. Sharks on Bally Sports
- After that: surprise red-carpet charity thing I'm not allowed to tell you about yet."
Connor took one sip of his iced coffee and muttered, "I hate surprises."
Hudson muttered back, "You hated surprises until I surprised you with my tongue in Chicago."
Kaylee pretended not to hear that. She was getting good at it.
—Radio with Valentine—
The studio booth was the size of a closet. Two chairs. One shared mic arm. They could barely fit.
Valentine, a man whose voice could melt butter, leaned in: "So the internet wants to know… who tops?"
Hudson spat iced coffee across the sound board. Connor, without missing a beat: "I do. But Hudson's very persuasive when he begs."
The sound engineer dropped an entire mixing console. Valentine laughed so hard tears were dropping off his eyes.
"We're keeping that. Hi, moms in the carpool line!"
Hudson buried his face in Connor's shoulder and died.
—Fan Meet-and-Greet—
They set up a table outside the arena under a giant banner that read: MEET THE NHL'S FAVORITE POWER COUPLE!
Line wrapped around the building twice.
First fan: a teenage girl with glitter signs that said CONNOR CALL ME DADDY and HUDSON WRECK ME.
She handed Hudson a jersey to sign. He flipped it over. The nameplate said STORRIE-WILLIAMS #69.
Hudson signed it with shaking hands.
Next fan: a dad in a retro Gretzky jersey holding his five-year-old son on his shoulders.
The kid looked Connor dead in the eye and asked, "Are you boyfriends now or do you still hate each other?"
Connor crouched so they were eye-level. "Both. That's the fun part."
The dad went bright red. The kid nodded solemnly like that made perfect sense. Then came the chaos.
Someone started a chant: "KISS! KISS! KISS!"
The entire plaza joined in.
Hudson looked at Connor. Connor shrugged like 'what are you gonna do?'
So they kissed.
Not a peck. A full, R-rated, dip-and-spin kiss with tongue and everything.
The crowd lost their minds. Phones up. Someone set off an air-raid siren app. Security tried to move them along but failed.
A mariachi band that had been hired for some reason started playing "Careless Whisper."
Hudson came up for air laughing so hard he had to lean on Connor or fall over.
—Game-night commentary—
Top of the broadcast booth, third period, Kings up 4-2. The Sharks pull their goalie. The arena DJ, clearly possessed, puts them on the kiss-cam.
The Jumbotron the size of a small moon shows Hudson and Connor in the booth.
40,000 people start screaming.
Hudson freezes. Connor grabs the headset from the color guy, leans into the live mic, and says, calm as you please:
"Relax, San Jose, we're not pulling our goalie tonight."
Then he grabs Hudson by the jersey, drags him half across the desk, and kisses him on broadcast television while the entire arena detonates.
The puck drops. Nobody sees it because everyone is watching them.
Analyst voiceover, stunned: "Uh… that's… a make-out session in the booth, folks."
Kings score an empty-netter during the kiss. The goal doesn't even register for ten full seconds because the building is too busy screaming.
—The "surprise" red-carpet charity thing—
Turns out it's the NHL's annual "Hockey Fights Cancer" gala.
Black tie. Silent auction. Emotional speeches. They walk the carpet together in matching black tuxes that cost more than a used Honda Civic.
Photographers scream. "Connor, Hudson, this way! Kiss again!"
Hudson mutters, "We're gonna get arthritis of the mouth at this rate."
Connor mutters back, "I'll kiss you 'til my lips fall off, shut up."
Inside, the league commissioner corners them with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Boys. Wonderful publicity. Truly. Groundbreaking. Just… maybe dial it back 2 % before we have to make a rule about on-air intercourse."
Hudson salutes with his champagne. "Yes, sir. Only 98 % intercourse from now on."
Connor chokes on an oyster.
—The silent auction—
One of the items: "Dinner with Hudson Williams & Connor Storrie – one night, your city, you pick the restaurant."
Current bid: $87,000.
Another item: the actual penalty-box bench from Chicago.
Current bid: $124,000.
Hudson stares. "People are unhinged."
Connor smirks. "Wait till they find out what else we did on that bench."
—The after-party suite—
The second the door closes, Connor has Hudson pinned to it, bow tie already on the floor.
"Twelve hours of foreplay," Connor growls against his throat. "I'm collecting interest."
Hudson's laugh turns into a moan when Connor drops to his knees right there in the foyer of the penthouse suite. Tuxedo pants around his ankles, Connor's mouth hot and perfect, Hudson lasts approximately forty-five seconds before he's coming with his fingers tangled in Connor's hair and the L.A. skyline glittering behind them like it's personally cheering them on.
After, Connor stands, licks his lips, and says conversationally, "We still have to fly to Vegas tomorrow for that joint Twitch stream with xQc."
Hudson, still leaning against the door like his skeleton left the chat, wheezes, "I can't feel my legs."
Connor scoops him up bridal-style. "That means I did it right."
They never make it to the bed. They do, however, break the floor-to-ceiling window's privacy mode when Hudson rides Connor on the couch facing the city and forgets the glass is one-way only from the outside.
Half of downtown L.A. gets a free show. Twitter the next morning is just aerial photos from drones with the caption: "Live look at the NHL's new marketing strategy."
Vegas is tomorrow. They're scheduled to do a live couple's gaming stream for eight hours. They're already planning how to break the internet again.
They're getting really, really good at this.
(To be continued… obviously.)