(or How Hudson Accidentally Invented Foreplay with a Hockey Stick.. :)
The flight to Chicago was supposed to be three hours of napping. It was three hours of Connor "reading" a magazine while his other hand lived under the blanket on Hudson's lap like it paid rent.
Hudson spent the entire descent biting a hoodie string to keep from moaning at 30,000 feet. The flight attendant kept asking if he needed oxygen. He did. Just not the kind Delta provides.
They landed looking like they'd been in a wind tunnel. Or dragged through one. Same difference. The Spittin' Chiclets guys (RA, Whit, Biz, and Grinnell) picked them up in a rented Sprinter that smelled like dip, Red Bull, and poor decisions.
RA took one look at them and screamed, "Holy shit, the photo wasn't Photoshopped!"
Whit, already filming on his phone: "Boys, welcome to the Thunderdome. We're live in five."
Hudson whispered, "I'm still hard from the plane."
Connor whispered back, "Good. Sit on my left so the table hides it."
They walked into the Barstool Chicago studio like rock stars entering a riot. The set was a garage: neon signs, a penalty-box couch, beer fridge, and one (1) comically oversized hockey stick signed by every guest since 2018.
Biz handed them beers before they even sat down. "House rules: no filter, no PR, no pants if you don't want. We're all friends here."
Hudson immediately spilled beer down his shirt.
Connor sighed, grabbed the hem, and peeled the wet fabric off Hudson in one smooth motion like he'd practiced it in a mirror.
The room went feral.
RA: "That's the energy we're looking for!"
They sat. Connor on Hudson's left. Thigh to thigh. Knee to knee. Pinky fingers already intertwined under the table like teenagers.
The interview started tame.
Whit: "So the photo. Real or AI?"
Connor, deadpan: "I don't know how to use AI. I still think TikTok is a clock app."
Hudson snorted beer out his nose.
RA: "Scale of one to ten, how much do you actually want to kill each other?"
Hudson opened his mouth.
Connor beat him to it again: "On ice? Daily. Off ice?" He turned, looked Hudson dead in the eye, and said, "I want to put him in my mouth until he forgets his own name."
The studio went pin-drop silent for half a second. Then Biz stood up and slow-clapped. "We have a winner. Everyone else go home."
Hudson's soul exited stage left.
Then they played games.
First game: "Stick Ride."
Rules: one guy sits on the bench, the other balances the giant signed stick across their thighs like a seesaw, guest sits on the end. If you drop the stick, you drink.
Connor sat on the bench first. Hudson climbed on the end of the stick, facing him.
The stick was between Connor's thighs. Hudson's legs were spread over it like he was riding a (very phallic) broom.
RA, wheezing: "This is the most loaded imagery we've ever had on the pod."
They made it four seconds before Hudson wobbled. Connor instinctively tightened his thighs to steady the stick.
Hudson's brain short-circuited. He fell forward straight into Connor's lap, face-planting directly into his crotch.
The stick clattered to the floor.
Biz: "That's a drink… and probably a marriage proposal."
Hudson came up redder than a goal light, hair sticking up like a dandelion. "Slippery wood!"
Connor, voice rough: "You have no idea."
Second game: "Slapshot Hot Ones."
Wings coated in increasingly evil hot sauce. Answer a question wrong, eat a wing.
First question for Hudson: "Who has the better ass in the league?"
Hudson, mouth full of mild sauce: "Connor. Hands down. I mean—objectively! From a glute science standpoint!"
Connor smirked, took his wing like a champ, then leaned over and licked a drip of sauce off Hudson's bottom lip.
The chat (yes, it was live-streamed) just became a string of keyboard smashes and skull emojis.
Fifth wing: "Last Lie You Told Your Mom."
Connor, eyes watering from spice: "That Hudson and I are just friends."
Hudson inhaled a wing bone.
RA had to Heimlich him while Connor rubbed his back whispering filth in his ear that definitely made the situation worse.
Then came the penalty-box couch. They shoved Hudson and Connor in the tiny two-person box together.
RA: "Five minutes for being too hot. Discuss."
Door slammed.
They were alone. Sort of. With four cameras and 1.2 million live viewers.
Hudson immediately panicked. "There's no room."
Connor pulled him onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. "There's room if you sit here."
Hudson sat. Straddled him. Felt exactly how affected Connor was.
Hudson whispered, "We're live."
Connor's hands settled on Hudson's hips, thumbs stroking the strip of skin where his shirt rode up. "Then be quiet."
He wasn't quiet.
Connor kissed him.
Not a peck. A full, filthy, open-mouthed kiss, tongue and all, while Biz narrated like a nature documentary outside the glass.
"Observe the North American Homoeroticus in its natural habitat—"
The chat hit two million viewers.
Someone in the control room started playing "Careless Whisper."
Hudson broke the kiss gasping, forehead against Connor's. "We're gonna get fired."
Connor nipped his jaw. "Worth it."
After the pod, they stumbled out of the studio into the Chicago night, high on adrenaline and Da Bomb sauce.
RA yelled after them: "You two are the best thing to happen to hockey since the glowing puck!"
In the Uber back to the hotel, Hudson was vibrating. Connor had his hand up the back of Hudson's shirt, tracing his spine like he was reading braille.
Hudson whispered, "I can't go upstairs yet. I'll combust."
Connor told the driver, "Change of plans. United Center."
Ten minutes later they were in the empty arena, lights off except the ice glow.
Connor dragged Hudson down the tunnel, through the bench, onto the visitors' penalty box.
He locked the door.
Hudson laughed, breathless. "You're insane."
Connor dropped to his knees on the dirty floor, looked up with dark eyes. "Two-minute minor for hooking. I'm serving it."
Hudson's brain melted out his ears.
Connor's mouth was on him before he could form words.
The only sounds: Hudson's broken moans echoing in the empty bowl, the distant hum of the Zamboni somewhere, and Connor's filthy praise between swallows.
"Good boy."
"That's it."
"Let me hear you, baby."
Hudson came so hard he saw the Northern Lights.
After, Connor stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned like the devil who'd won the bet.
Hudson, wrecked, laughed hysterically against Connor's neck. "We just hooked up in the sin bin."
Connor kissed his temple. "Poetically, Full circle."
They didn't notice the security camera.
They didn't notice it had night vision.
They did notice the next morning when the clip (tastefully blurred but not tastefully enough) hit every hockey group chat with the caption:
"Visitor's penalty box now officially christened. You're welcome, Chicago."
The NHL scheduled an emergency Zoom.
They ignored it. They were too busy ordering room-service pancakes and planning how to top the penalty-box incident in L.A. tomorrow.
They had ideas.
Terrible, perfect, career-ending ideas.
God bless the press tour.