The photo hit the internet at 3:17 a.m. EST. A perfect time to cause chaos.
Hudson Williams was already awake, scrolling TikTok in the dark of his Vancouver penthouse, when the first notification detonated.
@HockeyThirstTraps:
"HELLO??? HUDSON WILLIAMS AND CONNOR STORRIE JUST HARD-LAUNCHED THE SLASH SHIP???
Attached: the photo. The one taken in the Toronto equipment room last March. Hudson's curls damp with sweat, Connor's hand possessively curled around the back of his neck, both of them in compression shirts so tight they might as well have been naked. Connor's mouth was half-open like he'd been mid-sentence (or mid-something else). Hudson's eyes were half-lidded, lips swollen. The black-and-white crowd collage behind them made it look like a thousand ghost fans were watching them make out.
Hudson's stomach dropped straight through the floor.
How did this—fuck! Fuck!!!
His phone started vibrating so hard it walked itself off the nightstand. This was a very bad time to receive a phone call, except it was of course....
Connor Storrie
calling…
calling…
calling…
He answered on the fourth attempt, voice still rough from sleep and panic. "Connor, Tell me you're seeing this."
Connor's voice came through low, lethal, and way too calm. "I'm seeing it, relax Hudd. I'm also seeing that my mother just texted me a peach emoji and three water droplets. Explain."
"I didn't post it."
"Obviously. You can barely work the camera on your phone, Williams."
"Fuck you."
"Been there, done that, apparently the entire internet now has the receipt."
Hudson pinched the bridge of his nose. "Management's gonna—"
"Already did. Joint call in forty-five minutes. They're calling it 'damage control.' I'm calling it the worst morning of my life and it's not even 4 a.m. I'm so pissed right now."
There was a beat of silence that felt like the moment before a fight breaks out on the ice: heavy, electric and inevitable.
Connor broke it first. "You still keep that spare key under the fake rock that looks like a turd?"
Hudson's heart punched his ribs. "Yeah...why?"
"Good. I'm in Vancouver in six hours. Don't answer the door for anyone else."
The line went dead.
Hudson stared at the ceiling for a long time. His lock screen was still the photo. Someone had already edited it with devil horns on Connor and a halo on Hudson. The caption read: enemies to soulmates speedrun any%.
He groaned, loud enough that his dog lifted its head from the foot of the bed like 'you humans are so dramatic'.
Six hours later, Connor Storrie was in his apartment, still wearing the same black hoodie he'd been photographed in at Pearson Airport. Hood up, sunglasses on like that was going to fool anyone after this morning.
He slammed the door, threw the deadbolt, and leaned back against it.
"Hi," Hudson said weakly from the kitchen island, clutching a coffee he hadn't drank.
Connor could tell Hudson had been worried sick. His cheerful playful voice sounded weak. Too weak in fact.
"Poor Hudson, he feels like the world would end any minute now. I have to do something." he thought.
Connor pulled the sunglasses off. His eyes were bloodshot. "Hi? That's what you're going with? Hi?"
"I panicked."
"You panicked?" Connor repeated it flat. Then he crossed the room in four strides, grabbed Hudson by the shirt, and kissed him so hard their teeth clicked.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was ten months of hotel rooms and locked equipment closets and "this never happened" and "one last time" and every single time they lied to themselves.
Hudson made a broken sound into Connor's mouth and kissed back like he was drowning.
When they broke apart, Connor's voice was raw. "We are so fucked."
"Yeah," Hudson panted against his lips. "But we're fucked together now."
Connor laughed: short, sharp, a little hysterical.
"My buddy is back." he thought.
"That's not better."
"It's a little better."
Connor's hands were still fisted in Hudson's hoodie. "They're making us do a press tour. Joint interviews probably and photo ops. 'Best friends in the league' bullshit. Management said it's for two weeks. Starting tomorrow."
Hudson blinked. "You're kidding."
"I wish I was." Connor's thumb brushed Hudson's lower lip, rough. "We have to pretend we're not—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
Hudson finished it for him, quieter. "In love with each other?"
Connor's inhale was shaky. "Yeah. That."
Another silence. The kind that could cut glass.
Then Hudson said, voice steady for the first time all morning, "Or we don't pretend."
Connor stared at him.
Hudson shrugged, a reckless glint in his eye. "We did it once. Unfortunately it got leaked but whatever. Let's just… own it maybe. Fuck the script, fuck management. Fuck the press tour."
Connor's mouth curved: slow, dangerous, gorgeous. "You're insane."
"You like it."
"I do." Connor kissed him again, slower this time, filthy. "God help me, I really fucking do."
Hudson's phone buzzed on the counter. Their managers. Probably the first of a thousand times today.
Connor reached over, silenced it without looking, and crowded Hudson back against the fridge.
"Six hours before we have to put clothes on and lie to the world," he murmured against Hudson's neck. "Let's not waste it."
Hudson's laugh was breathless. "You're wearing too many clothes for that."
"Then fix it."
So Hudson did. They didn't make it to the bedroom. They didn't even make it off the kitchen floor.
And somewhere in the middle of it: teeth on collarbones, fingers bruising hips, Connor growling "mine" like a prayer and Hudson answering "always" like a vow, the world outside stopped existing.
Let the press tour come.
They'd be ready.
(They really, really weren't.)