(aka The Day Hudson Discovered He Has a Praise Kink in 4K).....
The NHL's crisis PR team booked them into the Fairmont Pacific Rim under the fake names "Tyler Seguin" and "Jamie Benn" because apparently originality is dead.
They arrived separately. Connor first, hoodie up, AirPods in, doing his best Unbothered King walk through the lobby. Hudson ten minutes later wearing a baseball hat pulled so low he walked into a potted plant.
Sadly, the plant lost. Hudson did not.
Security escorted them to the conference suite like they were heads of state instead of two idiots who got caught with their tongues down each other's throats.
Inside: two publicists, one crisis comms guy named Kevin who kept stress-eating Fun Dip, and a media trainer named Sandra who introduced herself by saying, "Congratulations, you're the league's first official queer scandal. Let's not make it the last."
Connor raised an eyebrow. "We prefer 'romantic leads,' but sure."
Sandra ignored him. "Rule one: no touching below the waist in public. Rule two: if you must eye-fuck, do it subtly. Rule three: Hudson, stop giggling every time Connor says literally anything, it reads guilty."
Hudson opened his mouth. Closed it. Turned red.
"Was it that obvious." he thought.
Connor smirked so hard his dimple threatened lives. Literally.
Then came the wardrobe fitting. They shoved Hudson into a charcoal Henley that clung to every ridiculous gym-bro muscle he'd earned hating Connor's face across the ice for five seasons. Connor got a black button-down, sleeves rolled, because the stylist said "forearms are having a moment."
Connor flexed but Hudson forgot how breathing worked.
Kevin the Fun Dip guy whimpered. They practiced sitting next to each other on a fake talk-show couch.
First attempt: Hudson sat normally. Connor sat normally. Three seconds in, Connor's pinky "accidentally" brushed Hudson's thigh. Hudson jolted so hard he kneed the coffee table and sent a fake plant (again with the plants Hudson!) flying into Sandra's lap.
Second attempt: they left a full cushion of space between them. Looked like two dudes waiting for a prostate exam.
Third attempt: Connor draped his arm along the back of the couch, casual, not touching Hudson. Hudson immediately scooted closer until he was half in Connor's lap like a golden retriever who'd been told "no couch" but decided rules are suggestions.
Sandra pinched the bridge of her nose. "We're going to need a wider couch."
Then came the mock interview.
Interviewer (a producer named Mike holding a hairbrush as a mic): "So, boys, that photo. Best friends pulling a prank, or…?"
Connor, smooth as sin: "We've always had a very intense rivalry. Sometimes it gets… physical."
Hudson, brain fully offline, blurted: "He means the sex; I mean the fights; I mean—"
Dead silence.
Hudson!!!
He wanted to just disappear.
Kevin stress-ate an entire packet of Fun Dip in one go. Turned his tongue blue.
Sandra whispered, "I'm begging you to never speak unscripted again."
Hudson tried to salvage it. "What I meant was Connor's really good at, uh. Body checks. He checks my body. Frequently. And thoroughly."
Connor made a choked noise that was definitely not a laugh. His hand, hidden behind the couch cushion, pinched Hudson's ass so hard Hudson squeaked.
Mike the producer lowered the hairbrush. "We're keeping that energy, right? That's the energy we want?"
Sandra: "No. That's the energy that'll get us sued."
They broke for lunch. Hudson tried to eat a wrap as Connor watched him like a hawk.
Possessive boyfriend huh?
Hudson took a bite. Lettuce fell out the back onto his lap.
Connor leaned over, voice low: "You're a mess."
Hudson whispered back, "You're literally hard right now because I have ranch on my chin, shut up."
Connor licked his thumb and swiped the ranch off Hudson's chin, then; without breaking eye contact; sucked his thumb clean.
Hudson's soul left his body.
Kevin dropped an entire bottle of water in his lap trying to film it "for reference."
Sandra screamed into a pillow. The actual first press junket started at 3 p.m.
Forty journalists in one tiny room. Two chairs placed exactly 1.5 feet apart because apparently that was the safe zone.
Minutes later, they walked in together.
Flashbulbs exploded. Someone shouted, "Are you two dating?"
Connor smiled, slow and lethal. "We're… figuring things out."
Hudson, panicking, added: "Like adults! Consenting adults! Who consent! A lot!"
Connor's eye twitched.
A reporter from TSN asked, "On a scale of one to ten, how much do you actually hate each other?"
Hudson opened his mouth.
Connor beat him to it. "On the ice? Eleven. Off the ice…" He let his gaze drag down Hudson's body like he was pricing livestock. "Let's just say the penalty box sees a lot of action."
The room 'lost its fucking mind'.
Hudson turned the color of a stop sign. Later, in the hallway, Sandra cornered them.
"You have one more interview. It's for Sports Illustrated. They want a joint photo shoot. Shirts are—well—optional."
Hudson wheezed. Connor's grin could have powered the city. "Optional, huh?"
Sandra pointed at Hudson. "You. Hydrate. You look like you're about to faint."
Hudson whispered, "I 'am' about to faint. He's looking at me like he's gonna bend me over the Stanley Cup."
Connor, without missing a beat: "Only if we win it first, baby."
Sandra walked directly into a wall. "I just...I can't with you two"
—
The photo-shoot room had a seamless white backdrop and one (1) prop: a hockey stick.
The photographer, a chill guy named Diego, said, "Okay, let's start tame. Just lean against each other, maybe one of you holding the stick."
They tried as instructed.
Hudson held the stick. Connor crowded up behind him, chest to Hudson's back, chin hooked over his shoulder.
Diego: "Perfect, now Connor, slide your hand—"
Connor already had it halfway up Hudson's abs under the Henley.
Hudson made a noise like a dying seal.
Diego: "…I was gonna say slide it to his waist, but sure, abs work."
Click. Click. Click.
Then Diego got brave. "Okay, shirts off. Let's do some shirtless ones. Rivalry vibes."
Shirts came off. The room temperature went up twenty degrees.
Connor had a new bruise on his collarbone shaped exactly like Hudson's mouth from six hours ago.
Hudson had fingerprint bruises on his hips.
Diego saw them and grinned, hard. "We love authenticity."
Connor stepped in close, voice barely audible over the shutter. "You're shaking."
Hudson's laugh was ragged. "You're literally dripping sweat on me and it's not from the lights."
Connor's hand settled on Hudson's bare waist, thumb stroking the skin just above his waistband. "Two more hours of this and then I'm fucking you in the equipment room downstairs. This is a fair warning."
Hudson's knees buckled. Connor caught him by the belt loops.
Diego yelled, "YES! That! Whatever that was, do it again!"
The final shot of the day: Connor sitting on a bench, Hudson straddling his lap facing him, hands in Connor's hair, foreheads pressed together, both of them breathing like they'd just played triple overtime.
Diego whispered, "Jesus Christ, I need a cigarette."
Hudson whispered against Connor's mouth, "If you kiss me right now I'm coming in my pants on camera."
Connor whispered back, "Hold that thought for the equipment room."
The photo went viral before they even got their shirts back on.
Twitter's top trend: #NHLBoyfriendsLoading
Second trend: #SaveDiegoHeSawGodToday
Back in the hotel hallway, finally alone for twelve seconds, Connor shoved Hudson against the wall and kissed him so dirty the security camera probably needed therapy.
Hudson moaned into it, fingers yanking Connor's hair.
Connor broke away just long enough to growl, "Two weeks of this tour."
Hudson bit Connor's bottom lip hard. "We're not surviving two days."
Connor grinned, wicked. "Good. Let's ruin each other then."
They never made it to their separate rooms that night.
(They did, however, break the bench in the equipment room. Twice.)
Tomorrow: Good Morning America live at 7 a.m.
They had four hours of sleep, matching hickeys, and zero regrets.
God help America.