Let me set the scene.

It’s the second intermission, we’re down by one, my stick’s cracked, and my jaw still stings from catching that puck with my face instead of my helmet (don’t ask, I panicked). I’m standing in the tunnel chugging blue Gatorade like it’ll fix my entire life, when I glance at the jumbotron and—

No. Nope. No.

Is that… is that her on the Kiss Cam?

Oh yeah. That’s her. Front row. Laughing. Blinking up at the screen in that confused, adorable “what the hell is happening” way she does when she walks into a room and forgets why she’s there. And next to her?

Chad.

Okay, his name’s probably not Chad. It’s more like Brad or Kyle or—who cares. He’s got finance hair, a jaw that looks like it’s never seen a fight, and the absolute audacity to smile and lean in like he deserves to be on that jumbotron with her.

I black out.

Next thing I know, I’m skating—full gear, mid-game sweat, helmet tucked under my arm like some medieval knight on a mission—barreling down the player tunnel like it’s sudden death overtime and her mouth is the puck.

I vault over the railing. (Okay, “vault” is generous. I trip slightly, land with a thud, and the usher looks like she’s about to call security until she recognizes me.)

“Excuse me,” I mutter to Not-Chad, stepping directly between them. “This seat’s taken.”

He blinks. “You’re on the ice.”

“Yup,” I say, turning to her.

Her eyes go wide. “Cole, what are you—”

I kiss her.

Right there. Right on the Kiss Cam. In front of twenty thousand fans and probably my grandma watching at home with her knitting and her disapproval.

And yeah, maybe I taste like Gatorade and regret. Maybe my lip is bleeding slightly. Maybe I’m about to get screamed at by our coach and fined by the league.

But her hand fists in the front of my jersey, her shocked little gasp melting into a kiss that makes the whole arena lose its damn mind.

We break apart.

She stares at me. “That was—”

“Long overdue,” I say, panting like I just scored a hat trick and proposed at center ice.

Behind us, Chad—Brad—Whatever stares like he just watched someone steal his Uber.

“Intermission’s almost over,” I add. “I gotta go hit someone.”

She laughs—really laughs, head tilted back, eyes shining.

I grin like an idiot.

And as I turn to jog back to the ice, tripping slightly over someone’s popcorn, I swear I hear the announcer say, “Well, folks, looks like the Kiss Cam’s got a new record for most dramatic interruption.”

Damn right it does.