Chapter 72: Give The People Want They Want
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His smile appeared instantly, the kind that came before he could decide whether to suppress it. It was genuine and quick. "About what, specifically?"
"About—" I waved my hand over everything. The seats, the ice, the whole night. "This...I’m having fun."
"I’m always glad to hear that."
"Don’t push it."
He relaxed back, watching me with that easy attention I’d stopped pretending I didn’t notice. I rubbed the back of my neck, looked at the ice, and after some beats, I lowered my voice.
"Thank you, for bringing me here." A beat. "It’s been a long while since I’ve done anything like this."
I kept my gaze on the ice, not because what I said had dramatic weight, but because looking at him while saying it felt too exposing.
The silence felt different now.
Then, in a single smooth motion, he brushed a strand of hair back from my face, just soft and unhurried, his fingers grazing my temple, like he’d thought about it and then decided to just go for it without making a fuss.
It lasted barely a second. But my body reacted like it had lasted a lot longer.
"Stop that," I said, refusing to move my eyes from the ice.
"No."
He stayed quiet after that and continued playing with my hair like he owned it, like he owned me. But I could sense the smile in that silence, which felt worse than if he just acknowledged it.
"We can do this again, you know," he said eventually.
I looked over before I could hold back. "What?"
"Another game." His eyes met mine, steady and unhurried, saying something that the words couldn’t fully convey. "Or somewhere else. Where ever you want, I’ll take you there."
My heart took a leap without my permission. I turned away to hide the redness of my cheeks, "W...whatever you say, man."
During the second period, I made the rookie mistake of checking my phone.
Melanie had sent three messages hours ago, one asking how I was, another with a photo of her in the library, captioned this is your fault I’m studying on a Monday night, and another one with seven laughing emojis in a row, no context given. I smiled at the last one and began typing.
Then, my phone vanished from my palm...huh? Not dropped, just gone. One second in my hand, the next, completely missing.
I slowly looked up, carefully gauging the situation.
Damien was sliding my phone into his coat pocket with the practiced ease of someone who had made a decision and didn’t see any reason to explain.
"What—" I started, "are you doing? That’s my phone."
"I know."
"Give it back."
"No."
"Damien."
"You’re at a hockey game."
"I know where the fuck I am—"
"You were texting when there are four minutes left in the period and we’re down by one." He stated it as if it were the most obvious thing. "Priorities."
I stared at him, and he met my gaze with this infuriating calm. "I can’t believe you. Give me my phone."
"After the game." he said, his eyes boring into mine. "We are supposed to be hanging out right? You should pay attention to the game...and to me. You can text her later."
I stared at him like he immediately started levitating like a wizard, then I lunged for his pocket. He caught my wrist, light grip, not holding me back, just there, his long fingers wrapping around with a confidence that told me he was comfortable with this.
That connection lasted seconds.
Even a few seconds was more than enough.
Heat rushed through me, starting from where his fingers held my wrist and spreading everywhere before I could process it.
I glanced from his hand back up to his face. He was closer than I had realized, our seats were already close together, but as the night wore on, we’d stopped worrying about keeping space...and now I could see the subtle details that being close allowed: the pale blue of his eyes catching the arena lights, the tension in his jaw that suggested he was focused on something, that shift in his expression from playful to something more serious, without the usual teasing.
Something passed between us that we didn’t name.
Then the arena erupted.
We both turned to the ice. A goal, our team, with thirty seconds left in the period and the crowd shot up in unison, a wave of excitement crashing over us, and the moment we’d shared vanished into the uproar and brightness.
I found myself standing up without thinking. "YES—"
Next to me, Damien was also on his feet, beaming, actually beaming, that real grin breaking through his usual calm. I almost missed the goal replay on the screen because I was too busy watching him.
I quickly looked away, mostly before he caught on.
Then the Kiss Cam began.
I spotted it on the big screen during the intermission before the third period, the familiar routine, the camera bouncing around the arena, capturing couples while the crowd cheered.
I had always loved this segment as a kid. My dad would commentate on the couples like a sports broadcaster when he wasn’t closing my eyes. I smiled at the memory and settled back, watching the screen, enjoying the show from a distance.
The camera found an elderly couple three sections over, and the crowd roared with delight. Then it caught a pair of friends who leaned away from each other in exaggerated horror, and the laughter came rolling in. Then two people in rival team jerseys who kissed anyway, earning the biggest cheer of the night.
I was still grinning when the camera moved again.
And landed on us.
By us I mean Damien and I...
My soul did a backflip.
There we were on the enormous screen, extremely large, bright, and visible to everyone in the arena...snuggled together close enough for the camera to have decided something about us, projected for thousands to see in an unarguable, totally incriminating shot.
I stared, my brain racing to process the image. It registered, in a shock-induced clarity, that we looked just like two people on a date.
Wait a second...that was me, and the other guy was Damien...
"Oh no," I murmured.
"KISS! KISS! KISS!"
The chant erupted from the lower bowl, spreading quickly, like something the crowd had been waiting for an excuse to unleash, rolling through the sections until it was everywhere, thousands of voices, united and relentless.
Jesus Christ!
First that cursed party, now a hockey game?!
What did the eight billion people in this world come together, had a meeting and generally decided that Oliver Jonathan Reyes was going to be gay whether he wanted it or not?!
Did the universe decide this as well?!
Holy hell!
"We’re not dating!" I shouted at the nearest section, which made them chant even louder. "WE’RE JUST FRIENDS!!!"
Damien was no help. He sat there, composed as if watching a thoroughly entertaining spectacle unfold, which was the most unhelpful thing ever.
"Fucking do something!" I said to him.
"I am."
"Just sitting there isn’t doing anything."
"Mhmm."
"Wave them off, make a face. Anything—"
"Don’t you think," he said, in that calm tone of someone who’s reached their conclusion, "we should give the people what they want?"
I shot him a horrified look. There was no fucking way.
He was gazing back at me the way he sometimes did, intently, like he was trying to figure something out, without the teasing or composure or distance management.
Just Damien, looking at me in a packed arena while thousands chanted our names, and neither of us moved, well aware of what that meant.
He leaned in. Not quickly...slowly, giving me every chance to step back, to joke it off, to distance myself. His shoulder brushed mine.
His face moved close enough that I could see the arena lights reflected in his eyes, and the crowd noise faded into a backdrop as it all narrowed down to a tiny space between us.
His hand came up, resting on my jaw, just barely...a gentle touch, his thumb at the corner and fingers grazing my cheek, like someone who has finally decided to let down their guard after holding back for so long.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, low and sincere.
I was quiet, because I suddenly forgot how to fucking speak. Because I didn’t want him to stop.
Because I wanted to feel those soft lips on mine once again...
I hadn’t realized that until now. I desperately wanted him to press his lips against mine.
And then he kissed me.