2 going viral
The first thing I notice is the noise.
Not the usual kind—the steady, expected roar of a packed rink—but something sharper, louder in a way that doesn't feel like it belongs to the game anymore. It crashes in all at once, bouncing off the glass, spilling over from the stands like someone flipped a switch.
The second thing I notice is her.
She's still right there, close enough that I can see the faint smudge of where her lips just were, like the moment hasn't quite caught up to itself yet.
There's no hesitation in her expression, no embarrassment, nothing that suggests she regrets what she just did. If anything, she looks... satisfied.
Which is insane.
Because I'm standing in a penalty box, mid-game, while half the rink is losing its mind, and some girl wearing my jersey just kissed me like it was part of her evening plans.
I stare at her for a second longer than I should.
"Well," she says, smoothing a hand over the front of the jersey like she didn't just derail the entire game, "that should help your stats."
I blink once, trying to process that sentence. "Did you just—"
"Yep," she cuts in, completely unbothered.
Behind her, people are shouting, laughing, recording. Phones are pointed at us from every angle, screens lighting up as they capture something that is definitely going to be everywhere in about five minutes.
I drag a hand down my face, already feeling the headache forming. "You think that was a good idea?"
Her mouth curves slightly. "I think it was an idea."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"It wasn't meant to."
There's a pause where I seriously consider saying something smarter, something that makes it clear this whole thing is ridiculous and unnecessary and not something I have time for.
Instead, what comes out is, "You're wearing my name."
She glances down at the jersey like she forgot. "Yeah. I noticed."
"You don't even go to my school."
"Also true."
"Then why—"
"Because," she interrupts, tilting her head like she's enjoying this way too much, "I wanted to."
That's not an explanation.
That's a problem.
I shake my head once, leaning back against the glass like putting a little distance between us might somehow make this less absurd. "You just wanted to."
"Exactly."
"That's your reasoning."
"Don't sound so impressed."
I let out a short breath that's dangerously close to a laugh and immediately shut it down. This is not funny. None of this is funny.
The ref skates past, clearly trying to ignore what just happened, which I respect. If I could ignore it, I would.
Unfortunately, I can't.
The penalty clock ticks down, numbers flashing in my peripheral vision while the noise in the rink refuses to settle.
Every time I glance up, there's another phone pointed in our direction, another group of people reacting like they just witnessed something historic instead of a very questionable decision.
I look back at her.
She hasn't moved.
Most people would've taken the hint by now, maybe backed off, pretended it didn't happen. She just stays there, like she's waiting to see what I'll do next.
"That was unnecessary," I say finally.
She shrugs. "You're welcome."
"For what?"
"Giving everyone something to talk about. You seemed bored."
I push off the glass, stepping a little closer despite myself. "I was in a penalty box."
"Exactly. You needed entertainment."
Her friend—Jess, I think, based on how many times she's said her name in the last five minutes—is holding onto her like she might actually fall over from laughing.
"This is unreal," Jess says, barely containing herself. "I'm never recovering from this."
"Good," the girl replies calmly. "You shouldn't."
I look between them, then back at her. "You do realize this is going to follow you around, right?"
She meets my gaze without hesitation. "I'm counting on it."
That... is not how this is supposed to go.
People usually regret things like this. They don't lean into them.
The buzzer sounds, cutting through the noise, and I glance up at the clock just in time to see the penalty expire. The door swings open, the ref barely sparing me a glance as he motions for me to get back on the ice.
Finally.
I step out, the cold hitting differently after standing still for too long, and skate back into the game like nothing just happened. It takes about three seconds to realize that's not going to work.
Every shift feels off.
Not because of the play—we're still moving, still pushing, still trying to outpace them—but because I can feel it. The attention. The shift in the crowd. Every time I pass near the boards, there's a ripple of noise that wasn't there before.
Declan catches up to me during a quick line change, grinning like this is the best thing that's ever happened to him.
"Please tell me that just happened," he says, barely keeping his voice down.
"It didn't."
He snorts. "Pretty sure half the rink would disagree."
I adjust my grip on my stick, focusing on the ice ahead of me. "Drop it."
"Not a chance," he replies immediately. "You got kissed through the penalty box by a girl wearing your jersey. That's not something I'm dropping."
"She's not—" I stop, because I don't actually know what she is.
Random.
Annoying.
A problem.
Declan bumps his shoulder into mine. "You know her?"
"No."
"That's worse."
I exhale slowly, already tired of this conversation. "Can we focus on the game?"
"Oh, I'm focused," he says. "I'm just also enjoying this."
Of course he is.
The rest of the period passes in a blur of movement and noise, but the energy never really settles. Every time I get close to the boards on that side, I catch a glimpse of her again.
Still there.
Still watching.
Still wearing my name like it belongs to her.
By the time the game ends, the noise hasn't died down—it's just changed. Less explosive, more buzzing, like everyone's already processing it, replaying it, turning it into something bigger than it actually was.
I skate off with the rest of the team, ignoring the looks, the comments, the way a couple of guys are trying not to laugh as we head toward the locker room.
The door barely closes behind us before Declan turns to me again.
"So," he says, dropping onto the bench, "you gonna tell me what that was?"
"I don't know," I answer, because for once, that's actually true.
Coach walks in before he can say anything else, launching into a quick post-game talk that I only half listen to. My phone buzzes somewhere in my bag, then again, then again, like it's trying to get my attention in the most aggressive way possible.
I already know what it is.
Still, I grab it the second I get the chance.
Notifications flood the screen. Messages. Mentions. Tags.
Clips.
I tap one without thinking. The video loads instantly.
It's worse than I expected.
From the angle, it looks almost planned—the way she leans in, the way the crowd reacts, the way it all fits together like something that was meant to happen instead of something completely impulsive.
And then there's the caption.
I stare at it for a second, then scroll.
There are already edits. Slow-motion versions. Comments stacking faster than I can read them.
Declan leans over my shoulder. "Oh, this is bad."
"Yeah," I mutter.
He grins. "No, I mean for you. This is great for everyone else."
I lock my phone and shove it back into my bag, dragging a hand through my hair.
This was supposed to be a normal game. Now it's something else entirely.
And the worst part?
I don't even know her name.