Chapter 17 April #2
It’s unreal as teddy bears, dogs, cats, even a few dinosaurs and unicorns, catapult over the boards and glass and onto the rink.
The entire outer ring of ice is completely covered, a plush avalanche of donated toys.
The players skate through it all like an obstacle course, laughing.
Clark—in full pads—does a backward dive into the pile like he’s making a snow angel.
The crowd is going wild, and I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt.
“Come on!” Heidi grabs my arm. “We’re going down!”
The WAGs and I rush down to ice level, where the cleanup crew gathers thousands of stuffed animals into massive bins. The energy is infectious—pure generosity and community and love.
Clark skates over, holding a stuffed golden retriever. It’s squishy soft with a red bow around its neck.
“For you,” he says, passing it through the open door in the boards.
I take it, confused. “Clark, these are for—”
“It’s Gordie. Or close enough.” His smile is soft. “Thought you’d want to keep him.”
His lost dog was the whole reason we met.
“Thank you,” I manage.
He’s still looking at me with an expression that momentarily makes me forget this is fake when the photographer appears.
“Perfect! Stay just like that. Clark, can you lean in a bit? April, look at him like—yes, exactly like that. Beautiful.”
Cameras flash, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are. How Clark’s hand has found mine. How the crowd is watching. But it’s all going so fast, I don’t have time to process whether Clark is “on” because we’re in public or if the way his gaze lingers on me means something more.
“Interview in two minutes,” Sandra announces. “Meet us at center ice!”
The next few minutes are a blur. The Zamboni clears the ice—now toy-free—and suddenly Clark and I are standing at center ice under the bright lights with a sportscaster named Billy B holding a microphone.
“We’re here with Clark Culpepper and his girlfriend, April Hansen, the faces of this year’s Love at First Wag campaign,” Billy says to the camera. “Clark, amazing save in the second half. How does it feel to be up two-nothing?”
Clark gives the standard hockey answer about taking it one period at a time and crediting his teammates. But his arm is around my waist, I’m pressed against his side, and I can feel his heartbeat through his jersey.
“April, you’re a professional dog trainer. What made you want to get involved with this campaign?”
I somehow form coherent sentences about animal welfare and the importance of adoption. Clark’s thumb traces small circles on my hip, and I’m ninety percent sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“One more question,” Billy says with a smile that suggests he knows something we don’t. “What’s your favorite thing about being a couple?”
We both freeze. Look at each other. Stare.
I should say something cute. But my thoughts helicopter because I’ve lost track of what’s real and what’s a fantasy.
Clark pulls me closer and says, “She makes everything better. Even losing streaks and bad practices and days when nothing goes right. She’s my best friend. My everything.”
If this doesn’t work out, I’ll need a heart transplant.
Billy beams. “And April?”
I look up at Clark, at his green eyes that are focused entirely on me, and the truth spills out.
“He remembers my favorite flavor of Goldfish crackers and never judges me for drinking from juice boxes as a fully fledged, functioning adult. He reminds me that choosing dogs over law school was the smartest decision I ever made. He’s the only person who laughs at my terrible puns and doesn’t think I’m weird for talking to dogs in different voices and somehow makes me believe I can do impossible things—like open a dog bakery.
He’s my favorite human to do nothing with and the first I call when anything happens—good or bad. Clark is my person.”
There’s a long, pregnant moment of silence, and then Billy says, “Ladies and gentlemen, you are witnessing true love in hockey town!”
The crowd cheers, but I barely hear it over the pounding of my heart.
Out of frame, Sandra signals. I can’t tell what she means as she gestures with her first two fingers. She presses the pads of them together. I look from her to Billy to Clark. The sports announcer leans in and whispers. “They want you to kiss.”
This is it. The candid kiss. The staged moment for the cameras. My poor nerves!
Clark’s hand comes up to cup my face, and his eyes search mine. “Okay?” he whispers, so quiet only I can hear.
Breath trapped in my throat, I nod, not trusting my voice.
He leans down so slowly I have time to notice everything. The way his eyes drop to my lips. How his inhale catches. The slight tremble in his hand against my cheek.
And then his lips are on mine.
It’s not like the kiss cam. That was brief, appropriate, and over in three seconds.
This is a few degrees warmer.
His mouth is soft and sure, and when I gasp slightly, he deepens the kiss just enough to make my knees weak. His other hand slides into my hair, gentle but possessive, and I’m gripping his jersey to keep from melting into the ice.
The crowd is going wild, but it’s just white noise. All I can feel is Clark—his warmth, his strength, and the way he’s kissing me like it’s real.
When we finally break apart, I’m dizzy. Clark’s eyes are dark, intense, searching my face like he’s looking for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked.
“Beautiful!” the photographer calls out. “Perfect! That’s the shot!”
We separate slowly, and I’m vaguely aware that we’re still on center ice with thousands of people watching. Clark’s hand finds mine, squeezes once, and then we’re being ushered off the ice.
“That was amazing!” Sandra gushes. “The chemistry! We couldn’t have asked for better content!”
Chemistry. Right. Content. Because it was for the cameras.
Except the way Clark won’t let go of my hand suggests maybe it wasn’t. A girl can hope.