“What is this?”

“It’s called a butt puck.”

“I’m sorry, what?” That’s way too close to other things I don’t want near my butt.

“It’ll keep you from freezing your ass off on these chairs and”—she turns the puck over—“it’s a cheerleading pillow!”

On the front of the pillow puck are the words “GO Butterson!” Charlene’s says “GO Westinghouse!” And mine says “GO Waters!” Upon closer inspection, I find a hand-shaped pocket on the back of the puck pillow, so I'm able to wave my butt puck in the air with little effort.

I sit on the pillow, still snickering at the pervy name. Talk ceases as the Hawks take the ice. Charlene grips my arm, and my mother whistles with her fingers. Raging anxiety renders me silent and immobile, both of which are highly uncommon.

When Alex skates out onto the ice, I inhale a sharp breath as my chest constricts. For a second, I think I’m having a heart attack, but I realize it’s just that I’m in love with this man. I haven’t seen him in weeks, and I’m still conflicted about the article and the interview. He’s so close, the plexiglass barrier the only thing dividing us.

Even faux-unkempt, he’s hot. His beard is neatly groomed, unlike some of the other guys who look like they crawled out of the alleyway and decided to play professional hockey.

“Oh God. Darren is sex on skates. I can’t wait until after the game. It doesn’t even matter if they win or lose!” Charlene yells over the cheering crowd.

“How can you say that? Of course it matters.”

“Think about it, if they win, I have hot victory sex. If they lose I get to have sexy make-Darren-feel-better sex.”

I nod slowly, absorbing the information. She’s totally right. It doesn’t matter if they win or lose, she wins by sex default. I’m envious of her certainty regarding either victory or solace sex. I wish I knew what tonight will bring and whether or not I’ll ever be reunited with the monster cock. My beaver doesn’t seem to realize a reunion isn’t imminent, considering the way she’s lubing up in preparation for what might never happen again. I hope I can get my shit together enough to have a real conversation with Alex. One thing at a time; the game is first.

Alex’s brow is set in a deep furrow, and his pouty lips are mashed in a straight line. He doesn’t even look around; he simply waves at the cheering crowd as he skates to the bench. I want him to notice me sitting here, but I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to myself. So I stare.

As the end of the first period closes in, Chicago ties with Philly one-one. I have to pee, but I don’t want to leave my seat, worried someone will recognize me. Alex is killing it out there, but he can’t seem to get the puck past the goalie. I can practically taste his frustration. The puck is a black blur across the ice as Philly gains control. I crane my neck to see what’s happening when a body slams against the plexiglass and scares the living bejesus out of me.

It’s déjà vu. Those pretty, pretty eyes bore into mine the way they did the first time I saw him play. They hold shock, surprise, and a whole lot of sexy as his mouth drops open. I wave shyly. He’s so close; if it weren’t for the damn plexiglass, I would be able to touch his sweaty, fuzzy face.

Our eyes lock for the briefest moment before he pries himself off the glass and bolts down the ice after the puck. For the rest of the period, I feel Alex’s gaze on me and meet it often when he’s on the bench. He looks hopeful, worried, desperate, and determined at the same time. Interestingly enough, it's a reflection of my own emotions. I can’t sit still, nervously wringing my hands every time we make eye contact.

It’s an intense game with a close score. I’m already in celebration mode in the third period. That is until Philly scores a goal with two minutes left, tying the game. The crowd goes insane. Fans scream at the Hawks’ goalie and freak out on the defense. Unable to recover, they go into overtime. I’m on the edge of my seat, my butt puck no longer underneath me but pressed up against the glass as I scream Alex’s name.

He steals the puck from the Philly center and flies down the ice. I can see ten years of figure skating come into play as he maneuvers around his opponents with incredible grace. He dances with the puck, getting in close to the net only to pass to Darren and skate around behind it.

Philly’s goalie is focused on Darren, so he doesn’t notice Alex come around the other side. Instead of taking the shot, Darren passes back. By the time Philly realizes what’s happening, it’s too late. Alex taps the puck; it sails past the goalie’s stick and ricochets into the net.

And just like that, Alex scores the goal to win the Cup.

The crowd goes absolutely wild, and so do I. It’s a high like I’ve never experienced before. The Hawks swarm the ice, slamming into each other in aggressive, enthusiastic hugs. Wives and kids meet their sweaty, excited husbands and fathers in the middle of the rink, where the media film the action and broadcast it on the huge screens.

The Cup, in all its majestic glory, is passed among the team. Alex raises it above his head and skates around the center of the rink, his triumphant grin directed at me. A camera is suddenly trained on me, and my face is plastered on the huge screen for the entire arena to see. I raise the butt puck, shielding my face, and return his excited smile.

Eventually we make our way out of the arena, and Sidney drags the three of us toward the locker room. I want to be here, but my stomach is in knots. My mom and Charlene flank me in an attempt to protect me from the media slores. They’re so busy questioning the team they don’t notice me. Not yet, anyway.