The private jet landed at 9 a.m.
They walked off at 11:45 a.m.
Don't ask what happened at 37,000 feet. The flight attendant quit on the spot and is currently in witness protection.
ESPN put them up in a glass house on the beach in Key Biscayne.
Literal glass walls. Ocean on three sides. No neighbors.
The photographer, a legend named Jules Moreau who shoots Olympians for breakfast, greeted them wearing nothing but linen pants and a smile.
"Today we make art," she said.
Connor muttered, "Today we make evidence."
Schedule:
- 12 p.m.: wardrobe (Speedos the size of postage stamps)
- 1 p.m.: baby oil application
- 2 p.m.–sunset: sin against photography
Phase 1: Wardrobe:
The stylist handed Hudson a cobalt triangle so small it came in an envelope.
Hudson held it up with two fingers. "Is this a joke?"
Stylist: "It's fashion."
Connor, already wearing his black version: "It's dental floss with ambition."
They changed in separate rooms.
They lasted four seconds before Connor kicked Hudson's door open, took one look at him in the suit, and said, voice gone gravel, "We're buying this house. Right now."
Phase 2: Baby Oil:
Two assistants with spray bottles.
Jules: "We want wet, glossy, like you just came out of the ocean after hate-sex."
Hudson: "So… Tuesday."
They started innocent.
Shoulders. Abs. Obliques.
Then Connor took the bottle from the assistant, said "I got him," and poured half a gallon down Hudson's spine himself.
His hands followed the oil everywhere.
Everywhere.
The assistants just backed away slowly like they were witnessing a mating ritual on the Discovery Channel.
Phase 3: Shooting:
First setup: standing in the surf, facing each other, foreheads almost touching, hands clasped between them.
Jules: "I want hunger. Like you're about to eat each other alive but the camera's stopping you."
Connor: "So… act normal."
Click. Click. Click.
Second setup: Hudson lying on his back in the wet sand, Connor braced over him on all fours, water lapping at their hips.
Connor's arms shook—not from holding the plank, from holding back.
Hudson's legs fell open on instinct.
Jules actually dropped her camera. "Jesus, warn a girl."
Third setup: the one that ended civilizations.
They're told to oil-wrestle in the shallows.
"Playful," Jules said.
They lasted eight seconds of "playful" before Connor tackled Hudson into the surf, pinned his wrists above his head, and growled, "Tap if you want me to stop."
Hudson did not tap.
He arched up and bit Connor's neck so hard it trended as #StorrieNeckBite before the sun even set.
Phase 4: The "Couples" Shots:
Jules wanted intimacy.
She got pornography with better lighting.
- Hudson sitting on a rock, Connor standing between his thighs, one hand in Hudson's hair, the other gripping his jaw like he's about to kiss or devour (impossible to tell).
- Connor carrying Hudson bridal-style out of the ocean, Hudson's legs locked around his waist, mouths fused, water streaming off them like liquid diamonds.
- The final shot: both of them lying in the tide, Hudson on his stomach, Connor draped over his back, mouth pressed to the nape of Hudson's neck, hand splayed possessively across his lower back, fingers just under the waistband of the Speedo.
Jules whispered, "I'm going to hell for this and it's worth it."
The Incident:
At golden hour, the stylist tried to adjust Hudson's suit because it had shifted.
Connor stepped in front of her like a German shepherd. "Touch him and you lose fingers."
Stylist backed away, hands up.
Hudson laughed so hard he fell over in the sand.
Connor followed him down and kissed the laughter right out of his mouth while the drone camera circled overhead.
Wrap:
Jules called it at 8 p.m.
Crew packed up in stunned silence.
One assistant was crying. Another was texting her therapist.
Jules handed them the memory card like it was the One Ring. "This will break the internet. Twice. Maybe three times if we drop the outtakes."
Back at the glass house,
Door hadn't even closed before Connor had Hudson bent over the kitchen island, Speedo ripped clean off, baby oil still slick on both of them.
Hudson's palms squeaked against the marble with every thrust.
The glass walls reflected them from seventeen angles.
Ocean crashed outside like it was jealous.
Connor bit his shoulder, voice shredded: "You looked like mine all day. Now you feel like mine."
Hudson could only moan "yes" in seventeen different languages.
They didn't make it to the bedroom until round three.
They didn't make it to clothes until checkout at noon the next day.
**The next morning**
The teaser photo dropped on ESPN's Instagram: black-and-white, the shot of Connor carrying Hudson out of the water, mouths fused, bodies glistening.
Caption: "Love & Hockey. Full issue on stands next month."
Likes: 4.2 million in an hour.
Comments disabled because Instagram literally couldn't handle it.
The NHL sent a single email titled "Cease and Desist Being This Hot."
They were already on a plane to New York.
Three talk shows in one night.
They still smelled like coconut oil and bad decisions.
Jimmy Fallon was first.
He was not ready.
Neither was America.