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The apartment was quiet in the comfortable way that only happened during the off season. The TV was on, though neither of them had paid attention to it in the last twenty minutes. Misa had somehow claimed the entire couch despite only taking up about half of it.
He was stretched out sideways with one socked foot hanging over the armrest, lazily scrolling through TikTok while absentmindedly humming along to whatever audio happened to come up. Every few videos he laughed to himself, occasionally turning his phone toward the empty room.
"Sam," he called, no answer.
"Sam," Still nothing.
“Sam,” he yelled again, this time louder.
"I'm literally getting water," came the yell from the kitchen.
"You're taking forever,” Misa whined.
“And you’re needy,” Sam shouted back, his voice trailing off as he rounded the corner with two glasses of water. He didn't look annoyed; there was a soft, knowing smirk on his face that usually meant he was about to tease Misa for the next hour.
“Come here, I’m lonely and neglected,” Misa joked, patting the small sliver of cushion he’d left open.
Sam didn’t just sit; he collapsed directly onto Misa, his full weight pinning Misa’s shoulder into the cushion. The impact knocked a startled, wheezing laugh out of Misa, who instinctively wrapped his arms around Sam's neck to keep him from sliding off onto the rug.
“That is so not what I meant by ‘come here,’” Misa gasped, his voice muffled against Sam’s shoulder. He tried to squirm beneath the weight, but Sam had effectively locked him in place, leaning his chin on Misa’s shoulder with a triumphant grin.
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” Sam murmured, his voice vibrating against Misa’s collarbone. He shifted his weight just enough to breathe, his arm looping around Misa’s waist to anchor them both. For a few minutes, they just stayed like that—a tangled heap of limbs and oversized hoodies, the low hum of the television filling the gaps in their conversation. It was the kind of stillness that felt earned, the kind that only came when the pressure of the season finally evaporated and they didn't have to worry about who was watching them.
But just as Misa sure he would fall asleep, Sam gasped, “Babe! Babe!”
“Hm?” Misa murmured, his eyes barely fluttering open as he tried to sink deeper into the sofa.
“Babe, look! Look at your Insta!” Sam practically vibrated against him, his urgency cutting through Misa’s half-conscious haze. He scrambled to sit up, blinking away the sleep as he fumbled for his phone, which had been discarded on the coffee table.
“Real account or the other one?” Misa asked, his voice still thick with sleep.
"Stan account, obviously," Sam urged, peering over Misa's shoulder.
Misa logged into the secret Sharks stan account he used to monitor the rumor mill—a digital masquerade that allowed him to see exactly how the internet perceived him without the crushing weight of his actual blue checkmark. He didn't even have to search; the algorithm had already served up the feast. The screen was a blur of slowed-down clips, zoomed-in screenshots, and frantic captions. It was a montage of Will and Mack training in Vancouver, a series of candid shots captured by some eagle-eyed fan that showed the two of them leaning into each other during a water break, laughing with a familiarity that was impossible to misinterpret.
Misa scrolled through the comments, his eyes widening as the numbers climbed. The internet was currently in a state of collective cardiac arrest. *“THE WAY WILL IS LOOKING AT HIM,”* one caption screamed in all caps, accompanied by a zoomed-in crop of Will’s expression that looked far too tender for a "just friends" training session. Another post had already garnered ten thousand likes, some edit of the two of them walking toward the locker room set to a slowed-down pop song.
“It hasn’t even a week since we posted those hiking photos,” Sam complained, though he was grinning. He shifted his weight, pressing his chest against Misa’s back as he stared at the screen. “We were the ‘cutest couple on the sharks’ for exactly six days. Six days! And now these two just swoop in with a Vancouver training montage and steal the entire spotlight.”
Six days ago Misa had his brother post a photo of Sam and Misa at the top of a hike—shirtless, sweaty, and undeniably affectionate—and for a brief window of time, they had owned the discourse, they were the gold standard of "secret" hockey romance. Now, the digital tide had shifted. Will and Mack were the main characters of the internet, and the comments were a chaotic symphony of *“They wanna kiss so bad”* and *“They are literally soulmates.”*
“They’re literally out-gaying us,” Sam complained, his voice dropping into a mock-tragic whisper. “Look at this one. Mack is literally adjusting Will’s jersey. Someone slowed it down to thirty seconds and added a reverb filter. It’s a cinematic masterpiece.”
Misa squinted at the screen, as Sam narrative. “look at the comments. ‘SaMisa walked so WillMack could run.’ The audacity. The absolute neeve.”
“Sam,” Misa said, putting a hand on shoulder, but Sam was far too worked up to notice.
“Seriously, Mis, who do they think they are?” Sam continued, his voice rising in an exaggerated theatricality. “A little bit of skating and some longing looks? That’s amateur hour. We are the architects of this game. We invented the strategic soft launch.”
The vibration of Misa’s phone against his thigh was the first strike. Then Sam’s phone, resting on the coffee table, let out a sharp, rhythmic buzz.
Misa didn't even have to open the message to know the tone. He swiped down, and there it was: a text from Will, consisting solely of a smug, eyes emoji and a link to a trending Twitter thread. *You seeing this?* the caption read. It was followed almost instantly by a message from Mack: *We won 😌.*
“I’m gonna kill them,” Sam grumbled, though he was leaning into Misa with a grin that betrayed his mock-outrage.
The onslaught didn't stop there. Mack began firing off screenshots of the digital carnage—a Reddit thread titled *'THE VANCOUVER CHEMISTRY IS UNMATCHED'* and a TikTok edit that had already hit half a million views. The final blow came in the form of a simple, devastating message from Mack: *Sorry guys. Better luck next scandal.*
Sam’s fingers moved fast on the keyboard as he fired off a response.
*“In your dreams, Mack. We’re just warming up,”* Sam typed, hitting send with a definitive flick of his thumb. He tossed the phone face-down on the coffee table, his expression shifting from mock-outrage to a concentrated, predatory focus.
“We are?” Misa asked, his voice tilting upward. He leaned back against the cushion, glancing at Sam. “Because you sounded like you were mourning the loss of your throne about thirty seconds ago.”
“Mourning is for people who don’t have a backup plan,” Sam countered, his eyes gleaming. He sat up straight, the lazy off-season slouch vanishing as he entered full strategist mode. “We aren't just warming up. We’re about to drop a tactical nuke on their engagement metrics.”
Misa let out a snort, finally shifting his position to sit upright. "A tactical nuke? Sam, we're talking about a few blurry photos of hockey players leaning on each other. We aren't fighting a war, we're fighting for the attention of people who use the word ' endgame' to describe two people who have never even held hands in public."
“Exactly,” Sam said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Which is why we can't go for something obvious. If we post a photo of us kissing, the mystery is gone. We need something that screams *‘we are definitely dating’* while technically being an ambiguous photo of two teammates hanging out.”
“Matching hoodies?” Misa suggested, though he already knew the answer. “Or leaking that photo of you giving me a piggyback ride at the beach?”
“Too cliché,” Sam countered, waving a hand dismissively. “The piggyback ride is a 2000’s move. We need something that feels organic, yet devastating. Something that makes the internet do the heavy lifting for us.”
Misa went quiet, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as he sifted through the mental archives of their shared camera rolls, “But we already posted the hiking photos. The 'shirtless and sweaty' angle is spent.”
Sam paused for a moment, and then a look crossed his face that Misa had learned to fear. It was the look he got right before he convinced Misa to try a "shortcut" during a road trip that ended in a dead-end alleyway.
“Do you remember the photo’s we took the day after the hike?” Sam asked, his voice dropping an octave into a tone of pure mischief.
Misa froze, the gears in his head turning as he recalled the specific sequence of events. He slowly turned to look at Sam, his expression flat. "The bar. You're talking about the bar."
“Yup,” Sam said, popping the p. “The bar.”
“Absolutely not,” Misa said, though he was already reaching for his phone.
The photo in question was a group shot, that from afar appeared innocent enough—a bunch of guys huddled together in a dim, neon-lit booth, arms draped over shoulders, shouting for the camera. It was a blur of celebratory chaos. But when you focused on Sam and Misa, the narrative shifted entirely.
They had both been tipsy that night, tipsy enough to be bolder than they should’ve been in public, and that’s how Misa ended up in Sam’s lap. He wasn't just leaning against him; he was perched squarely on Sam’s thighs, his body angled back with a beaming, reckless grin. Sam’s arms were wrapped loosely but possessively around Misa’s waist. Although, from the angle of the photo you couldn’t see Sam’s lap, giving them plausible deniability should they need it.
“You’re sure?” Misa asked, inspecting the photo one more time. “It’s a little… a lot.”
“Think about it, Mis, that’s exactly why it works,” Sam argued, his voice buzzing with excitement. “If it’s too subtle, Will and Mack win on sheer volume. But if it’s too much, game over. This is the sweet spot. It looks like a candid moment of us being completely oblivious to the fact that we’re basically fused together.”
Misa shook his head, he loved when Sam got like this—the absolute commitment to the bit. “If you think this is the move, I trust you.”
Sam took the green light and ran with it, his thumbs flying across the screen. "We can't go with something romantic. That's too on the nose. We need to be aggressively casual. Something that says, 'This is just how we exist,' and lets the fans spiral into a frenzy trying to figure out the logistics of it."
After what felt like a hundrad caption drafts later, Sam settled on, ‘Time for what’ it paired with the song Sam had chosen as well. The photo was the first of six in a carousel, the others being mundane, it was the perfect camouflage.
Turning his phone to Misa for one last approval, Sam hit "Post" with a theatrical flourish, as if he were launching a missile.
They tossed their phones onto the coffee table like grenades and retreated to the opposite end of the couch, “Now we wait,” Misa whispered, though he was already vibrating with anticipation.
They decided to binge an other episode of Survivor before checking the status of the post, once the episode wrapped, they both retrieved their phones eager to see the damage.
“Holy shit, it’s already got like five thousand likes,” Sam beamed, his thumb blurring as he refreshed the feed. “Wait, no, ten thousand. The algorithm is eating it alive.”
"Look at the comments," Misa breathed, his eyes scanning the screen so fast he was nearly blurring the text. "They aren't even talking about the other photos.”
“They’re calling it a hard launch on Tumblr,” Misa cackled, his voice jumping an octave as he scrolled. He leaned into Sam, the two of them sharing the small screen of his phone. “Someone just posted a side-by-side comparison of the way Sam is holding my waist versus the way Will holds Mack.”
“And? Do I hold your waist better?” Sam asked, his voice brimming with a smugness that was almost palpable.
“Absolutely,” Misa replied, leaning his head back against the cushion. “Look at the threads, Sam. They’re calling it ‘the grip of a man who knows what he has.’ You’ve officially out-gripped Will.”
Sam looked as smug as Misa had ever seen him, “Mis, everyone is freaking out. I’ve never seen the 'evidence' threads move this fast. It’s like a digital landslide.”
The victory was short-lived, or rather, it was interrupted by the inevitable. Just as Misa was beginning to savor the sight of a Twitter user typing a three-thousand-word essay on the "spatial dynamics of lap-sitting," his phone erupted. A FaceTime request from Will flashed across the screen, the caller ID practically radiating indignation.
Misa swiped to answer with a flourish, propping the phone up against a vase so both he and Sam could be in the frame. Will’s face filled the screen, his expression a masterpiece of fake betrayal. Beside him, Mack was leaning in, wearing a matching look of mock-horror, though the glint in his eyes suggested he was actually impressed.
“Really?” Will demanded, his voice echoing through the apartment speakers. “Lap-sitting? In this economy?”
“In this economy?” Sam echoed, leaning into the frame with a grin that was purely predatory. “We’re just providing the public with the clarity they deserve, Will. We saw your little morning skate and we realized the bar was set remarkably low. We felt it was our civic duty to raise it.”
“Low? Low!” Mack squawked, his face practically pressing into the camera lens. “The Vancouver tapes are legendary. We have the ‘shoulder-brush’ clip. That’s cinematic gold. You just posted a blurry bar photo.”
“Blurry?” Sam’s voice rose, his indignation purely for the sake of the sport. “Mack, look at the analytics! We’ve got a twenty percent increase in ‘SaMisa’ mentions in the last ten minutes. Your ‘cinematic gold’ is a niche classic; we’re a blockbuster hit.”
“Numbers don't lie, Mack,” Misa added, leaning back into the couch with a triumphant hum. He shifted his phone to show his own screen, where a Reddit thread was currently exploding with a poll asking if the lap-sitting was a ‘conscious choice’ or a ‘moment of passion.’
“This not over,” Mack countered, his voice dropping into a competitive rumble. “We have a folder of candid gym photos that would make that bar picture look like a polite handshake.”
“Oh, please,” Sam scoffed, leaning back and interlocking his fingers behind his head. “You leak gym photo’s and me and Mis will relase the ‘Airport Hug’ from last winter.”
“We will?” Misa interjected, but Mack was already firing back.
“Do it. Me and Will have a photo from last season where in the background, we’re both in towels after the sauna, and the lighting is just... it’s unreal,” Mack challenged, his voice dripping with fake confidence.
“Towels? Please,” Sam scoffed, though he was already mentally cataloging their own arsenal. “We’ll release a sex tape.”
“No we won’t!” Misa said at the same time Mack yelled, “YOU GUYS HAVE A SEX TAPE!”
“We don’t, we really really don’t,” Misa said, elbowing Sam hard in the gut.
Across the line Will was heard saying, “Get that look of your face,” to Mack, though the sound of a muffled laugh followed.
“Okay, well we gotta go celebrate our win or whatever,” Misa said, though he was still smiling as he looked at the chaos on his screen. “The internet is currently deciding that the lap-sitting was a ‘soul-bond’ and I need to read every single theory before the wave dies down.”
“Oh fuck off-” Misa hung up before Mack could get another word in, the screen going black with a satisfying click.
“Really?” Misa questioned, turning to glare at Sam.
Sam threw his hands up in the air, a look of pure, unadulterated pride on his face. "What? Did you see their faces? They were rattled. Completely rattled.”
Now they think we have a sex tape,” Misa sighed, knowing training would be miserable for the foreseeable future.
“I mean we do,” Sam pointed out, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face.
“So not the point!” Misa repeated, though he couldn't help the way his own lips quirked upward.
He flopped back against the cushions, the adrenaline of the digital skirmish beginning to fade into a warm, post-victory glow. He reached for his phone one last time, his thumb habitually dancing over the screen to refresh the ‘SaMisa’ tag. The chaos had evolved from mere speculation into a full-scale forensic investigation; users were now analyzing the reflection in the bar’s mirror to determine exactly how close Sam’s chest was to Misa’s back.
Misa would’ve been content to let the night end there, basking in the glow of a thousand-strong Twitter thread, but as he pulled up the next episode of Survivor, Sam let out a loud groan, “Will is threating to relase concert photos!”
It was that moment that Misa understood this would never end, if both couples were out to the public someday, this game of one uping each other would never stop, and a small part of him never wanted it to.