Landy is shaking his head next to him as he applies the scent blocker to his own upper lip. "I thought you guys were friends -- you've never smelled his heat pheromones before?" "What? I was friends with who?" Landy smacks Nate upside the head. "Crosby," he says, like it should be the most obvious thing in the world. Nate looks back out at the ice, where Sid is taking a faceoff, a bead of sweat dripping down his face. "Holy shit," he mutters.

"We've got a special request tonight," the PR rep says, clipboard in hand. The way she says it, you can hear the implied capital letters: Special Request, the publicly friendly way to say some fans shelled out a lot of cash to watch you fuck.

"You know how every summer you joke about how I should collar you, for the league rule?" "Yeah?" Sid shoots a sideways look at Nate, but Nate is just sipping his beer, not looking back. "What if I took you up on that?"