Santana Lopez settled down into her seat, sipping from her beer as she looked out over the ice. With a smile, she looked over at her father, who was sitting beside her. She knew how much these tickets, these seats meant to her father. He had come to these games with his father, Santana's abuelo, since he was a young boy, and Santana's abuelo had been coming since he was a young man as well. At first, her abuelo and bisabuelo had barely been able to afford the nosebleed seats at the very top, and they would save up for one special game all year. By the time that her abuelo was an adult, he had started to make more money and his last date with Santana's abuela before they got engaged was at the front balcony of the top most tier—still not the best seat, but so much more than what he had started out with.
And it continued from there. As her abuelo worked and gained money and prestige, he took his son and then sons to games, sitting in the second tier of seats, feeling the pride that came from giving his children things that he never would have been able to afford at their ages.
Alejandro Lopez continued the tradition. He studied hard to become a doctor and brought his girlfriend, Maribel, to a game, sitting down in the lower section. A few weeks later, she agreed to marry him, and a year or two later, they welcomed a baby girl named Santana.
Sometimes, growing up, Santana felt that perhaps her father would have liked for her to have been born a boy, or at least for her to have had a younger brother, or something like that, someone to carry on the name and the tradition of games at Boston Garden, and all of those other things.
But Santana was a girl, and Boston Garden was replaced by the TD Garden anyway.
And Santana turned out to be as good of a hockey fan as any son could have been. She knew the stats and the history and the emotions and the triumphs and the defeats.
She knew the significance of standing with her abuelo, yellow ribbons at the end of her dark french braids, singing the national anthem as he gripped her hand with tears in her eyes, because they were sitting rinkside, nothing between them and the ice, except the barrier.
Her abuelo had died a few years later, when Santana was a teenager, and somehow that made it feel even more important to go with her dad as much as possible, even eight years later, even though she had just started a new job as a publicist.
Santana's Uncle Tomas had come as well, though his twin brother, her Uncle Mateo, was away on vacation. Uncle Tomas had brought his girlfriend, Julia, and Santana suspected she'd probably end up with an engagement ring sometime in the near future.
The usual hubbub was going on, people milling around, getting to their seats, getting snacks and beers, greeting old friends and gently trash talking each other as the lights around the Garden flashed advertisements, both for the game and for sponsor products. The seats next to her were suddenly filled, and Santana sighed to see a red, white, and blue jersey.
Her beloved Bruins were meeting their worst rivals, the Montreal Canadiens, for the first game of the second round of the playoffs. And somehow, in a sea of black and yellow jerseys and hats and everything Boston, four Habs fans had ended up pretty much right next to her. Santana let her eyes flick up to the face of the one that was closest. It was a gorgeous blonde woman. Santana looked at her for a moment and then forced herself to turn to face her father. After all, pretty blonde hair and cute freckles and stunning blue eyes and kissably pink lips definitely did not make up for supporting the Montreal Canadiens. Not at all.
Brittany had been the only girl on her hockey team from middle school. There were a handful of girls before that, but they dropped out as time went on, and it had been pretty easy to figure out why. The older they got, the harder it got for the girls on that team and in that league to get the same attention as the boys they were playing with. Brittany felt it, too. She had to work twice as hard, do two times the drills, put in double the hours, to get half of the rewards. Eventually, even she got tired of it and switched to cheer and dance.
Still, hockey remained one of her true loves, despite it all, and especially the Montreal Canadiens, a tough team, based a few hours away from her hometown in Vermont. Though she got a lot of crap from her teammates in their Bruins jerseys, Brittany had never wavered in her support, and the same was true even in a sea of yellow jerseys at the Bruins home in Boston. For Brittany's twenty-sixth birthday a few months ago, her parents had given her tickets to this game, for herself, her little sister, Ashley, Ashley's boyfriend, and an extra ticket for Brittany to bring someone. Brittany was between dates herself, so in the end, she invited their cousin, Brian, as well.
It got a little awkward for a moment when the kiss cam found them. Brittany certainly wasn't going to kiss her cousin and, for a moment, she looked over at the pretty dark haired woman beside her. Before she could make a move though, Ashley had grabbed her boyfriend and was giving him the sort of kiss that Brittany had hoped to never see from her little sister.
After the national anthem and telling Ashley for the third time that, no, she would not buy her a beer, and, no, Brian absolutely would not either, the game finally got underway. It was easy to forget about the fans around her once she watched the players zip around. There were times that Brittany still missed it. She had played forward and used her dance training to her best advantage, zipping around in between other players and picking off shots. The feeling of the wind whistling in through her helmet, the triumph of a perfect dodge, the sweet smack of puck and stick, finding that little hole that opened up at just the right time.
"Ooooh," Brian groaned from beside her, and Brittany looked up just as one of the Bruins forwards all but tackled the Canadiens goalie. The replay on the screen showed that the goalie had been shoving him as he waited for the puck to be passed his way, a move that wasn't technically illegal.
Brittany grinned as other players dove on top of each other, sticks and gloves clattering to the ground as a fight broke out. She was on her feet in a moment, screaming at the players as the crowd roared around her. Brittany had never been at a level where this kind of fighting took place, and she probably wouldn't have been able to participate even if she had been. Generally, Brittany was pretty against violence, but there was something different about the ice, where a few good punches was sometimes all it took to solve a problem.
The refs were pretty on top of things, shutting down the fight quickly, and the Bruins player who'd started it all by diving on top of the goalie was escorted off into the penalty box. Brittany put her fingers to her lips and whistled appreciatively, glad to see the player get some time in the box (and hopeful that would mean that her Habs could gain a goal or two in the resulting power play time while the Bruins were down a player).
"Yeah, sure, whistle for the dirty play." Brittany turned to see the woman sitting a seat over. Her dark hair was pulled back from her striking face. She was dressed in a number seventeen Lucic jersey and was holding a beer.
"There was nothing dirty about the play," Brittany shot back, "just because your guy can't keep it together under a little pressure—"
"A little pressure? Your goalie knocked him over!" the woman retorted, setting her beer down.
"Which is a legal play," Brittany pointed out. "If he'd, I don't know, dropped his gloves and dove on top of him, that would be a different story. Oh, wait, I think someone might have done that."
The woman opened her voice to speak, but the older gentleman next to her in a Bruins jacket rested his hand on her leg and quietly said, "Santana." The woman, Santana, shot a glare at Brittany, but relaxed against the back of her seat and trained her eyes on the game.
By the time the second period rolled around, things were tense, both on the ice and in the stands. The game had been rough, with a lot of sticks and elbows flying, and some pretty hard hits into the boards. The Bruins and Canadiens had each scored one goal and served a few penalties a piece. Every time something happened on the ice, Santana or the blonde woman ended up making some sort of sharp comment to their party or possibly each other, but neither one had taken the bait yet.
The players were much the same, taking hits in both direction without any real explosion of temper yet, but there was obviously something brewing. Finally, a Canadiens player, number seventy-six, Subban, the guy on the back of the blonde woman's jersey, made a move that boiled tempers over. He took the chance to block a Bruins player hard, and the Bruin, Marchand, fell to ice. After a moment, he waved off his teammates, dropped his gloves and stick and went after Subban. They barely got a hit in before they were both hauled off to their penalty boxes.
"More dirty plays," Santana sneered.
"More legal hits the Bruins just can't take," the blonde retorted under her breath.
"What did you say?" Santana asked, turning in her seat.
"Oh my god, Brittany, just drop it," came a voice from the end of the line and Santana leaned over to see a younger version of Brittany. Reluctantly, Brittany turned back to the game, and Santana felt vindicated for a few moments.
Two minutes later, when the penalties were up for the Bruins' Marchand and the Canadiens' Subban, they both came out of their boxes and immediately dropped their gloves and sticks, going right for each other. This time, the refs let them duke it out, Subban getting in some good hits before Marchand ducked a few and retaliated with an eyebrow-busting hook.
"Yeah, sock his cheating face!" Santana screamed from her seat, pausing to drain the last mouthful of her second beer.
"Oh my god, just because the Bruins are wusses doesn't mean you have to call everything cheating!" Brittany broke in, irritated and unable to choke back her thoughts anymore.
"Doesn't much look like a wuss right now!" Santana jeered back, taking a step closer, gesturing to the ice where Subban was bleeding down his forehead and trying to block another hit from coming in.
"If it was reversed, you'd be screaming about how illegal it was right now," Brittany echoed the movement, almost toe to toe with Santana now.
Both girls started to say something else, but hands grabbed the back of their jerseys. Santana's father hauled her back like she was a naughty kitten, depositing her on the other side of Julia before telling her sharply, "stay over there, because I am not having you getting tossed out of this game. If you do, I'm not coming to get you until it's over, clear?" Santana nodded and sunk down in her seat, sulking a little bit. She hated getting yelled at like a misbehaving kid, even though she knew that was what she had been acting like.
On the other side of the row, Ashley, who was six inches shorter and eight years younger than Brittany, had hauled her back, past the two boys who were gaping and pushed her down into Ashley's own seat. "Cut it out," she shouted over the noise of the crowd. "I swear to god, if you fight at this game, I will— I will— Ugh, I don't even know what I'm gonna do, but you're going to hate it!" She flounced back and shooed her boyfriend and Brian down a seat.
Brittany, properly chastised sunk down in her chair and watched quietly for the rest of the period.
When the second period was over, Santana leaned over to tell her father that she was going to go to the bathroom. He nodded and gave her a look that told her to stay out of trouble, because he would make good on his threat to leave her in whatever situation she got herself into until after the game. Santana promised she'd be fine and headed out into the hallways that surrounded the actual seating area. She didn't really have to use the bathroom, she just wanted to take a moment to clear her head. She was never that fan at hockey games. Sure, she shouted at players and refs when it was well deserved and screamed in joy and frustration along with the rest of the crowd, but she didn't pick fights with others in the crowd. And she didn't have to be separated out by her dad like some troublesome schoolboy.
Santana had no idea what was up with her, whether it was her second beer going to her head or who knew what, but something about that woman, Brittany, had just gotten to her. She couldn't help the way that she had reacted, and it made her feel off balance and out of control.
Without even thinking about it, Santana followed her usual path to the bathroom. There was this little two-stall bathroom with a locking door that she always used because it was so far out of the way and tucked into this little corner that no one even knew where it was, much less used it. That meant that it was always clean. Santana had only ever met one person in there in her years and years of coming to games.
Santana pushed open the door and froze. Standing at the sink, washing her hands, it couldn't be. But there she was. Standing with her hands dripping, blonde hair in a loose ponytail, number seventy-six Canadiens jersey, those eyes looking back through the mirror. Quickly, she shut off the water and turned around.
"Are you fucking following me?" Santana asked, as soon as she found her voice.
"What?" Brittany said, "But I was in here first."
"This is my bathroom. This is the one I always come to. What are you trying to pull?"
"Excuse me for needing to pee!" Brittany said, reaching past Santana for the door handle to leave. Santana wasn't quite sure why, but she blocked the door. "Look, I get that you want to have some big bad fight about how you some how think the Canadiens are big cheaters or whatever, but you could get your ass out of the way, like right now?" Brittany said, taking a step closer, towering over Santana by a few inches.
Santana didn't feel intimated but she did feel something. Without truly understand why, she took a step back, blocking the door more firmly. "No."
"Really? Are you serious?" Brittany said. "You need to move now."
"Or what?" Santana asked, jutting her chin out defiantly.
"Or I'm gonna— I'm—" Brittany trailed off, looking at Santana and then, the next thing that Santana knew, they were kissing. Her hands went from pressing against the door to wrapping around the back of Brittany's neck, pulling her tighter into their bruising kiss. She heard Brittany's fingers scramble on the door for a moment before the lock clicked into place. Then Brittany's hands wrapped around her waist and pulled their hips flush.
There was nothing sweet about their first kiss, but it was exactly what Santana wanted at that moment. Brittany's tongue stroked through her mouth, and Santana reached up, tugging out the hair tie holding all of that gorgeous blonde hair back, before burying her hands in the loose strands. Brittany brought her hands down from Santana's hips to her thighs, lifting her up and walking the few steps back to the sink so that she could set Santana down there. Her hands splayed under Santana's jersey, and then slipped under the black long sleeve she had on for warmth.
Santana certainly didn't need that now. With Brittany's help, she pulled both over her head, and the reached eagerly for the bottom of Brittany's jersey. Each inch of her skin that was revealed was amazing, all milky-white and dotted with freckles. If this was a more tender situation, Santana might have taken the time to kiss every one. Instead, she forced herself to look up to Brittany's face, seeing the way that Brittany's eyes were trained on her chest, drinking every bit of her in. Santana laughed, and Brittany covered Santana's mouth with her own. She tugged Santana a little closer to the edge of the sink, kissing and sucking marks across Santana's chest as she yanked Santana's jeans low enough that she could work her hand inside. Santana was already wet, and Brittany looked up through her eyelashes as she slid two fingers inside.
Santana's head tipped back and she let out a moan that sent chills down Brittany's spine and fire into her belly. Brittany established a rhythm quickly, using the limited space that she had to move her hand, and her mouth on Santana's breasts through the thin material of her bra, working her up steadily, until Santana clamped down around her, thighs pressing tightly to her hand, keeping her in place.
Brittany kissed Santana's mouth a few times, much gentler, until her eyes finally flickered open again and her legs relaxed. Brittany slipped her hand out of Santana's pants and watched her face to see what she was thinking.
"I want to— Uh, I want to help you, too," Santana murmured, and Brittany thought it was adorable how she could go from coming on top of a sink in a public bathroom, to being so shy the next moment. The amusement slipped away once Santana had slid herself off of the sink and back Brittany up a few paces until she was against the wall. Santana's lips found that spot on Brittany's neck, the one that always made her knees weak, and she sucked on it as her hand slipped into Brittany's pants and underwear.
After watching such a beautiful woman orgasm, plus all of the tension they'd been building all game, it didn't take too long for Santana's fingers and her mouth on Brittany's neck to work together, leaving Brittany moaning through her own orgasm. Santana slipped her hand out of Brittany's pants and then rested both on Brittany's hips.
For a moment, Brittany's expected her to move back, maybe even try to deny what had just happened, but she didn't. Santana stayed, her nose nuzzling gently against the mark that was already starting to bloom on Brittany's shoulder. "I'm sorry about before," she finally whispered. "I don't usually act like that."
"I don't either," Brittany responded with a soft laugh. "Something about you, though." She paused for a moment looking into Santana's eyes. They were so deep and wonderfully dark, they made Brittany peaceful. "I've got you under my skin!" Brittany suddenly sang, "I've got you deep in the—" She broke off suddenly, her ears turning bright red. "Sorry, I'm such a dork, I don't even—"
"Deep in the heart of me," Santana finished quietly, before laughing. "I guess we're both dorks."
Brittany grinned and shook her head. She could still feel the warmth in her cheeks and ears, but it was fading. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Santana's mouth. "Do you think we should get back?"
"Probably," Santana said, a little reluctantly. "If they notice we're both gone, they're probably going to think we're off murdering each other somewhere."
"Can I have your number?" Brittany asked. It was crazy. They had already had sex, and maybe that was all that Santana wanted it to be, but Brittany really couldn't live with herself if she didn't at least try to see Santana again. She just had this feeling that she was holding onto something incredible in her arms, and if she let it go, she would live the rest of her life missing it.
"Yeah, you better," Santana said. She didn't reach for her phone right away. Instead, Santana cupped Brittany's face gently and drew her down into a kiss. It was the opposite of their first one, soft and slow, with Brittany's mouth pressing gently against Santana's, each of them breaking apart and coming back together. Finally, Santana pulled away and handed Brittany her phone. Brittany quickly opened a new contact and filled in all of the information that she could think of. When she looked back up, Santana was fixing her hair in the mirror, her jersey and shirt back on. Brittany slipped Santana's phone into the back pocket of her jeans, where she had seen Santana pull it from a few minutes ago, and took the jersey that Santana offered to her.
"I'm not sure that I'm ever going to be able to look at the Habs the same way again," she murmured as she smoothed her hands over the seventy-six on Brittany's back.
"Not such big cheaters now?" Brittany asked, raising her eyebrow with a smirk.
"Hey, don't push it," Santana grumbled, though the dimples in her cheeks showed she clearly wasn't as displeased as she was pretending to be. "I just can't believe I did this with someone who cheers for the other team."
"Actually, I cheer for both teams," Brittany said with a wink, grinning when she saw Santana's dimples show up again. She could spend hours making that happen, if they didn't have places to be.
Brittany ducked her head and kissed Santana one more time, before offering her hand. Santana took it and walked with Brittany to the door, which they unlocked and back out through the halls of the TD Garden. Brittany was glad to have Santana with her, because she wouldn't have found it quite so easy to get back.
Unfortunately, that meant that they were standing in front of the doors to get back into the stadium well before Brittany would have liked. Santana glanced around quickly to make sure that Julia, Uncle Tomas, and her father were all still in their seats and not going to catch her, before kissing Brittany one last time.
Both lingered after the kiss, their eyes closed, savoring the last taste, for now at least, before parting. Santana watched Brittany out of the corner of her eye as they walked down the stairs, on opposite ends of a row. Santana slid back into her seat, her family too engrossed in the double overtime going on to notice how long Santana had been gone.
"Got lost," Brittany whispered to her sister's questioning look.
She tried to focus on the game, but she couldn't help but keep sneaking peeks down the row. Santana seemed engrossed in her phone and Brittany was a little disappointed until she felt her own phone buzz. Quickly, Brittany pulled it out and read the text message on her screen. Sorry, but you've got a huge hickey on your neck. Brittany reached up with a dazed sort of smile and felt the skin on the left side of her neck, luckily facing away from her inquisitive little sister. Quickly, Brittany pulled her hair over to that side and worked it into a loose braid that would hopefully hide it for the time being.
Just as she finished, right as the overtime ended with a beautiful goal by Bergeron of the Bruins, Brittany's phone buzzed again. She looked down at the screen.
Maybe I can make another one this weekend.
Brittany swallowed thickly and then looked up at Santana who was smirking across the full row of celebrating fans. Brittany nodded, a grin growing on her face. "Please do," she mouthed back. "I'll text you when I get home."
"Please do," Santana echoed before letting herself get swept up in the celebration of her father.
Later, though not without a bit of blush in her cheeks, Santana could truthfully tell her mother it was the best game that she had ever been to.