summary: when the hughes brothers ask matt boldy to watch over their "little sister" while she is away for college, things take a turn when he ends up falling for her
authors note: this was the VERY first piece i ever ever wrote! sorry if its all over the place! its like half edited!
masterlist
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Fate, in all her quiet mischief, had chosen a very specific day to intertwine the lives of the Stella and Hughes families—the day the Stellas bought the lakeside cottage right next to the Hughes’. From that moment on, it was as if the two families had always existed side by side. It didn’t take long for the connection to deepen. With Dominic Stella rotating through assistant coaching jobs across the WHL and Monica Stella proudly carrying her legacy as a former assistant coach for Boston College Women’s Soccer, it was clear: sports ran in their veins like oxygen. Passion bled from both lineages.
The two couples became fast friends, the kind of friends who blurred the lines between family and neighbors. Dinners turned into sleepovers, tournaments into family vacations, and somewhere in between, Maisy Stella became the honorary fourth Hughes sibling—no questions asked.
The Stellas had two kids. Their eldest, Darien, carried the weight of an older brother’s love with an iron grip. Eight years separated him from Maisy, but the bond between them was ironclad. Darien was fiercely protective, to the point where it became his second nature. Watching Maisy grow up was like watching a star he couldn’t hold onto, not forever. He always knew the day would come when he couldn’t be there to watch over her—and it terrified him.
But then came the Hughes boys.
When Darien saw the way Quinn, Jack, and Luke looked at Maisy—as if she were made of glass and sunlight all at once—he felt something settle in his chest. Relief. They were captivated, just like him. Maybe it was the way she skipped through life with careless joy, giggling at nothing, dancing with everything. Maisy had always been a walking burst of light, the kind of girl who didn’t just walk into a room—she changed it. And now Darien wasn’t the only one who saw it.
Maisy had been just eight when she first met the Hughes boys, gravitating immediately toward the youngest—Luke—who was barely a year younger. From the start, they were inseparable. While the older boys busied themselves with teasing and pestering Darien about girls and parties, Luke and Maisy would retreat into their own little world—curled up in the backyard on picnic blankets, whispering to each other under the stars. Their laughter would drift through the night like music, private and sacred.
Then came hockey.
It was everything to the boys. Quinn, Jack, Luke, and Darien all breathed the sport, their lives defined by frozen rinks and worn-in sticks. Everyone tried to pull Maisy in, but she had her own rhythm. Soccer claimed her heart, much to Monica’s quiet delight. Still, Maisy was always in the stands—cheering, screaming, supporting her boys. And in return, they sat under the sweltering sun watching her dominate the pitch, proud as ever.
But time, as it always does, moved forward.
Darien was eventually offered a contract to play pro in Europe—a dream, a risk, a leap. He was torn. He could’ve taken the safe path and gone to the University of Michigan, stayed close, kept watching over Maisy. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t hold her hand forever. And so, he chose the unknown.
That night, after the news broke, Darien and Quinn sat around the firepit behind the cottage. Flames crackled low, shadows dancing across their faces. Quinn noticed the way Darien stared into the embers, jaw tight, eyes distant.
“You’ve been quiet, man,” Quinn said gently, nudging him with an elbow. “What’s going on up there?”
Darien exhaled a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for years. He rubbed his face with his rough, hockey-worn hands. “I’m just… worried. About her.” He shook his head, voice thick. “When I’m gone, who’s gonna look out for her?”
He should’ve been ecstatic—Europe, pro hockey, a dream within reach. But all he could think about was leaving his baby sister behind in a world that didn’t always play fair.
Quinn didn’t need an explanation. He understood. As much as he teased Jack and Luke, as much as they bickered and bantered, he would burn the world down for them. He knew that same protective ache—the one that settled deep in the chest and never quite went away. He had grown to love Maisy too. She wasn’t just Darien’s sister anymore. She was family.
And in that moment, something shifted in Quinn. A vow, quiet and unspoken, rose within him.
He met Darien’s eyes—serious, steady, unwavering.
“I’ve got her.”
Three words. That was all it took.
But in those three words, Darien heard everything he needed to. Loyalty. Brotherhood. Promise.
And for the first time since he made the decision to leave, Darien felt like maybe—just maybe—it would be okay.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Quinn was the first to invite a friend to the cottage for the summer. He was fifteen when he brought Josh Norris along to spend a few weeks lakeside with the Stellas and the Hugheses—a quiet introduction that would become a core memory for Maisy Stella.
The moment Maisy laid eyes on Josh, she was convinced she was in love. She was only eleven, but it didn’t matter. Her heart raced every time he looked her way, and her cheeks flushed a shade of pink the Hughes boys quickly learned to tease her about mercilessly. Jack called her "Mrs. Norris" for a week straight, and Luke couldn’t stop snickering whenever Josh so much as said hello to her.
Quinn, though, didn’t take it lightly. He knew she’d grow out of it—everyone had childhood crushes—but she was still his little sister in all the ways that mattered. And Josh? Josh was his best friend. He trusted him. Quinn made it clear, without ever needing to say it out loud, that Maisy was off limits. And Josh wasn’t stupid. He was around the Hughes family enough to know exactly how fiercely protective they were of Maisy. Besides, she was way too young. He would never risk his friendship with Quinn for a fleeting crush that wouldn’t lead anywhere.
Maisy, however, wasn’t exactly subtle. She insisted on sitting behind the bench at every game Josh played in. She'd avoid eye contact at all costs—except when she was very obviously staring—and giggle at things he said even if they weren’t funny. Her crush carried on for months after that summer, lingering like a sweet ache.
So, when Quinn casually told her that Josh would be spending part of the next summer with them again, Maisy panicked.
She called her brother in a spiral, pacing her bedroom and rambling about how she wasn’t ready to spend the summer with "the love of her life." Darien, ever the protective older brother, didn’t hesitate. He launched straight into big brother mode, insisting she was too young for boys, let alone crushes, and then promptly texted Quinn to make sure Josh stayed as far away from Maisy as possible.
Quinn responded with a laugh and a promise. Josh wasn’t that kind of guy. He never had been. Maisy would be fine.
But then came the heartbreak.
One afternoon, after one of Quinn’s games, Maisy saw Josh come out of the rink holding hands with another girl. She froze. It felt like something inside her cracked. She blinked hard, hoping she’d imagined it, but the image was burned into her mind. Her throat tightened. She barely made it out of the arena before the tears came.
She cried into Luke’s hoodie that night, curled into his side on the couch. He held her awkwardly at first, unsure of what to do, but he stayed with her. Quiet, loyal. Eventually, he texted Jack, who ran out to grab snacks, and started setting up a movie night downstairs while Maisy sobbed quietly into the fabric of his sleeve.
Quinn, meanwhile, took the moment to sit beside her. He wasn’t the comforting type—not in the way Luke was—but he knew when to talk. When her tears slowed and her sniffles softened, he handed her a blanket and spoke.
“Boys can be jerks,” he said simply. “Even the good ones. Especially when it comes to feelings.”
She didn’t say anything. Just listened.
“You’ve gotta protect yourself,” he continued. “Because we’re not always going to be around to do it for you. Life’s not fair. People don’t always mean to hurt you, but they will. And I don’t ever want to see you shattered because you gave your heart to someone who didn’t know what to do with it.”
She didn’t fully understand what he meant. Not yet. But the way he said it, the way his voice was softer than usual—like it carried the weight of something he’d lived—made her nod.
Eventually, she’d grow up and remember those words. She’d carry them with her through heartbreaks and hope, through every moment someone made her feel small. She’d learn, piece by piece, what it meant to protect her own heart. But that night, surrounded by her boys, cocooned in blankets and flickering screen light, all she needed was to feel safe again.
And she did.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Jack was the next Hughes brother to bring friends into the fold. After entering the USA NTDP program, he found himself surrounded by a new brotherhood of teammates—guys he clicked with instantly. It didn’t take long before he started dreaming about introducing them to cottage life. But inviting his new friends to the lake meant exposing them to Maisy. And that meant boundaries. Before any handshakes or hellos, Jack made one thing abundantly clear: Maisy Stella was off limits. No flirting, no teasing, no second glances. A code of honor sealed with a promise.
Trevor Zegras, Cole Caulfield, and Alex Turcotte arrived that summer, full of energy and charm. Maisy, now in her early teens, clicked with them instantly. Trevor was loud and hilarious, always up to something mischievous. Cole’s laugh was infectious—he made her feel welcome, like she was part of their world. And Alex had a quiet gentleness that reminded her of Quinn; protective glances, a soft smile when the others were too loud. The first time they met, there was a beat of stunned silence. Maisy’s big blue eyes and soft, airy voice captivated them instantly.
Then came the smacks to the backs of their heads. Jack and Luke, ever the enforcers.
The promise stood: Maisy was off limits.
That year, though full of laughter and warm nights, weighed heavier on Maisy. Darien had been in Sweden for a few years now, and it was starting to ache. They barely spoke—time zones, soccer, school, life. She buried herself in soccer camps, obsessed over perfect grades, did everything she could to distract herself from the growing emptiness.
It all came crashing down during a local game. She saw them first—Quinn, Jack, and Luke—sitting in the stands, proudly wearing those ridiculous homemade shirts from years ago. Maisy’s Cheer Squad. She should’ve laughed. She should’ve smiled. But she didn’t.
Because one chair was still empty.
Darien’s chair.
She played the worst game of her life that night. She fumbled every pass, missed easy shots, lost herself. Afterward, her boys tried everything—ice cream, jokes, comfort. Nothing worked. She just kept whispering, "I miss him. I just want him here." Jack finally broke. He sent Darien a message, telling him to come home. Whatever it took. He had to be here.
That night, Darien booked a one-way ticket.
Summer came like a dream. The sun hung heavy over the lake, Jack’s friends were on their way, and Maisy—Maisy couldn’t stop smiling. Darien was coming home. Everything felt right again.
On their first night back, the two families transformed the Stellas’ backyard into a makeshift movie theater. A white bedsheet was strung between two trees, blankets and pillows covered the lawn, and Grease flickered onto the screen as laughter echoed through the night air. Halfway through, Ellen noticed something.
Luke and Maisy were missing.
Following her gut, she wandered past the patio, past the firepit, and around the yard until she found them. Side by side on a picnic blanket, lying beneath the stars. They didn’t even notice her. Just like always, they were in their own little world. Luke was talking about a girl named Sammy from his class—his eyes shining, cheeks a little pink. Maisy teased him relentlessly, nudging his arm and giggling. They’d been teased for being so close, but it never bothered them. They knew. It was never like that. It was deeper. Safer.
Luke eventually turned the question back to her. Did she like anyone? Maisy blushed, admitting there was a guy named Mark in her English class who made her heart flutter. They laughed about it. She was glowing. Her best friend beside her. Her brother coming home. For the first time in months, everything felt like it was finally falling into place.
A week later, a scream pierced the night.
Ellen and Jim Hughes jolted awake. Red and blue lights bled through their bedroom window. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
They shook Quinn awake and raced next door.
Inside the Stella house, time stopped.
Monica was on the floor, wailing in a way that didn’t sound human. Dominic sat beside her, eyes vacant, tears pouring silently. Two police officers stood nearby, solemn and still. The world felt tilted, like it had slipped out of orbit.
Quinn’s eyes scanned the room.
No sign of Maisy.
He didn’t speak. Just turned and ran. Room to room. Nothing.
Then—outside. The dock.
He spotted a tiny figure, sitting at the edge, feet skimming the lake. Her hair was down, her body hunched. The sky above was still dark, but it didn’t matter. He knew it was her.
He walked slowly, quietly, and sat beside her. Neither of them spoke. The water lapped gently at their feet. His pajama pants soaked through, but he didn’t care.
Then he looked at her.
And his heart broke.
Maisy’s face was pale, her skin blotchy from crying. Her eyes—once the brightest shade of blue—had dulled to a stormy gray. Her lips trembled. Her voice cracked.
"He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone…"
It hit Quinn like a freight train.
Darien.
He was supposed to come home. Tomorrow morning.
Maisy turned to him, eyes hollow, voice barely above a whisper.
"He’s gone, Quinn. Darien’s gone."
And just like that, everything shattered.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Maisy was never the same after that night.
The girl who once radiated light—who made people smile just by walking into a room—disappeared into the shadows. It was as if someone had flipped a switch inside her, extinguishing the sun. The warmth in her laugh, the sparkle in her big blue eyes, the way she used to bounce through life with a soccer ball at her feet and a grin on her face—it was all gone. The Maisy the Hughes boys knew and loved didn’t just fade. She vanished.
In her place stood someone cold, quiet, and unreachable. She spoke in clipped tones. Her smiles were rare and hollow. She shut everyone out—everyone except Quinn, Jack, and Luke. With them, she still allowed flickers of her old self to bleed through, but they were just that: flickers.
After Darien’s funeral, the tension inside the Stella home began to boil. Monica and Dominic’s relationship fractured under the weight of their grief. They fought almost every night, their voices sharp and unrelenting. Maisy couldn’t bear it. Her house no longer felt like home—it felt like a battlefield. So she fled. Night after night, she’d slip away to the Hughes house, curling up on the couch or slipping into the spare room without saying much at all. Ellen and Jim became her refuge, the safe harbor she desperately needed. They held her as she cried, fed her when she didn’t have the energy to eat, and let her grieve at her own pace.
Eventually, Monica and Dominic made a choice. They didn’t want to lose their daughter, not after already losing their son. The pain had cracked them too deeply to ever fully mend, so they separated. Dominic returned to Canada, chasing the familiarity of coaching in a desperate attempt to stay afloat. Monica stayed behind with Maisy, helping her get through the last stretch of high school.
It crushed Maisy to watch her family fall apart, but she understood. Somewhere deep down, she knew they were all just trying to survive. She missed her dad at her soccer games—missed his cheers, his proud grin—but she knew he was still rooting for her, even from miles away.
Once the dust had settled, once the casseroles from neighbors stopped coming and the whispers faded, the Hughes boys found themselves drawn back to the dock. The same one where Quinn had once sat with Maisy as her world collapsed. This time, it was Quinn, Jack, and Luke.
They didn’t speak for a long while. The sun had dipped low, casting golden light across the lake, and the silence between them was heavy—but not empty. It was filled with memories, pain, and quiet resolve.
Quinn’s mind was a storm. His NHL draft was only weeks away. College loomed. Everything in his life was shifting, but none of it mattered more than the promise he made to Darien. A promise forged in grief, sealed by firelight.
He stared out over the water, his voice steady but soft. "We have to be there for her."
Jack and Luke looked over at him.
"She’s going to be hurting for a long time. Maybe forever. I don’t care how hard it gets, or how long it takes—we have to help her find her way back. She needs to know we’re not going anywhere. We don’t let go. Not of her."
Quinn’s throat tightened. He blinked back the sting in his eyes.
Without a word, Jack wrapped an arm around his brothers, pulling them close. Luke leaned in, silent tears slipping down his cheeks.
"She’s gonna be okay," Jack whispered, voice thick with emotion. "We’ve got her."
And in that moment, surrounded by the only constants left in their world, they made a silent pact.
Whatever it took.
They were bringing their sister back home.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Matt had been coming to the Hughes cottage for a few summers now. The place was serene, addictive—every sunset etched into his memory like the lyrics of a favorite song. Each year, the group of boys seemed to grow, their laughs louder, their bond stronger. Eventually, the Hughes cottage couldn’t hold them all. Thankfully, the neighbors—the Stellas—were close friends and happy to open their doors. Their house became a much-needed extension of the Hughes summer crew.
Matt was always intrigued by the Stellas, mostly by the girl who rarely spoke and never smiled. Maisy.
To Matt, Maisy Stella was a mystery. She was nothing like the Hughes boys—her energy cold and quiet, her presence guarded and sharp. Most of the boys steered clear, but Matt watched. Quietly. He saw the way her edges softened around the brothers, how her scowl would melt into something gentler when she looked at Jack, Luke, or Quinn. He noticed how she wore their jerseys to games and only showed up to parties when one of the Hughes boys hosted. She rarely talked to anyone outside of that tight circle, and when she did, her words were clipped, uninterested.
Matt didn’t know much about her, only what Jack occasionally shared: she played soccer, had worn the USA crest more than once, and carried the weight of more than anyone could see. He’d gone to a few of her games, always at Jack’s insistence, wearing those obnoxious pink t-shirts that read Maisy’s Cheer Squad. Trevor brought a cardboard cutout of her face to one match. It made her blush and bury her face in her hoodie, but the boys caught the flicker of a smile she tried to hide.
Lately though, something had changed.
Maisy had been getting rides home from someone else. Jack mentioned a boyfriend—Mark. Some guy from school. Matt didn’t think much of it. Until that night.
Trevor heard about a party across town and insisted it was the perfect way to kick off summer. Maisy initially declined. Parties weren’t really her thing. But Trevor was relentless, and eventually, she caved.
Matt and Cole were the designated drivers. The rest of the group was already tipsy before they even left. It took some effort to pack everyone into the two vehicles, limbs tangled and laughter filling the air. The party was packed—one of the football guys was hosting, and in Michigan, that meant the entire town showed up.
People dispersed quickly once they arrived. Trevor and Cam flirted their way across the backyard, Jack and Turcs disappeared somewhere inside, and Matt ended up by the beer pong table with Beech. An hour or so in, Matt went hunting for a bathroom.
Every door was the wrong one. He tried upstairs, the last hope. Three doors. The first—a linen closet. The second—he flung open and immediately slammed shut. A guy in a Packers jersey and a redhead, tangled on the bed. Gross.
Then something clicked.
That guy. The jersey. The face.
Mark.
He didn’t have time to think before the hallway door opened behind him. He turned to find Maisy standing there, about to reach for the same bedroom door. Her voice was soft.
“Any luck finding the bathroom?”
He froze. Shook his head. Panic blooming in his chest.
Maisy shrugged, hand on the doorknob.
And then the door swung open.
The redhead stumbled out first, giggling, adjusting her skirt, clearly drunk. Maisy tried to move aside—and then bumped into someone.
Mark.
Too busy zipping up his pants to notice her, he brushed past her like she was no one. No pause. No apology.
Matt watched her freeze. Watched the color drain from her face.
She backed into the wall, slowly slid down to the floor. Her arms wrapped around her knees. Her shoulders began to shake.
Then she broke.
The sobs came fast. Hard. Raw. Her face buried in her arms, tears falling like rain. Matt rushed to her side, unsure of what to say, unsure if anything could help. So he did the only thing he could—he wrapped his arms around her and held her. Let her cry until her fists balled in his sweater and her heartbreak soaked into the fabric.
He didn’t move. He let her soak him in sorrow, his arms firm around her like an anchor in a storm. The weight of her pain pressed into his chest, and he accepted it without question, without hesitation. Her sobs slowed to quiet trembles, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Matt wasn’t sure why, but in that moment, he knew she just needed someone to stay. So he did.
Eventually, Trevor stumbled up the stairs, Jack and Alex trailing behind. They stopped cold at the sight.
Jack’s face dropped.
“M? Maisy? What happened?”
No response. Just her small body shaking.
Jack turned to Matt, demanding answers.
Matt said only one word.
"Mark."
A week later, Mark had the audacity to show up at the Stella house. Bags in hand. Smiling. Expecting a summer like nothing had changed.
Luke answered the door.
The second he saw Mark, every muscle in his body tensed. He gritted his teeth and stood tall, blocking the entrance.
Mark frowned. “What’s your problem, man? Let me in.”
“You’re not welcome here,” Luke said, low and cold.
Mark tried to step forward, using his height to intimidate. But Luke didn’t budge.
Inside, Quinn looked up from the couch where he was sitting beside Maisy. Her head was on his shoulder, eyes distant. The commotion drew his attention, and he walked toward the door, voice even.
“You need to leave. She doesn’t want to see you.”
Still, Mark pushed. Claimed he didn’t know what was going on. Said it was all a misunderstanding.
Bullshit.
The boat docked in the distance. Jack was back.
Cole spotted the unfamiliar car in the driveway first.
“That’s Mark’s car,” Jack muttered, fury rising.
He didn’t even wait to tie off the boat properly. He sprinted toward the house, Trevor and Alex on his heels. Bursting through the front door, he saw him.
Quinn grabbed Jack before he could launch himself at Mark. Alex and Trevor pulled him back.
“You absolute piece of shit—how dare you show your face here?!” Jack shouted.
Maisy emerged from the hallway. Her eyes landed on Mark and something inside her hardened.
He lit up. “Baby, tell them to stop! Tell them we’re fine!”
Maisy didn’t blink.
Jack snarled. “Fine? Who the hell was that redhead then? The one you were inside when she walked in?”
Mark stammered. “It was a mistake! She came on to me!”
Maisy stepped forward.
Two hands on his shoulders. Her eyes locked on his.
And then she brought her knee up. Hard.
Mark doubled over in pain, gasping.
Maisy leaned in, grabbed his chin. Whispered just loud enough for him to hear.
“Get out. Before I let Jack finish what I started.”
Then she slapped him—hard—and turned on her heel, disappearing into the house.
The door slammed shut.
And for the rest of the day, she didn’t come out.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
It was hard on Luke and Maisy when Quinn left for Vancouver. They’d always leaned on him—he was their anchor, their voice of reason, the steady older brother who made things feel safe. His absence was like losing a part of their foundation. But they had Jack. And having Jack around made it a little more bearable. He filled the space Quinn left behind in his own chaotic way—louder, messier, but warm and constant.
Now, Jack was getting ready to leave too. His NHL draft was just days away, and all signs pointed toward New Jersey. Maisy was thrilled for him—so proud she could burst. But underneath all that joy sat a quiet ache.
She remembered Quinn’s draft day like it was yesterday. It came just a few months after Darien’s passing, and the weight of his absence was unbearable. Everyone tried their best to smile, to celebrate, but it hung over the day like a shadow. Maisy stuck close to Luke and Ellen, trying to keep it together. She didn’t want to cry—not on Quinn’s big day.
But Quinn had always seen through her.
Just before they went to find their seats, he pulled her aside. She was already crying.
“He’s so proud of you, Quinn,” she whispered, voice cracking.
Quinn blinked, a single tear slipping down his cheek. Maisy reached up, wiped it away, and smiled through her own.
She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight.
When they got home after he was drafted to the Canucks, Quinn and Maisy ended up on the dock—the same place they’d sat the night Darien died. They stayed there for hours, trading stories and memories. They talked about everything—about growing up, about missing him, about the ache that never quite faded. And when the sky turned dark, they tilted their heads back and scanned the stars.
Trying to find the one that belonged to Darien.
Jack’s draft day was different. Louder. Crazier. Cameras swarmed the venue, buzzing like bees, documenting every move of the projected first overall pick. Jack was magnetic—cracking jokes, flashing his trademark grin, soaking up the attention like he was born for it. He posed for pictures, answered questions with charm, and moved through the day with the energy of someone who knew he belonged on that stage. But underneath the confidence, Jack carried something else. Something heavier.
He hadn’t told many people. Just his family. Just Ellen.
When the media crew asked about his suit—a sleek, custom navy piece with a burgundy tie—he chuckled and told them to give him a second. He slowly shrugged off the jacket, folding it over one arm before flipping it inside out. There, stitched behind the left breast pocket, directly over his heart, was a number.
26.
Darien’s number.
Gasps from those watching nearby filled the air. The camera zoomed in. Jack glanced sideways and found Maisy in the crowd. Their eyes locked, and she crumpled. The tears came fast, unrelenting. She buried her face in Jack’s chest when he reached her, wrapping her in the tightest hug.
“You like it?” he asked, voice cracking.
She nodded into his shoulder, unable to speak.
“You think he’d be proud?”
Maisy pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. "More than proud. He’d be bragging about you to every coach in the league."
He let out a shaky breath, one hand cupping the back of her head as he kissed her temple. Jack never said it often, but Maisy was his sister just as much as she was Luke’s and Quinn's. This moment wasn’t just for him—it was for all of them. For Darien.
When his name was finally called, time stood still.
"With the first overall pick in the 2019 NHL Draft, the New Jersey Devils select... Jack Hughes."
Cheers erupted. Flashbulbs burst. Jack made his way to the stage, accepted the jersey with pride, and slipped it on. Before walking off, he paused.
He looked up, his chest rising as he pointed to the sky.
The arena quieted just slightly, long enough for people to understand.
Later, in an interview, Jack explained.
"That was for my brother. My oldest brother, Darien. He didn’t get to be here, but I know he’s watching. I carry him with me every day. Especially today."
After Jack left for Jersey and Quinn returned to Vancouver, the silence hit harder than either of them expected. For the first time, the house felt too big, too still. The echoes of laughter that once bounced through the walls were replaced with long stretches of quiet.
Maisy started sleeping over more, sometimes without saying much at all. They didn’t need words—they just needed each other. Luke would wait for her after practice, drive her home from games, sometimes just to sit in the driveway and talk about nothing. Other nights, they’d sneak into the Hughes living room at 2 a.m. with bowls of cereal, watching reruns of shows they used to love with Jack. It became their thing.
They went on long walks with no destination, talked about the dumbest things, but also about the things that mattered. About Darien. About the way grief sometimes felt like wearing wet clothes—always clinging, always cold.
One night, Maisy had a nightmare. She showed up at Luke’s door crying, and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into his arms and held her like Quinn and Jack once did. That night, he promised her again. "I’ve got you, M. Always."
They were just two kids carrying too much, holding each other up the best they could.
Maisy’s final year of high school came with a decision she had been avoiding. Everyone assumed she’d go to Michigan. It made sense—Quinn had gone, Luke would be there soon, and it was home.
But her heart was restless.
She needed change.
She needed to feel alive again.
Boston offered her that.
She kept it quiet at first, afraid of what it might mean—afraid of breaking Luke’s heart. But she knew she had to tell him.
They were lying in the Hughes backyard, heads tilted toward the stars. A comfortable silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finally, she spoke.
“Luke… I want to go to Boston.”
She said it softly, like it might shatter between them.
Luke didn’t say anything right away. He turned his head to look at her. Her eyes shimmered in the moonlight, and for the first time in years, he saw something there—hope. A sparkle he hadn’t seen since before Darien.
His heart cracked a little. Of course he wanted her at Michigan. He wanted her close, always. But this—this was what she needed.
He nodded.
“I know.”
Maisy blinked. “You do?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “You’ve been stuck here too long. You need something new. Something just for you.”
She smiled, but it wobbled.
“I’m gonna miss you, Lukey.”
“I’m gonna miss you too, M. But I’m proud of you. So damn proud.”
He reached over, threading their fingers together.
They lay there under the stars, just the two of them, not quite ready to say goodbye—but starting to understand that letting go didn’t mean losing each other.
It just meant growing.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
It was officially move-in day for Maisy.
Her stomach twisted with nerves and anticipation. Boston felt so big, so unfamiliar. The campus buzzed with early arrivals, but it was still quiet compared to what it would be in a few weeks. The air was thick with the weight of change. The women's soccer team was kicking off summer training, which meant Maisy was one of the first to move into her dorm—no crowds, no chaos, just the hollow echo of new beginnings.
Luke came with her, of course. He wouldn’t have let her do this alone.
They carried up her things—box by box, bag by bag. He helped hang her fairy lights exactly the way she liked, folded her clothes with the precision only a younger brother trying to stall time could manage, and arranged her desk with ridiculous attention to detail. They didn’t say much while they worked. They didn’t need to.
It was a bittersweet kind of silence—the kind that settles when you know you're about to turn a page and leave an entire chapter behind.
When the time came to say goodbye, they lingered. Maisy stared at the open door, her arms wrapped tightly around Luke, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. She didn’t want to let go. Neither did he. This was it. This was the end of what they knew—the late-night drives, the cereal, the dock, the whispered memories. This was the start of something new for her. And for Luke, it was letting go.
“Text me when you wake up,” he whispered.
“You’ll be the first,” she replied, voice cracking.
It was bittersweet.
They both felt it—that push and pull of pride and heartbreak. It was the beginning of something new, something Maisy needed. But it also meant the closing of a chapter they weren’t quite ready to end. One written in backyard stargazing and cereal at 2 a.m., in unsaid words and lifelong promises.
Eventually, reluctantly, she pulled away, telling him he needed to get on the road before the sky turned too dark. He nodded, brushing his sleeve across his eyes before turning to leave. But instead of pressing the elevator button to go down, Luke pressed one for the floor above.
He had one more stop to make.
Matt had only just finished unpacking the last of his things. The walls of his dorm still smelled like fresh paint and cardboard boxes. Alex Newhook, his roommate, was off at the gym, and Matt was enjoying the rare silence. Until a knock echoed through the door.
He didn’t think much of it—maybe Alex forgot his key. But when he swung the door open, he froze.
Luke Hughes.
Standing there, looking exhausted and wrecked in a way that had nothing to do with moving boxes.
"I need you to promise me something," Luke said. No greeting. No small talk. Just a voice weighed down by something far heavier than words.
Matt stepped back and gestured for him to come in. "What’s going on? What do you need?"
Luke looked around the room like he didn’t know how to start, like the words themselves were too big. He rubbed a hand over his face before finally meeting Matt’s eyes.
"I need you to take care of her."
Matt’s brow furrowed. "Maisy?"
Luke nodded. "She’s not just my best friend. She’s my sister. She’s our sister. Me, Jack, Quinn—we’ve spent our whole lives protecting her. Watching over her. And now we can’t be here. None of us. Not like we used to."
He took a breath, the kind you take before saying something sacred.
"We lost someone once. Darien. He was her everything. And after that, we made a promise to look out for her. To never let her feel alone again. And I know you and her haven’t… you don’t know her the way we do. But I’ve seen the way you are, Matt. I’ve seen you at her games. I’ve seen you sit with her when she’s quiet. I’ve seen you notice her when no one else does."
Matt’s throat tightened. He hadn’t known it showed.
Luke took a step closer.
"I need to know that if she ever breaks, someone will be there to pick up the pieces. That if she starts to pull away again, someone will remind her she’s not alone. That someone will protect her the way we always have."
It was more than an ask. It was a responsibility forged in love and grief, entrusted to someone they barely knew—but hoped could become her anchor.
A sacred passing of the torch.
Matt nodded slowly, the weight of the moment settling into his chest.
Then, with calm certainty, he met Luke’s gaze.
"I’ve got her."
Luke blinked, his jaw tensing with emotion. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Luke reached out and gripped Matt’s shoulder—a silent thank you, a silent trust.
And then he turned, walking out of the room.
Leaving behind the one person he hoped could become her next safe place.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Maisy was settling into her new situation a lot better than she had expected. In the weeks leading up to her move, she had braced herself for the worst—awkward roommate situations, homesickness that wouldn't let up, or worse, feeling like she didn’t belong. But Boston had surprised her. The campus had a kind of energy that buzzed beneath her skin, and the soccer field felt like a second home the moment her cleats hit the turf.
She was finally starting to feel like herself again. The girls on the soccer team were sharp, funny, and tough as nails, and they welcomed her into their circle without hesitation. There were jokes at water breaks, music blasting in the locker room, and fierce competition that pushed her to her limits. That was what Maisy thrived on. Being pushed. Being seen.
She bonded quickly with her roommate, Addison—Addy—who was easygoing in a way Maisy found comforting. Addy didn’t ask too many questions, but she always knew when Maisy needed to vent or be pulled out of a slump. They shared playlists, swapped clothes, and whispered late into the night like they were kids at summer camp.
Maisy’s confidence on the field grew with every practice. She was earning her place—not just skating by. It was the kind of progress she hadn’t felt in a long time. For the first time since Darien’s death, since the goodbye with Luke, she didn’t feel like she was walking around with a hole in her chest. Here, she had purpose. Structure. A shot at something more.
For a while, things felt... good.
But that high didn’t last forever.
One quiet night, the homesickness crept in like a slow fog—thick and relentless. It wasn’t triggered by anything specific. No sad song on shuffle, no familiar scent wafting through the dorm, no phone call gone unanswered. It just arrived, heavy and unwelcome. She had been sitting by the window in her room, watching the streetlights flicker, when the weight in her chest began to grow.
She missed the comforting chaos of home, the background noise of Jack's obnoxious laughter, Luke’s half-hearted attempts at cooking, the warmth of Quinn’s protective silence. She missed her mom’s voice echoing through the kitchen, and even the quiet grief they still carried together. And more than anything, she missed Darien. That ache never really left—it just faded into the background sometimes, waiting for the silence to settle so it could come clawing back.
She missed Michigan’s grey skies and chilly mornings, the way the air always felt a little damp but familiar. She missed knowing exactly where she was, who she was, and who had her back. Here, everything was new. Everyone was new. And for all the things going right, there was still a void that nothing could quite fill.
She wiped at her eyes quickly, frustrated with herself. She hadn’t even lasted a month. What kind of fresh start was this, if she already wanted to run home?
Addy and a few girls from the team noticed her mood dip. In true college fashion, they decided the cure was a night out. Frat row. Loud music. Cheap drinks. Shiny outfits. Anything to shake the blues.
They dressed her up in the cutest outfit they could throw together—a sparkly silver tank top that caught the light with every movement, a tiny black skirt that flounced with each step, and glittery heels that made her legs look a mile long. Addy curled Maisy's hair into effortless waves and dabbed on just enough highlighter to make her glow like she owned the world. Lip gloss? Check. Perfume? Spritzed generously. They hyped her up like it was game day. Taylor Swift blasted from the Bluetooth speaker while the girls danced around their dorm, snapping selfies and screaming compliments at each other. It was girly pop time, and Maisy, for the first time in days, actually laughed—loud, bright, and free.
By the time they stepped out into the warm Boston night, the group of them looked like they belonged on a magazine cover. Confidence buzzing through their veins, they strutted down frat row like it was their runway. For a little while, Maisy felt like maybe—just maybe—things would be okay.
Matt had made a promise—and he didn’t break promises. Especially not the kind that came with Luke Hughes’ glassy eyes and trembling voice.
So when he saw Maisy at the party, obviously drunk and pressed up against some random frat guy whose hands were way too familiar, something in him snapped. He didn’t think. He just moved.
He slid between them in one quick step and shoved the guy back.
“Bro, do you mind?” the frat boy slurred.
“Yeah, actually. I do. Back off before this becomes a problem.”
Matt was big. Broad. Confident. And pissed. The other guy took one look at him and wisely backed off.
Maisy, on the other hand, was not pleased.
Her jaw dropped. “What the fuck was that?” she yelled, glaring up at him.
“I’m just looking out for you,” Matt said, his voice gentler than his actions. “He was getting handsy and you’re—look, you’re too drunk.”
Maisy’s expression shifted from surprise to fury. “Yeah? Well I don’t need you babysitting me, Matt. So fuck off.”
And with that, she stormed away, leaving Matt standing alone under the flashing lights.
Maisy couldn’t take it anymore.
Everywhere she went—there he was.
Matt Boldy had become a permanent fixture in her orbit. A tall, broad, aggravating presence that hovered just a little too close, a little too often. It was almost like one of the Hughes brothers had hired him to be her full-time chaperone. And honestly? That sounded exactly like something Jack would do.
She thought moving to Boston would be her reset button. Her clean slate. But no, Matt Boldy—of all people—had to be here, too. Or rather, he had already been here. But that didn’t make his constant appearances any less maddening.
He showed up everywhere. At every party, at the gym, in the dining hall, in group hangouts. If she turned a corner, he was probably there. Watching. Hovering.
And not in a creepy way. More like an annoying, I-promised-your-brothers-I’d-keep-you-safe way. But that didn’t make it better. If anything, it made it worse.
The girls on her soccer team started to notice it, too. They teased her relentlessly, whispering that maybe Matt had a crush on her. That maybe he was secretly in love with her. That maybe this was his weird, hockey-boy way of flirting.
They were wrong. Maisy knew it.
This had Hughes written all over it.
What made it worse was that her roommate Addy had started dating his roommate Alex. Which meant that every group lunch, every casual weekend plan, every movie night—Matt was there. Smiling like he didn’t just ruin her night the weekend before. Acting like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn’t the reason guys kept a five-foot radius from her at parties.
Every time she tried to talk to someone—just talk—Matt would appear like some six-foot-two hockey-playing storm cloud. “You’re too drunk.” “That guy’s sketchy.” “You sure you want to be around him?”
It got to the point where people just stopped trying. They knew about Matt. And no one wanted to mess with BC’s golden boy.
She felt cursed. Like she had the cheese touch.
Maisy counted down the days until the hockey season officially started. She prayed he’d get too wrapped up in practices and games to keep breathing down her neck.
But until then, she was stuck with him.
And to make matters worse? He wasn’t even all bad. He was... infuriatingly decent. He was funny in a dry, unexpected way. He showed everyone pictures of his dog back home like a proud parent. He wore the same blue Drew hoodie every other day and somehow made it work. And he really did care about his teammates.
It was enough to make her almost forget how insufferable he was.
Almost.
It all came to a head at a football afterparty.
Maisy was about to make out with Connor—the quarterback, the definition of tall-dark-and-handsome—when Matt appeared, seemingly out of thin air. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away before she even had the chance to lean in.
"Sorry man, not tonight," Matt said coolly to Connor before leading Maisy toward the group of hockey guys on the other side of the house.
Maisy yanked her hand back, face flushed with fury. “What the fuck is your problem, Boldy? You can’t tell me what to do. I don’t care what Jack or Luke told you.”
“Leave me the fuck alone. I’m fine without you. I mean it.”
She turned to walk away, but Matt caught her wrist again and leaned in, his voice low and sharp.
“Really? You’re fine? Going out every weekend, getting wasted, throwing yourself at every guy who looks at you—that’s fine to you?”
The words hit her like a slap.
“You need to wake up, Maisy. Pick yourself up.”
She yanked her arm free and didn’t look back.
Maisy kept her distance after that.
Soccer season was about to begin, and the pressure was on. The home opener against Wisconsin loomed over every practice like a shadow, and Maisy knew this was her moment to prove herself. She wasn’t just fighting for playing time—she was fighting to show everyone, including herself, that she belonged here.
So she buried herself in the grind. Conditioning drills, early morning lifts, tactical sessions. She was the first one on the field and the last one off, her body running on adrenaline, stubbornness, and protein bars. Her cleats barely left the turf as she sprinted, again and again, chasing a version of herself that felt whole.
The loneliness crept in at night, during the quiet moments. Luke had a tournament that overlapped with her first game. Jack and Quinn were buried under their NHL calendars. No one was coming to the opener. No one would be in the stands wearing her number, cheering when her name was called.
The ache of that truth settled in her chest like a rock.
So she ran harder.
It was midafternoon, the sun relentless, when she finally dropped to the grass beside the field. Her shirt clung to her back, her lungs burned, and the world felt like it was spinning slightly off-center. She lay there, face tilted to the sky, trying to slow her breathing and not cry out of pure exhaustion.
Then a shadow fell over her.
She groaned. "Can you actually fuck off for once in your life?" she muttered, eyes still shut.
"Wow... that's harsh! And I thought we had something going at the party the other night."
Her eyes flew open.
Connor.
Maisy jolted upright, flustered. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
Connor laughed, easy and amused, offering her a hand. She hesitated a beat before taking it. Once standing, she brushed grass off her legs, avoiding eye contact as her cheeks flushed.
“No worries, princess. What’s got you out here working like it’s the World Cup?”
Maisy finally looked at him, squinting slightly against the sun. He was even better looking in daylight. His hair curled gently around his ears, a little damp from a workout of his own. His eyes were green and bright, and that smirk of his? Devastating.
She cleared her throat. “We’ve got our home opener coming up. I’m a rookie—I’ve gotta work twice as hard to keep my spot.”
Connor nodded, clearly impressed. “Damn. Respect. You looked locked in out there. Intense.”
She smiled, bashful and surprised by the compliment. “Thanks.”
He glanced toward the gym. “I’ve gotta run—coach is waiting for me. But we should hang out sometime. You know, when you’re not trying to outrun the flash.”
He handed her his phone with Snapchat open, and she typed in her username, trying not to fumble it. Their fingers brushed as she returned the phone, and her stomach flipped—just a little.
Connor started to walk away, then turned back with a grin.
“By the way—you still owe me a kiss, 26!”
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Word spread fast across campus: Maisy Stella and Connor Owens were a thing. It started with a few casual sightings—walking together after classes, sharing smoothies on the quad—but what sealed the gossip was when someone caught her sneaking out of one of the football team’s houses wearing a hoodie far too big to be hers. The dots weren’t hard to connect.
Matt Boldy hated it.
He’d known Connor since freshman year, and if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Connor Owens was bad news. Charming? Yes. Smooth? Absolutely. But Matt had heard enough from the girls on campus—some of whom were his friends—to know Connor had a pattern. He’d flirt, win them over, keep them just long enough to satisfy his ego, and then leave without warning. Always with a different girl, always with the same outcome.
And now Maisy? Sweet, firecracker Maisy, with her razor-sharp tongue and guarded heart? She didn’t deserve that.
Matt tried to let it go. Tried to keep his distance. But it gnawed at him. So, one afternoon after classes, he caught her just outside the building they both had lectures in.
“Maisy,” he called out, jogging to catch up.
She turned, brows already furrowed.
“I need to talk to you,” he said. "About Connor."
Maisy didn’t even wait for the warning to come out of his mouth. "You’ve got to be kidding me," she snapped, loud enough to draw attention from a few students walking by. "What, are you following me now too? Just like every other second of the day?"
“I’m serious, Maisy. He’s not who you think—”
“Fuck off, Matt!” she yelled. "Seriously. Just leave me the hell alone."
She stormed off before he could say another word.
Matt stood frozen in the hallway, heart pounding—not from fear, but frustration. He hated how she looked at him like he was the bad guy. Like he was trying to ruin something good.
Later that night, guilt ate at him. He couldn't sit with it anymore. He picked up the phone and called Jack.
It backfired.
A few days later, as Matt was leaving the rink, mentally preparing to dive into the mountain of homework waiting for him, he spotted a small blonde figure marching toward him with fury in her steps.
Oh no.
Her eyes were sharp, jaw clenched. She was all stormcloud.
“You're actually so unbelievable,” she seethed.
Matt raised a brow. “People tell me that all the time.”
Smack. Her hand connected with his shoulder, then a shove. It didn’t move him much—she was strong, but he was bigger. Still, the force behind it made a point.
“You told Jack? Are you fucking serious?”
Matt’s smirk dropped. “Maisy—”
“What are you? His little bitch now? Can’t fight your own battles so you have to go crying to him?”
That one landed. Hard.
Matt’s insecurities—about being second best, about living in the shadows of Jack’s spotlight—came rushing to the surface. That comment cut deeper than she knew.
He looked down, voice softer. “He’s not a good guy, Maisy. I just didn’t want you to get hurt. Again.”
That word. Again.
It hit her like a brick wall. Images of Mark, of that awful party, of betrayal and heartbreak—all of it surged back. The flashing red lights. The girl stumbling past her with smeared lipstick. The numbness that sank in when she saw him zipping up his jeans, acting like she didn’t exist. It all played in her head like a cruel movie on repeat. Her eyes welled, and she blinked them away quickly, refusing to let Matt—or anyone—see her fall apart like that again.
She didn’t say another word. She turned on her heel and walked away.
She avoided him after that. Lunch? Taken to go. Group hangs outs? Skipped. She buried herself in practice, in studying, in anything that kept her from seeing Matt’s stupid face.
Things with Connor were... fun. At least on the surface. He said all the right things. Knew how to make her laugh. Had this way of making her feel like the only girl in the world when they were alone. She spent most nights at his place, wrapped in his oversized sweatshirts, believing—desperately hoping—that maybe this time, it would be different.
It was the afternoon of her home opener. The stadium buzzed, and so did she. Her name had cracked the starting lineup. After weeks of pushing herself harder than she ever had before, she had earned it.
And yet... the stands felt too empty.
Her brothers weren’t there. Luke had a tournament. Jack and Quinn were mid-season. It hurt more than she let on.
But Connor said he’d be there. Front row. Loudest in the stands. He’d stayed up with her all week as she spiraled through her anxiety. Reassuring her, rubbing her back, telling her she was amazing.
She clung to that.
When they called her name and number, she ran onto the field, her heart pounding. Her eyes scanned the stands, looking for his signature green eyes and floppy brown hair.
But he wasn’t there.
Instead, she caught a different pair of eyes. Blue. Familiar. Matt.
He was wearing that goddamn pink t-shirt—the one her brothers always wore to her games. Maisy’s Cheer Squad.
The sight of him—so still, so steady—knocked the wind out of her. After everything she had said, every harsh word thrown like knives, after pushing him away over and over again... he still came. He still chose to show up. No expectations, no need for recognition. He just sat there, right in the front row, wearing a ridiculous shirt and clapping like she was the most important thing in the world.
Maisy’s chest ached with the weight of it. That kind of loyalty—it didn’t just appear. It was earned. It was rare.
And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, a part of her had been hoping he’d come. A part of her had been looking for him, maybe even before she looked for Connor. Because somewhere deep down, beneath all her anger and confusion, she knew Matt would never let her down like that. He never had.
Her throat tightened as the guilt sank in deeper. The memory of their fight still fresh—her rage, the slap, the words that cut far too close. The look on his face. She remembered it too clearly now. But he showed up anyway. And for a brief, painful second, it reminded her of another night. Another party. Another boy she trusted.
That night with Mark flashed in her mind like lightning. The red lights, the pounding music, the girl stumbling past her with smudged lipstick, and then him—zipping up his jeans, not even looking at her. Acting like she meant nothing. The way her heart shattered in silence while everyone else kept dancing.
That night had changed her. And maybe, just maybe, Matt knew that.
Maisy blinked the sting from her eyes. She couldn’t fall apart now.
Focus.
She turned back to the field.
Focus.
The game began.
She played like her life depended on it. Her passes were sharp. Her defense impenetrable. And then came the breakaway. One clear path to the net. She darted, weaving through defenders, picked up speed—then the fake step, and the ball soared over the goalie’s reach.
Back of the net.
Her teammates swarmed her. Her first college goal. Her first win. It should’ve been perfect.
She looked to the crowd again. Still no Connor. Just Matt. Still in that ridiculous shirt. Still clapping with that stupid proud smile.
Connor never showed.
And he never texted.
No call. No excuse. Just silence.
Maisy told herself it didn’t matter. That she didn’t care. That maybe he just got busy. But the ache in her chest told the truth.
She scrolled through her phone after the game, trying to distract herself. Messages from Luke, Jack, and Quinn flooded her screen—photos of them in their pink shirts, too. Only this time, they weren’t just the old ones. They’d added something.
#ForDarien26.
She broke.
Maisy called each of them that night, crying, laughing, telling them how much she loved them. They weren’t there, but they made her feel like she wasn’t alone.
Her inbox buzzed. Congrats from Trevor. Cam. Johnny. Even Josh Norris, who she hadn’t talked to in years. It all meant something.
And then there were two texts from Matt.
We’re all proud of you, M. Go kill it out there.
Unbelievable game! So happy for you. Treat yourself tonight. Check under your car :)
She paused. Threw on a hoodie and ran to the parking lot.
There, tucked behind her front tire, was a small bouquet of daisies and a note. Matt’s messy handwriting scrawled across the front.
Inside: a gift card to her favorite ice cream shop, and another note.
You were magic tonight. I hope you know that. –M
Maisy stood there, frozen, heart thudding. Everything was a mess—her feelings, her friendships, her sense of trust—but somehow, standing there with daisies in her hand and the night breeze brushing her cheeks, it didn’t feel so heavy.
Maybe she’d been too harsh. Maybe she didn’t know everything.
And maybe... Matt wasn’t the problem at all.
She slid into her car, starting the engine.
Ice cream sounded really good right now.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
It was finally the weekend, and the soccer team had one thing on their minds: celebration. Their first win under their belts, adrenaline still coursing through their veins, they were ready to let loose. Maisy, still emotionally tangled in the wreckage of the last few weeks, needed a night where she didn’t have to think. About Matt. About Connor. About any of it.
Tonight wasn’t about heartbreak. It was about music, red solo cups, bad decisions, and losing herself in something other than the noise in her head.
The party was everything she needed—loud, sweaty, chaotic. She played drinking games with her teammates, screamed the lyrics to early 2000s throwbacks, and laughed louder than she had in weeks. For a few blissful hours, she forgot how heavy everything felt. Her empty cup in hand, she told Addy she was going to refill and made her way through the crowded living room.
The line at the keg was short, and Maisy let her eyes wander as she waited. She scanned the room lazily, watching the blur of bodies dancing, couples making out in corners, people swaying and spinning and laughing.
She’d spotted Matt earlier in the night. He hadn’t approached her, hadn’t hovered. He’d finally given her the space she’d screamed at him to give her. It should have felt like a victory. It didn’t.
Her turn at the keg came quickly, and once she had her drink, she turned to head back. The room had grown even more packed in her short absence, and every few steps she bumped into someone. And then she collided into a solid chest, beer sloshing everywhere.
“Oh shit, I’m—” she began, but the words froze on her tongue.
Connor.
She took a step back, wide eyes taking in the familiar face she hadn’t seen—or heard from—since the game. And then she saw it: his hand. Interlaced with another girl’s.
Her stomach plummeted.
His smile curled, lazy and cruel. "You got a problem?"
That smirk—it used to make her blush. Now, it twisted her insides. It looked so different tonight. Cold. Detached. Like she had never meant anything to him at all.
It hit her all at once.
The familiar pang of betrayal. The humiliation. The ache. The way her chest tightened so suddenly it felt like she couldn’t breathe. It was Mark all over again—the redhead girl at that party, the flash of guiltless eyes, the hand shoved through her as if she were invisible. The breaking. The erasing.
Maisy pushed past Connor, barely able to see where she was going as her vision blurred with tears. The music and crowd pressed in, making the room feel too loud, too hot, too full. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she shoved through the crowd, desperate for an exit, for air.
And then a hand.
Not rough, not forceful—gentle. Steady.
Matt.
She didn’t even have to look. She knew.
He tilted her face up, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen. She met his eyes—calm, concerned, warm. No pity. No anger. Just him.
“Maisy?” he asked, voice low. Safe.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Matty... I wanna leave.”
That was all he needed.
He led her through the mess of bodies like it was muscle memory. Shielding her with his frame, never letting go of her hand. The second they stepped into the cool night air, Maisy let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. A breeze rolled across her bare shoulders and she shivered.
Matt immediately shrugged off his brown button-up, draping it over her. Then he wrapped his arm around her again, pulling her close as they walked in silence.
About halfway back to campus, Matt gently guided her to a bench on a quiet stretch of sidewalk. The moment she sat, the dam broke. Tears spilled freely, sobs shaking her frame as she buried her face in his chest. He didn’t say a word—just held her. Firm. Solid. There.
Like always.
Why was it always him?
When the sobs turned to quiet sniffles, Maisy finally whispered, “You’re always here. Why?”
Matt shifted. He leaned back just enough to see her face, his hand finding its way to her cheek again.
He looked at her for a long moment. Really looked. At her trembling lip, her tear-rimmed lashes, the vulnerability she tried so hard to bury.
And then he said, simply, “Because I want to be.”
The silence that followed was charged, thick with everything they weren’t saying. Her hand reached up, holding his wrist where it cradled her face. Their eyes locked, and neither one looked away.
Matt’s arm still held her close, his other hand now trailing up to the back of her neck. Their bodies had molded into one another, the bench a shrinking island in an otherwise still world. She could feel his breath. Her hands pressed to his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt.
He dipped his head just slightly, gaze flicking to her lips. Her name slipped from her lips in a whisper. “Matt...”
He looked back at her eyes—something shifting behind his. Something fragile. Longing. And then a car drove past, headlights sweeping over them, breaking whatever spell they were under.
Matt pulled back first.
“I should get you home,” he said quietly.
Maisy nodded. He wrapped an arm around her again, pulling her against his side as they walked the rest of the way. Neither spoke.
But everything had changed.
And Maisy didn’t know what scared her more—how much she wanted to kiss him, or how much it already felt like home.
What the fuck was that.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The days after the party passed in a haze neither of them could quite shake.
Whatever had happened between them that night—on the bench, under the stars, in the heat of heartbreak—it was real. Tangible. But now it hovered unspoken in the space between them.
Matt couldn’t stop replaying it in his head. The way she looked at him like he was safety. The way she clung to him like he was all that tethered her to the earth. The softness of her whisper, the near-kiss that had nearly destroyed him. And God, the way he had wanted to close that distance.
But he hadn’t. Because he couldn’t.
Maisy Stella was off limits.
Jack and Luke had never said it directly, but they didn’t have to. It was understood. Maisy was their sister in every way that mattered, and Matt couldn’t cross that line—especially not with everything she’d already been through. She had already been broken by boys who only saw the surface, who never stayed. Matt didn’t want to be the next name on that list.
So, he did what he thought was best.
He put distance between them.
He stopped sitting with her and Addy in the dining hall. He walked different routes to class. He kept himself busy with hockey and late-night gym sessions and assignments he suddenly cared way too much about. He avoided eye contact when they passed in hallways. He laughed louder around other people, hoping it would drown out the ache he felt every time he noticed her across a room.
And Maisy noticed.
She noticed the way his eyes wouldn’t meet hers anymore. The way his seat at their usual table remained empty. The way he didn’t hover at parties or shoot her quiet glances when no one was watching. He wasn’t there at all.
And it confused the hell out of her.
What had she done? Had she imagined it all? The way his arms wrapped around her. The way his voice softened only for her. The look in his eyes when she whispered his name. The way he almost kissed her—almost.
Maisy wasn’t stupid. She’d known how guarded he was. But that night? It felt like a breakthrough. And now, it was like he’d slammed a door in her face.
She went quiet.
Not just with Matt—but with everyone.
Practice became routine. She stopped staying after to joke with her teammates. She ghosted Addy’s offers to go out. Her laughter faded, bit by bit, until it was gone entirely. The light Matt had seen in her—so bright the night she scored that goal—had dimmed.
And that didn’t go unnoticed.
“Hey.”
Matt froze when Luke’s name lit up his phone screen.
He answered, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Yo. What’s up?”
“Is something going on with Maisy?”
The question made his heart stutter.
“I mean,” Luke continued, “I dunno, man. She’s just been... off. Like, more than usual. She doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t smile. Even Addy says she’s been weird lately. And I know you’re around her a lot so I figured I’d check in.”
Matt didn’t know what to say.
How do you explain to the kid you promised to protect her that you might be the reason she’s hurting?
How do you admit that you got too close, that you let her in, and now you’re pulling away—not because you don’t care, but because you care too much?
He rubbed a hand over his face, swallowing the guilt that climbed up his throat.
“She’s just been through a lot,” Matt said eventually, voice low. “Maybe she just needs time.”
Luke sighed. “Yeah, maybe.”
But Matt heard the doubt.
He hung up the phone and sat there in silence, heart pounding. The truth settled heavy in his chest.
He was the reason she was hurting.
And the worst part?
He missed her too.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The home opener had finally arrived for the Boston College hockey team, and the energy buzzing through the arena was electric. Matt could practically taste it. This—this was what he lived for. The crowd, the lights, the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. He needed this more than ever. A few hours on the ice, free from the spiraling chaos inside his head.
He hadn’t let himself think too much in the weeks leading up to tonight. Every spare second had gone to hockey or school. He skipped the parties. Avoided the group hangouts. Avoided her. No Maisy.
But tonight, she’d be here.
Addy had told him as much when she mentioned Maisy was tagging along to watch Alex. That knowledge added a twist to his gut he couldn’t quite shake. He tried. God, he tried to shake it off as he laced up his skates and took the ice for warmups. The second his blades hit the rink, he let the noise fade. Let it be background to the rhythm of routine: one lap around the net, a few wrist shots, then into his drills.
Hockey. That was all that mattered.
The game started off rough. The Eagles took time to find their footing, the opposing team coming in hard and physical. But by the end of the first period, they were finding their groove, Matt falling into his flow like muscle memory.
Meanwhile, in the stands, Maisy sat curled into her seat, surrounded by cheers and chants. She’d been to dozens of hockey games before—between her brothers and Jack, she practically grew up in a rink. But this was the first time she was watching Matt.
And somehow... it felt different.
He skated with a purpose, a sort of silent command that left her breathless. Every stride was precise, every move calculated. She could see the fire in his eyes, the way he read the ice like he was born on it. And she couldn’t stop watching him.
Her mind wandered back to her own home opener. To the nerves, the pressure, the overwhelming weight of it all. And Matt had shown up anyway, even when things between them were... complicated. He still cheered for her. Still left her daisies. Still reminded her of the kind of person he really was.
Without giving herself more time to hesitate, she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure. Then, she typed:
Good luck #12. Cheering for you x – Maisy
It wasn’t much, but it felt like everything.
Back on the ice, Matt didn’t check his phone until after the game, when the Eagles had pulled out a comeback win. He was exhausted and exhilarated, the weight of the game falling off his shoulders as he peeled off his gear and jumped into a quick shower.
When he got back to his locker, towel slung around his neck, he saw her name flash across his screen.
Maisy.
Just her name sent his heart stuttering.
He read the message once. Then again. Then smiled.
Alex, standing beside him, saw the shift and gave him a shove. "Go talk to her, dumbass," he muttered under his breath before disappearing toward the exit.
Maisy was standing off to the side of the family-and-friends section with Addy, chatting and waiting. Her eyes searched the crowd as the players started to filter out. She wasn’t even sure why she’d stayed. Maybe she wanted to see him. Maybe she hoped he’d look at her the way he had on that bench weeks ago.
And then she saw him.
His hair was still damp from the shower, messy and curling around his forehead. The burgundy BC shirt clung to his chest, and the low gym shorts did very little to hide the veins trailing down his arms. She had to look away for a second, her heart pounding embarrassingly hard in her chest.
God, he looked good.
"You played really good tonight," she said when he finally approached, her voice soft.
"Thank you for coming," Matt replied, his voice just as soft. "And for the text. I really appreciated it, M."
Her cheeks warmed. She looked down quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. That nickname.
Addy and Alex swooped in a moment later, full of energy and praise, and within seconds Addy was proposing a celebratory meal.
“Ooh! The four of us should go get food somewhere! To celebrate.”
Maisy and Matt exchanged glances—silent communication still unspoken between them—and they nodded, agreeing to go.
The diner trip was easy. Light. Comfortable in a way that Maisy hadn’t felt in weeks. And from that night on, something between them quietly shifted.
They were civil. The group dynamics returned to normal. They started sitting together again. Supporting each other’s games. He still wore the Maisy’s Cheer Squad shirt. And she still looked for him every time she scored.
Eventually, group hangouts turned into parties again. The four of them became a unit—Matt, Maisy, Addy, and Alex—often moving together through the crowd like their own little orbit.
And somewhere along the way, Maisy started to let her guard down. The anxiety she used to feel around Matt was replaced by a giddy buzz. She found herself laughing more. Touching his arm when she joked. Sitting closer.
They were undefeated beer pong partners—somehow completely in sync. It was stupid how well they worked together. How he always knew where she was. How her eyes always flicked to him first when something funny happened.
Outside of the group, though, they still didn’t hang out one-on-one. Not yet. Not after what happened at the football party. That night still lingered like fog neither of them could clear.
And Maisy? She was spiraling.
She tried to convince herself it was nothing. But her body betrayed her every time he passed her a drink, fingers brushing hers. Or when he’d silently tug off his hoodie and toss it over her shoulders. The small things—the protective hand on her back when they were crossing a crowd, the way he’d pull her away from guys who stared too long—they no longer annoyed her.
They made her blush.
She noticed it in herself too. The way her heart picked up speed when she spotted him in a room. The way her stomach fluttered when their knees touched at a party.
It was undeniable now.
She was falling for Matt Boldy.
And that terrified her.
Because he was Jack’s friend. And despite everything, that meant something.
She couldn’t talk to Luke—not when he’d probably panic, or worse, tease her. Quinn maybe. But Jack? Absolutely not. He’d flip.
So she turned to the only person she trusted enough—Addy.
“I think I’m falling for Matt,” she confessed one night, sitting cross-legged on her bed, fingers nervously twisting the hem of her hoodie.
Addy’s response was instantaneous.
"Oh my GOD. FINALLY!" she squealed, practically jumping on the bed.
Maisy blinked. "Wait—what?"
“You have no idea how many nights me and Alex have talked about this. Like so many. So... did Matt finally get the balls to admit he likes you back?”
Maisy’s jaw dropped.
“He likes me too?”
Addy’s face fell. Panic swept across her expression.
“Oh God... Alex is gonna kill me.”
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Maisy didn’t know what to do after her conversation with Addy. She tried to act normal around Matt, tried to pretend like everything was the same. But it wasn’t. Not even close.
Addy’s words echoed in her head constantly: "He likes you too." They looped again and again, gnawing at her from the inside out. What if Addy was wrong? What if Matt had just been friendly? He was a good guy. He cared about people. Maybe everything he’d done was just part of that. Maybe the flowers, the texts, the soft touches—maybe they were just him being Matt.
And yet, her heart couldn’t help but hope.
She needed to clear her head. So she laced up her cleats, grabbed a ball and her headphones, and headed for the soccer field. Music blasting in her ears, she let the rhythm of her drills drown out the noise inside her head. She ran until her legs ached, until her lungs burned, until her thoughts finally slowed.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows across the field when she felt it—that unmistakable feeling of someone watching her. She paused, chest rising and falling rapidly, and looked up.
There he was.
Matt.
He was sitting in the bleachers, in his BC hockey sweatsuit, damp hair curling slightly from a recent shower. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, a duffle bag at his feet. He looked like he always did after a game: calm, slightly flushed, focused.
Without thinking, Maisy made her way over, climbing the bleachers to stand one row below him. Her hair clung to her neck from the sweat, her cheeks were flushed, and she was panting from the sun and drills. But when she looked at him, all that exhaustion disappeared. Her heart skipped a beat. A jolt of energy surged through her.
“Hi,” they both said at the same time.
They smiled, both laughing softly at the coincidence. Matt ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more—and Maisy could barely breathe. He looked good. Too good. The soft outline of his muscles beneath his shirt, the fading bruises along his jaw from a recent game, the glint in his eyes.
And Matt? He was stunned.
She was radiant. Glowing under the last bits of afternoon light. Freckles dotted her flushed cheeks and nose, and loose strands of hair curled around her face from under her headband. Her ponytail swayed slightly with each movement. No makeup. Just her. And she was perfect.
His chest tightened as he watched her. He remembered why he came here. He had to talk to her. He couldn’t keep pretending nothing happened. Couldn’t keep skating around the truth.
They both opened their mouths again at the same time.
Maisy let out a nervous laugh. “You first.”
Matt took a breath, looking down at his hands for a second. “I know.”
Maisy tilted her head, confused.
He looked back up. “Alex told me.”
Maisy’s heart stopped.
She stood frozen, unsure of what to say, how to move, what this meant.
Matt chuckled nervously, rubbing a hand across his face. “Addy really needs to learn how to keep a secret.”
He stood up slowly, stepping down to her level so they were face to face. His hands came up gently, cradling each side of her face like she was something precious. She didn’t pull away. She couldn’t.
Their eyes locked, and the air around them shifted. The world quieted. Maisy could feel every beat of her heart. Could feel the heat of his hands on her cheeks, the way his thumbs brushed softly over her skin.
He leaned in slowly, brows furrowing slightly like he was asking for permission.
Just then—
Riiiiing...
Maisy jumped slightly at the shrill sound of her alarm blaring in her back pocket. She cursed under her breath and reached back to silence it.
They stayed close, forehead to forehead, neither wanting to pull away just yet.
“I have to go to class,” she whispered.
Matt nodded, not moving.
They stood there for a few more seconds, eyes closed, soaking in the moment. Then, finally, she stepped back.
For the next few days, Maisy felt like she was walking on clouds.
Her mind replayed that moment over and over. The feel of his hands on her face. The almost-kiss. The look in his eyes when he said he knew.
She was falling hard, and fast.
They hadn’t seen each other since. Schedules clashed. Practice, class, team events—but tonight was Friday, and both the soccer and hockey teams had the night off. A party was happening, and their friend group was going out.
Maisy was nervous. This would be her first time seeing Matt since the field.
She dressed in the cutest outfit she could find—one that said casual but I tried. Her hair was loosely curled and tucked behind her ears. Right before leaving, she downed a quick shot of vodka to calm her nerves.
Addy laughed, watching her. “Stop stressing. You look amazing. Matt’s not gonna know what hit him.”
Maisy rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.
They made their way to the boys' dorm. The room was packed. She scanned the crowd, eyes flicking around—and then she saw him.
Matt stood near the back, deep in conversation with Alex. But the moment their eyes met, his lips curled up in a soft smile. His eyes never left hers.
Her stomach flipped.
They didn’t talk before leaving, but on the walk over to the party, she felt a strong arm wrap around her shoulders. He pulled her in close.
“You look really good tonight, M,” he whispered in her ear.
She didn’t respond—just leaned closer into his side, heart racing.
At the party, the group began to scatter. The lights were dim, music loud. Maisy turned to Matt, grabbed his hand, and without a word, pulled him into the closest empty bathroom.
The door clicked shut.
Matt’s face was flushed, a huge smile spreading across his cheeks.
“Tell me you’re sober right now,” he said, voice low.
Maisy nodded. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to forget this.”
He stepped forward, cupping her face again, and kissed her. It was gentle. Urgent. Like he’d been waiting a lifetime.
She clung to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world, fisting the fabric of his shirt in her trembling hands, pulling him so close there wasn’t a breath of space between them. The kiss deepened, slow and desperate, like they were trying to memorize the taste of each other. Emotion poured out in waves—weeks of built-up tension, silent longing, quiet glances and missed chances, all spilling into this one perfect moment. His lips were soft and warm, moving with reverence, like she was something sacred, something he'd been aching to touch for far too long. One of his hands slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, holding her gently but firmly, grounding her as everything else blurred away. She was dizzy, weightless, and entirely his in that moment—and he kissed her like he knew it.
When they finally pulled away, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.
She reached up and wiped the smudge of lip gloss from his mouth, and he took her hand in his, kissing her palm.
“Matty...” she whispered.
He let out a soft groan, his grip tightening slightly.
“What is this?”
He was quiet for a moment, scanning her face with that intense gaze.
“I want this,” he finally said. “I want you. All of you.”
The party was a blur after that.
Neither one of them said anything to the group. They kept it quiet. Close. Personal.
For now, it was just theirs.
They snuck lunches together. Texted nonstop. Studied side by side, worked out together. He made her laugh. She calmed his nerves. They didn’t need to tell anyone yet. They had time.
A few weeks later, just before a big home game against Wisconsin, Matt invited her over.
She found daisies on his bed, her favorite candy beside them. And beneath it all—a Boston College jersey, perfectly folded, her last name printed across the back: BOLDY, #12.
Her heart swelled.
“Awe, Matty,” she said, turning to him with misty eyes. “Are you asking me to wear your jersey tomorrow?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “And for every game after that.”
She practically tackled him into a hug, pressing a kiss to his lips.
She’d never felt more like his than she did in that moment.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
The crowd was as loud as ever, chants echoing through the packed arena as the student section let their disdain for Wisconsin be known. Booing erupted the moment the visiting team stepped onto the ice for warmups. It was chaotic, electric, and exactly what college hockey was supposed to feel like.
Maisy stood tucked between Addy and a few of the other hockey girlfriends in the stands, her hands buried in the oversized sleeves of her new Boston College jersey. Matt’s jersey. It swallowed her whole, hanging past her hips and drowning her frame—but it was perfect. Because it was his. She felt safe in it, like a piece of him was wrapped around her even with the boards between them.
As Matt skated his usual warmup lap, he slowed right in front of where she stood. His eyes locked with hers through the glass, and the noise around them faded for a split second. That signature toothy grin spread across his face, and even through all the chaos, she heard him shout, "Looks good on you, M!"
Addy shoved her playfully, squealing like a proud best friend. Maisy rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the blush that rose to her cheeks. With a grin, she blew him a gentle kiss through the glass before he turned and skated back into formation.
The game itself was fast and physical. Boston College fought hard, their passing was clean, their pressure unrelenting—but Wisconsin came out strong, too strong. It was a battle until the final buzzer, but ultimately, the Eagles walked away without the win.
Matt exited the locker room wearing a tired expression, his face tight with frustration. He hated losing. Hated it more when he felt like he hadn’t played up to his own standards. Maisy waited at their usual spot by the family and friends section, arms open the moment she saw him.
She didn’t bring up the game. She didn’t need to. Instead, she wrapped her arms tightly around him, holding him to her chest, her fingers gently brushing through the back of his damp curls. He clung to her a second longer than usual, grounding himself in her touch.
They spoke with Matt’s parents for a bit, polite smiles all around, but Matt’s energy was off. Tired. Worn. Eventually, he mumbled something about wanting to just go home and crash. Maisy didn’t hesitate. She gave his parents a hug and took his hand in hers as they walked across the icy parking lot.
They stayed quiet, wrapped in their little bubble. Her arm circled around his waist, his around her shoulders, keeping her close. They walked like that until they reached the car.
Matt stopped at the passenger door, opening it for her with a tired smile. One hand on the doorframe, the other bracing against the car roof, he leaned down slowly, eyes fluttering shut as he moved in for a kiss—
"ATTA BOY, BOLDY!!!"
Maisy flinched, startled by the sudden yelling.
Alex and Cole stood across the lot near their team’s charter bus, laughing and packing up gear. Matt’s head snapped up, his entire body freezing in place.
Panic.
Pure panic.
What if they saw her? What if they told Jack?
Matt turned quickly to block their view, waving them off with a fake grin while Maisy ducked a little lower in the seat, her cheeks burning.
They were quiet for a beat, both processing the very near exposure.
And then Matt let out a snort.
Maisy followed, unable to stop herself from laughing. It bubbled up out of her chest, and soon they were both breathless with laughter, heads thrown back, the stress of the moment melting away.
After a few long seconds, she met his eyes with a grin. "You’re so dead to them."
The rumors started spreading like wildfire.
By the time everyone was home for Christmas break, the USA NTDP group chat was in chaos. The boys were relentless. They hadn’t missed Matt cozying up to a blonde mystery girl outside the Wisconsin game, and now they wanted answers.
Thankfully, Alex and Cole hadn’t seen Maisy’s face—just a flash of long blonde hair before Matt had stepped in and blocked their view. It was enough to send the group into a spiral, but not enough to expose the truth.
Matt played it off, shrugging the whole thing off with a "just some girl" excuse, tossing crumbs and hoping the boys would get bored. They didn’t. They asked for names. Details. Instagram handles. He gave them nothing.
Maisy, for her part, played it just as cool. When Alex and Cole texted her a few days later asking if she had any clue who the girl might be, she rolled her eyes and typed back:
“No idea. But bless her if she’s putting up with him.”
Back home in Michigan, Maisy had been back for a week, spending every second she could with Luke. Her best friend had been soaking up every second with her around, even if he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different.
She was... glowing.
It wasn’t anything she said. It was the way she smiled more. The way her laughter came easier. The way she wasn’t carrying the same weight in her shoulders. Luke had no clue what—or who—was behind it. But he didn’t care. He was just happy to see pieces of her returning to herself.
The house felt alive again.
Quinn and Jack flew home for a few days during the holiday break, and with the four of them finally under one roof again, the Hughes-Stella home was bursting with noise and laughter. It hadn’t felt that full in years. Not since Darien.
Each of the kids shared their updates. Luke, flustered, admitted he had a girlfriend, which earned him endless teasing. Maisy proudly rattled off her stats and rookie achievements, earning cheers and high-fives. Jack boasted about settling into life in Jersey. Quinn, despite his usual quiet demeanor, took his teasing about the Canucks in stride.
Their moms—Monica, Ellen, and Jim—all had misty eyes. It had been so long since they’d seen their kids this happy, this whole. Even Dominic, who wasn’t there, was spoken about warmly, and the air felt light.
On the day before Jack and Quinn were scheduled to fly back out, the group piled into the family van and made the drive to the lake cottage.
The drive was quiet, peaceful.
When they arrived, they spent an hour or two laughing and lounging around the snow-dusted cottage, reminiscing about old summers and sharing stories. Then, they bundled up, grabbed a few bouquets from the local market, and made their way to the path behind the house.
There, nestled between snowdrifts and pine trees, was Darien’s headstone.
Maisy laid the blanket down gently, brushing snow from the edges of the stone. One by one, each of them laid their flowers down. They didn’t say much. They never did when they came here. Words weren’t needed.
But this time, Luke broke the silence.
“May…?” he said softly. “You’re happy again.”
Maisy looked up at him, then at Jack and Quinn beside him. All three wore soft, unreadable expressions. Their lips quirked into gentle smiles.
She sucked in a breath, adjusting her worn Michigan-blue mittens. Her voice was quiet but sure.
“Yeah. I think I am.”
And that was all they needed.
They didn’t know why yet. Didn’t ask. They just knew their sister was smiling again. That the spark in her eyes—the one they thought might never return—was flickering back to life.
And for the first time in a long, long time…
Maisy Stella was home.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Summer came quickly, and with it, the impossible task of trying to figure out how—or when—to tell the rest of their world about their relationship. Maisy and Matt still hadn’t come up with a good way to come out with the truth. They weren’t hiding because they were ashamed, but because this felt sacred. Quiet. The kind of love you held close to your chest before the rest of the world had a chance to tear it apart.
Maisy had a sneaking suspicion that Luke had caught on. There were moments when his knowing gaze would linger on her just a second too long. But he never pressed her for details. He simply told her that as long as she was happy, and the guy treated her right, that was all that mattered.
Of course, that didn’t stop him from texting Matt anyway.
You got anything to do with Maisy glowing like this? he’d typed one night.
Matt, with his usual poker face, replied: Still her number one hater, don’t worry.
Three weeks into the summer, Matt finally arrived at the cottage. He had been counting the days. Texts and late-night calls had been their only lifeline for weeks, but none of that compared to seeing her—holding her.
When he arrived, the rest of the group was already there, most having come the day before. Jack met him at the driveway and led him to his assigned room for the trip.
Matt blinked.
It was the room across from Maisy’s.
He looked around quickly before Jack patted him on the back and ran off to rejoin the group. The moment he was gone, Matt dropped his bags, crossed the hallway, and knocked gently on her door.
“J, go away—I’m not in the mood.”
He grinned at the sound of her voice.
"M? It’s me."
There was a flurry of movement before the door swung open, and there she was—sun-kissed and barefoot, wearing a hoodie that was definitely his. She yanked him into the room by the collar of his shirt and closed the door.
Maisy practically tackled him, pressing kisses to every inch of his face. Matt laughed, his arms wrapping around her and lifting her clean off the ground. Their mouths met in a real kiss, finally, and they both sighed into the embrace like it was air.
They stayed like that for a while, breathing each other in.
Eventually, they agreed it was best not to be suspicious. They staggered their entrances downstairs, Maisy going first, doing her best to hide her blush.
Luke didn’t miss it. He raised a brow, silently clocking the difference in her mood. She’d left grumbling upstairs, and now she practically glowed. He didn’t say anything, just observed.
Over the next few days, Luke kept an eye on them. Maisy and Matt never touched in public, never said much to each other when others were around—but they were always near each other. Always hovering.
Luke noticed everything.
He saw how Matt always had a hoodie nearby when the sun dipped and the night got cold, one that would somehow end up draped over Maisy's shoulders.
He noticed how Maisy would crack open two beers at a time, placing one beside her where Matt would eventually pick it up. He noticed how their gazes found each other across rooms, how their hands brushed for a second longer than necessary when they crossed paths.
Luke smiled to himself. He didn’t need her to say anything. He knew. And if Matt Boldy was the one bringing this light back into his best friend’s eyes, then he was all for it.
One night, he and Maisy lay out under the stars, as they’d done for years.
“How’s Matt?” he asked casually.
Maisy blinked. “He’s fine?”
Luke turned to look at her, soft and knowing. “How’s Matt.”
She let out a little sigh, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s good, Lukey. He’s really good.”
Luke smiled, pulled her into his side, and kissed the top of her head.
“Good.”
—
The rest of the boys were slower on the uptake. Blissfully oblivious.
One night, around the fire, they brought up the infamous mystery girl from the BC vs. Wisconsin game again. The chirping was relentless.
Matt eventually groaned and stood up to grab another drink.
He wasn’t gone long—but long enough for Alex to catch the way Maisy casually reached out and touched his arm as he passed. The look they exchanged was subtle, but electric.
Alex blinked.
Did... did he just see that?
“Cole, did you—”
“Nope.” Cole was mid-story, not catching any of it.
Alex let it go.
Until later that night.
Maisy sat at the bar behind the couch in the Hughes' cabin basement, nursing a drink. The group had moved inside after the bonfire, filling the cozy space with laughter and music. When Matt approached, she looked up with the same soft smile that had haunted Alex since the hockey game was brought up. They exchanged a quiet word, then Matt leaned over to grab his drink.
It was identical to the scene at the arena.
Alex and Cole both went quiet, jaws dropping.
“Holy shit,” Cole whispered.
“Maisy,” Alex muttered.
They didn’t say anything then. Just exchanged wide-eyed glances.
Later that night, they agreed: Let them have their moment. They could mess with them later.
Matt said I love you on a boat.
Probably the worst place to say it, considering how loud and chaotic it was—but he couldn’t help it. They were surrounded by laughter, the sun casting that golden hour glow across the lake. Maisy sat beside him, legs tucked beneath her, wind whipping her hair in every direction as she grinned at something Cole shouted from the front of the boat. She looked radiant, glowing with life in a way that made Matt’s breath catch.
He watched her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks pink from the breeze. She turned and caught him staring, and instead of teasing him like she usually did, she just reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his.
That was it. That was the moment.
He leaned in, just barely above a whisper, but still loud enough to be heard over the wind.
“I love you.”
Time seemed to pause—until Trevor, clueless as ever, shouted from the other end of the boat:
“I LOVE YOU TOO, MAN!”
Matt froze. Maisy laughed, her whole body shaking with it, before she leaned in and pressed her lips to his ear.
“I love you so much.”
His heart practically burst in his chest.
From across the boat, Alex and Cole watched the moment unfold in disbelief. They exchanged wide-eyed, knowing looks—the kind of silent conversation that said, oh my god, it’s happening. Cole leaned into Alex, grinning like a fool.
"Boldy's gone," he muttered under his breath.
Alex smirked, not taking his eyes off the two. "Yeah. Totally whipped."
And at the helm of the boat, Quinn’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw them—Maisy with her head thrown back laughing, Matt looking at her like she was the only girl in the world.
Quinn smiled to himself.
His little sister was happy. That was all he’d ever wanted.
Jack was the last to figure it out. Something was going on and it seemed like everyone knew this big secret except for him. He missed all the not-so-subtle interactions between the couple, and if it wasn’t for him actually catching them in the act, he might never have found out.
It was a warm summer night and a few of the boys were out at a party, including Maisy and Matt. It was late, and a few rounds of beer pong had been going for hours. Jack challenged Maisy to a game of doubles—Jack and Quinn versus Maisy and her partner of choice. Instead of picking Luke, like usual, she ran to the couch and grabbed Matt by the arm.
“Boldy?”
“Oh J, just watch. We’re undefeated back in Boston.”
Huh. He didn’t realize they knew each other like that.
Too drunk to think much of it, Jack played. To his surprise, they got absolutely demolished. After Maisy sank the final ball into his cup, she leapt into Matt’s arms, and he spun her around like he’d done it a thousand times before.
The next morning, Jack woke up to the smell of bacon, pancakes, and maple syrup. Excited, he jogged downstairs to find the beer pong champs cooking a full breakfast spread. Still, nothing clicked.
He missed how Matt’s hands flew away from Maisy’s waist when he came in. Missed the way they sat on either side of him in silence, smiling like idiots.
That night, most of the boys went to another party. Maisy stayed behind, hoping for quiet time with Matt. Luke and Quinn stayed too, happy to hang back.
With most of the house empty, Matt and Maisy finally relaxed. They curled up on the couch in the basement of the Hughes cabin, threw on a movie, and forgot about the world. They kissed and whispered until they fell asleep, tangled together like puzzle pieces.
They didn’t even stir when the door opened hours later.
“Let’s play pool downstairs!”
Luke and Quinn exchanged glances.
Jack, oblivious as always, barreled forward.
He stopped halfway down the steps, spotting Matt’s head peeking over the couch.
“Boldy! Get up buddy, we’re drink—oh.”
He froze.
There, asleep in Matt’s arms, was Maisy.
Matt’s head rested atop hers, their bodies tucked together like they belonged.
Jack stared.
Then he looked at Luke. Then at Quinn. Then back again.
Luke winced. “I think she broke him.”
Jack stepped closer, crouched slightly. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he smiled.
He stood back up and wrapped an arm around each brother’s shoulders.
you know what, fuck it be free, keep reading that bad fan fiction, keep writing that bad fanfiction, keep using y/n, keep staying up to 4 a.m reading x reader, to be cringe is too be free
Can someone (with much more writing talent than me) write a fic, A fic where the reader is dating Quinn, but her and Jack are best friends. Like, the type of best friends you can't leave in a room alone together because absolutely chaos will happen. Quinn can't stand them in the same room together. It's funny, but someone either ends up physically injured or something will end up broken.
Y/n, famous pop-star, had a concert in Melbourne, you'll never guess who was there.
this was written in a rush at 2am because the idea came to me in a dream, this not edited, like at all. So please, be nice. also, if it sucks, yeah the tracks. Enjoy!
*everything I write is a work of pure fiction and a result of my overactive imagination*
It was the first Grand Prix of the year. Back on home soil, trying to get that home race win for Oscar. Hattie, his sister, dragged him to my concert that i had that Thursday before race weekend.
My name is Y/n, here is the story of how Oscar Piastri fell in love with me over a song.
Y/n:
I was doing my vocal exercises getting ready to get on stage. I was never that glamour wear 6 different outfits a night type of singer (kudos to Taylor Swift and Sabrina Carpenter, I could never do it). I like to be comfortable when I'm out there. So, I was in my black leggings, oversized t-shirt with the collar cut out, it dipped down off my shoulder. Showing off the straps of the hot pink body suit I wore underneath incase anything was ripped. Very minimal make up, eyebrow pencil, mascara, eyeshadow and some lipgloss. I was performing my normal set list tonight, That’s So True, Touch Me Like a Gangster, Wither on the Vine, Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off, Just Keep Watching, Drink Too Much, Heaven, Build A Bitch, If We Ever Break Up, and many many more. But I was most excited for my new one I am debuting tonight, no one knows it. Ive teased it on TikTok a bit, its been blowing up, but not one person has heard the whole song.
Oscar:
“Hattie, I dont want to go watch some pop star. She is probably like all the rest.” Hattie lifter her brow, “You don’t have a
choice, mum said you would.” I let out a groan because I really wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t even know who this Y/n was. But Hattie want to go, so of course being the best big brother I am, I made sure to get the VIP tent etc. yes, she was very happy with that. We arrived, and everyone was handing out friendship bracelets and the crowed was all dressed in leggings and oversized t-shirts, this seemed more like a group gym session then a concert, of course the shirts were bedazzled, but still. I grabbed a jack and coke from the bartender that was in our tent. I then ran into Max and Kelly. Max spoke, “hey man, I didn’t know you were a Y/n fan” he said while showing me all his bracelets has since collected. I let out a small laugh “I’m not, my sister is so I brought her here.” Max nodded and turned on his heels to Kelly. The lights started going down and the first song started, the loud bass making the place vibrate. She stepped out in black leggings with sheers parts snaking around her legs, an oversized grey shirt that said “Penn State Wrestling” with the neck cut out so it would off the shoulder, a pair of blue low top converse, black nails, rings on both ring fingers and thumb. Very minimal make up, tan skin and jet black straight hair, with Slytherin green highlights poking through. God, she was gorgeous.
Y/n:
“FIVE MINS TIL SHOW TIME”, Brad the stage manager yelled. I smirked, my assistant Nik handed me a quick gulp of wine and a hit of my vape pen (menthol of course) before we did our secret hand shake and I went up on the riser. The beat was going and I was bobbing my head. “Life is good, I cant complain. I mean I could but no one’s listening”. The music was going great, fans cheering. The VIP tent seeming to have a good time. This was my favorite opening song, it got the crowd going and also it gave me the adrenaline rush I needed to really give it my all. Dancing to the choreography was tough, but that was the point of my concert. Into my 5th song of the night, it was a slower one so I could catch my breath after straight singing and dancing for 45 minutes. “Love’s my religion, but he was my faith”. Sitting on a stool I performed my favorite song. It should’ve been the final song, but its not. We can thank Nik for that, she came up with the set list, it was a very good set list, but still. Finishing that song, I usually take time to talk and tell the crowd about my day. “Hello Melbourne. Its so nice to be in the land down under.” The crowd cheered, someone handed me my cup of wine (it was in a soda cup with a straw) and my vape pen. “First thing is first, don’t ever vape it is so bad for your health, just because I am doing it, doesn’t mean you should.” The crowd laughed, “I heard we have some special guests with us tonight. Welcome and I hope you are enjoying the show. Can some one get a mic to them, I have a question”. Not seconds later they had the mic. One of them spoke “Uh, hi, I’m Max Verstappen driver for Oracle RedBull Formula One team”. You laughed “Hello Max, driver for Oracle RedBull Formula One Team, as you can tell we are not very formal here. But please tell me your favorite song so far” Max’s face turned red and he spoke “aint no other man then you” the crowd was pleased. It was the one song that tested my vocal range the most, which is why it is one of my favorites. Nik always knows which ones are my favorite hence why she made the set list. “You know Max Verstappen of RedBull racing, that is one of my favorites too. If you could please hand the mic off to someone else, thank you!” Max nodded and handed the Mic to Oscar. I spoke again, “oh, hello. And you are?” He was cute, very cute my goodness. “Oscar Piastri, driver for McLaren Formula 1 team.” I laughed again, “well Oscar Piastri, driver for McLaren Formula 1 team, your favorite song so far”. Oscar smiled and said “the one you just sang, it was beautiful like you”. Your eyes widened the crowd went wild. “Well if he isn’t the gentleman here. Tell me Oscar, who did you come with tonight?” He smiled and said he came with his sister who is a huge fan. You looked over at your security and winked. “Well Oscar and Hattie, my security team is making their way over to you. I have a few things for you guys. Now, everyone. Lets get on with the show!”
Oscar:
My face went red when I said that, I cant believe I said that. What the hell is wrong with me. After I said that, Hattie and Max elbowed me in the ribs, at the same time. Then her security team did come over and give us tshirts, sweatshirts, and cup and invited us to come back stage after the show.
“Made it out alive, but I think I lost it. Said that I was fine, said it from my coffin. Remember how I died and you started walking? Thats my life, that life. I put up a fight, taking out my earrings. Don’t you know the vibe? Don’t you know the feeling. And she’ll spend the night, catching me on your ceiling. Thats your price, that’s your price” the lyrics were being spoken so fast and she sat on a stool singing this song. Mic in the mic stand making the movements with her hands. The next four songs were more up beat and had choreography with them, she moved so effortlessly. My favorite one she sang and danced to was Just Keep Watching. That was mesmerizing, the fifth song was a duet, she had one of her male dancers, who turned out to be a singer, sing with her. The danced together, like a ballroom dance of sorts. Hattie caught me bobbing my head to the music.
Y/n:
All I was thinking, every time Josh and I do this song is “don’t fall on your face”, which I never do, but its still a silent prayer I send up to whoever is listening. It works out, 99% of the time. ‘All I see is you’ is a song that gets more into my country roots. The beat, the lyrics, the over sound is different from my whole set. Well two songs are like this, “All I see is you” and “you look like you love me”they are more in my country roots. Got those songs down, now I’m down to my penultimate song, which is usually my last song, but I am debuting that new one tonight. “Ladies and gentlemen, usually that is my last song, but tonight, since we have such special guests tonight, and one thinks I’m pretty, it is the best time to debut a new song for you guys. I’m sure you heard some of it on tiktok or whatever social media app you are using. But here goes nothing. This song is called ‘Ordinary, featuring of my favorite people in the world, everyone welcome Luke Combs to the stage!”. Everyone lost their minds and the beat started playing, I didn’t even rehearse this song just incase it got out. “They say the holy waters watered down and this town lost its faith” Luke was singing first, it felt like just the two of us for a second. Then he turned and walked towards the crowd giving it his everything, you followed. “Hopeless Hallelujah, oh this sides of heavens gate. Oh my life how do ya? Breathe and take my breath away. At your alter, I will pray. You’re sculptor, I’m the clay. Oh my, my. You’re taking me out the ordinary.” You looked directly at the VIP tent and stood there with a mic in your hand singing giving it whatever you had left. Oscar and I locked eyes.
Oscar:
We locked eyes, she was singing about something beautiful. Sweat was now visible on her oversized shirt and sticking to her, hair sticking to her forehead. The song was over and she spoke “Thank you so much Luke for coming all the way down under to help me perform this song. Mind you guys, we didn’t even rehearse this because I was scared of someone finding out a posting it, everything was improvised. Thank you again Luke, let's do it again soon.” They hugged and he waved at the crowd and walked off. “And thank you to all of you! I would not be able to live out my dream if it wasn’t for all of you. You all are really the best fans in the world! Thank you and good night!” She bowed and ran off the stage. Right after that security came and got us and took us backstage to see her.
Y/n:
I ran off stage an Nik was waiting with a towel and my cup of wine and vape pen. “Girl that last song was awesome! I knew I picked the right night to have you debut it.” I nodded at her and asked for a bottle of water. I got to my dressing room quickly slipping out of my stage clothes, they were soaked with sweat, and got into the shower. I was done in the shower and dressed in blue camo sweatpants, with a black crop top. My hair was washed so it was curly again. The green highlights still visible. Someone knocked on the door. “Come in!” I was putting my hair up in a top knot. “Hi, please come in! Have a seat, do you want anything to eat or drink? Do you mind if I eat?”. Oscar and his sister Hattie sat down and opted for a beer and a mixed drink. My meal came, steak and frites, my favorite. “are you sure you guys don’t want anything to eat? I feel rude eating in front of you”. “Please eat, you put on an amazing show, don’t mind us, we are just happy to be here!”. I smiled, looking at Oscar “thank you for the compliment. It was appreciated.” Oscar’s cheeks went bright red, and his skin flushed. He sat there and his hand went to the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. well it is true, and I don’t know what took over me, it kind of just came out”. I smiled, “it was the highlight of my night. Really”. He smiled back at me, “So, Hattie, I hear you are one of my biggest fans, and thank you very much. I was going yo have my assistant take you for a tour of the stage and how it all works, I would like to have a moment with Oscar, if you don’t mind”. Hattie nodded and gave Oscar a quick wink. In that time, Nik showed up and took Hattie to show her everything
Oscar:
She had my sister taken on a tour to see how the stage works and it was just me and her in her dressing room. Her hair was still wet from her shower. It was curly this time, but you could still see the green highlights. I finally spoke “how would you like to come to the Grand Prix this weekend as my guest?” She smiled at me, took a big gulp of her wine, and nodded, “I would love to! It sounds like fun”. I smiled, next thing she did was truly amazing. She pulled me into a kiss. I was shocked at first, but I pulled her in close by her waist and deepened the kiss. I pulled back and said these simple words “my hotel isn’t far from here”.
Y/N SET LIST:
Like Woah - Aly & AJ
If We Ever Broke Up - Mae Stephens
Ain’t No Other Man - Christina Aguilera
Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off - Panic! At The Disco
Heaven - Julia Michaels
That’s So True - Gracie Abrams
Heather on the hill - Nathan Evans
Touch me like a gangster - Jessie Murph
Wither on the Vine - Freya Ridings
Just keep watching - Tate McRae
Drink too much - g flip
A bar song - Shaboozey
Highland Girl - Nathan Evans
My stupid heart - Walk off the earth
All I see if you - Shane smith and the saints
No roots - Alice Merton
Ring - Selena Gomez
Hazel Eyes - Sabrina Johnson
Trampoline - SHAED
You look like you love me - Ella Langley and Riley Green
Nancy Mulligan - Ed Sheeran
Potential Break up song - Aly and AJ
Ordinary (live from Lollapalooza) - Alex Warren and Luke Combs
Summary: you’re a pop star who built an empire on audacity. He’s an F1 driver who’s never heard your music. One concert, one spotlight, one pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, and suddenly the man who drives 200 mph for a living can’t form a coherent thought. But the thing about champions? They don’t lose gracefully. And when he shows up in your DMs, you realize you might have just met your match (a story about two people who perform for millions but never expected to be completely undone by an audience of one)
Warnings: 18+ content
The clinking of ice against glass is the most interesting sound in the room.
Max swirls the amber liquid in his Heineken-branded tumbler, the condensation cold against his fingertips. He’s a professional. He can do this. He can stand in a painfully hip, repurposed warehouse in Amsterdam, surrounded by influencers whose entire careers are a mystery to him, and smile. He can nod along to conversations about engagement metrics and brand synergy. He can be the Max Verstappen they pay for: charming, accessible, but with that untouchable edge of a champion.
It’s just … boring. Soul-crushingly boring.
His phone buzzes in the pocket of his trousers. A welcome distraction. He pulls it out, a small, genuine smile finally gracing his lips when he sees his sister’s name. He angles himself away from a man passionately explaining the artistic merit of a filtered selfie and answers.
“Vic,” he says, his voice low. “Are you saving me?”
“Always,” Victoria’s cheerful voice chirps through the speaker. “But tonight, you’re actually the one who’s going to be saving me.”
Max takes a sip of his drink. It’s not actually beer; it’s sparkling water with a slice of lime. “I doubt that. What do you need? Did Luka hide the car keys again?”
“Worse. Much, much worse. Chantal is sick. Like, horribly sick. Food poisoning, I think.”
“Okay? So … you need me to bring you soup?” He’s already mentally calculating the fastest route to her house.
“No, you idiot,” she laughs, and he can picture her rolling her eyes. “I have a concert ticket. A non-refundable, very expensive, very good concert ticket that is now going to waste. Tom’s stuck in a meeting that will probably go until midnight, and I absolutely cannot go alone.”
Max’s brief moment of hope evaporates. “Vic, no.”
“Vic, yes. You’re in Amsterdam. I’m in Amsterdam. It’s perfect.”
“I’m working,” he argues, gesturing vaguely at the curated industrial-chic chaos around him. “I’m at the Heineken thing.”
“That ends in an hour. The concert doesn’t start until nine. Please, Max? I’ve been looking forward to this for months. She never tours in Europe.”
He frowns, the name on the tip of his tongue but not quite there. “She who?”
“Y/N Y/L/N!” Victoria says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s just asked who the current prime minister is. The name rings a bell, but only in the vague way a song he’s heard in a supermarket does. Pop star. American. That’s all he has.
“Never heard of her,” he lies, just to be difficult.
A dramatic sigh crackles down the line. “Max Emilian. Do not do this to me. She’s everywhere. She’s brilliant. You’ll love her.”
“I will not love her,” he says flatly. “I love quiet. I love my sim rig. I love going to bed before ten when I don’t have a race. I do not love … screaming teenagers.”
“It’s not all teenagers!” She protests, a little too quickly. “It’s a very diverse crowd. And you’re not even that old. Stop being such a grandad. It’s one night. For me. Your favorite sister.”
“My only sister.”
“Exactly! So by default, I’m your favorite. Please? I’ll buy you dinner first. Whatever you want.”
Max closes his eyes for a second, the thumping bass of the DJ’s set vibrating through the concrete floor. He pictures his quiet hotel room. The blissfully empty evening he had planned. A movie, maybe some room service. Silence. Then he pictures Victoria’s disappointed face. He’s always been a sucker for that face.
“Fine,” he groans, the word pulled from him like a bad tooth. “Fine. But you owe me. Big time.”
“Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She squeals, and he has to pull the phone away from his ear. “I’ll send you the address for the restaurant. Meet me there at seven-thirty. Wear something … less corporate.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He asks, looking down at his crisp, dark shirt and trousers.
“Nothing, if you’re trying to sell me a mortgage. See you soon! You won’t regret this!”
The line goes dead.
Max stares at his phone, a deep, weary sigh escaping his lips. He absolutely, one hundred percent, will regret this.
***
Two hours later, he regrets it even more.
The air outside the Ziggo Dome is electric and humid, thick with the scent of perfume, street food, and youthful exuberance. It’s a sea of glitter, denim, and brightly colored crop tops. Max, in a plain black t-shirt and jeans, feels like a mountain that has accidentally wandered into a fairy garden. He towers over almost everyone, a grim statue in a tide of giddy excitement.
“Isn’t this amazing?” Victoria shouts over the din, her eyes sparkling. She’s practically vibrating with energy, clutching a ridiculous light-up-something-or-other she bought from a vendor.
“It’s … loud,” Max replies, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He feels a dozen pairs of eyes on him and knows it’s not because he’s Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion. It’s because he’s a twenty-something-year-old man who looks profoundly miserable at what is clearly the Best Night of Everyone Else’s Life.
“Oh, stop it. You’re just grumpy,” she says, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the entrance. “Once the music starts, you’ll get into it.”
They find their spots, which are alarmingly close to the stage. It’s a standing area, and they’re penned in, the press of bodies around them immediate and overwhelming. Max feels a familiar, low-level anxiety prickle at the back of his neck — the kind he gets when he’s in a crowd and not in control. In his world, crowds are behind barriers. He’s the one on the other side. This is different. He’s in it.
“You said good seats,” he mutters to Victoria, who is happily chatting with a girl next to her about your best album.
“They are! We can see everything!” She beams.
The lights suddenly go down.
A roar erupts from the crowd, a physical force that presses in on Max from all sides. It’s deafening. A deep, pulsing bass note vibrates up through the soles of his shoes, shaking his entire skeleton. On the massive screen behind the stage, a pair of cherry-red lips appears. They part, and a voice, your voice, slick and sweet as honey, echoes through the arena.
“Oh, I leave quite an impression …”
And then, you’re there.
You explode onto the stage in a flash of pink light and pure, unadulterated confidence. You’re tiny, a firecracker of a person, all sparkling boots and blonde hair and legs that seem to go on for an impossible length. The crowd loses its collective mind.
Max just … watches.
“Five feet to be exact,” you sing, strutting across the stage, a smirk playing on your lips. “You’re wonderin’ why half his clothes went missin’ … my body’s where they’re at.”
The lyrics hit him like a splash of cold water. They’re brazen, unapologetic. He glances at Victoria, who is screaming the words right back at you, a look of pure adoration on her face. He looks back at the stage. You have the entire arena, thousands of people, cradled in the palm of your hand.
“I heard you’re back together and if that’s true,” you coo, leaning into the microphone stand, one hand on your hip. “You’ll just have to taste me when he’s kissin’ you.”
A guy next to Max yells, “I love you, Y/N!”
Max feels an involuntary twitch in his jaw. The performance is … impressive. He can’t deny it. The choreography is tight, your vocals are flawless, and your stage presence is magnetic. He’s a professional athlete, he recognizes elite-level performance when he sees it. This is your grand prix, your qualifying lap, and you are absolutely nailing it.
But it’s the sheer, unblinking audacity of it all that catches him off guard. The way you sing about sexuality not as some hidden, whispered secret, but as a weapon, a tool, a source of power. It’s so foreign to his world of carefully managed PR and corporate-friendly soundbites.
He spends the next half-hour in a state of detached observation. You move through a handful of songs, each one a different flavour of pop perfection. You’re funny, charming the crowd with little anecdotes between songs. You’re vulnerable, sitting on a stool with just a guitar for a heartbreaking ballad that silences the entire arena. You’re a powerhouse, belting out a high note that seems to shake the building.
Max finds himself leaning forward, his arms crossed over his chest, his earlier grumpiness replaced by a grudging respect. Then, that respect deepens into genuine fascination. He’s not just watching a pop star anymore. He’s watching you. He’s watching the way you wink at the camera, the bead of sweat that trickles down your temple, the genuine, breathtaking smile you give your guitarist after a solo.
“Having fun yet?” Victoria shouts in his ear during a transition, a smug grin on her face.
He just grunts in response, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of admitting that yes, actually, he’s not entirely miserable anymore.
The stage is bathed in a soft, dreamy pink light. A new, slinky synth beat starts to pulse through the speakers. The mood shifts. It’s slower, more intimate, more suggestive.
“Oh my god, it’s ‘Juno’,” Victoria whispers, her voice filled with reverence. “This is my favorite.”
You begin to sing, your voice a playful, seductive purr.
“Don’t have to tell your hot ass a thing … oh yeah, you just get it.”
You prowl the stage, your movements fluid and feline. The song is a flirtation, a proposition set to music.
“Wanna try out my fuzzy pink handcuffs?” You sing, and a ripple of laughter and screams goes through the crowd. “Oh, I hear you knockin’, baby … come on up.”
Max feels a strange heat creep up his neck. The lyrics are direct, and you deliver them while looking straight into the camera, a look in your eyes that’s both innocent and wildly mischievous. It feels like you’re singing to one person, and one person only. It feels, impossibly, like you’re singing to him.
Victoria nudges him hard in the ribs. “She’s incredible, right?”
He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He’s completely, utterly transfixed.
The song builds, the beat getting heavier. You’re dancing with a kind of joyful, sensual freedom that is mesmerizing.
“You make me wanna make you fall in love,” you belt out, and the crowd sings it back to you, a unified chorus of devotion.
Then comes the bridge. The music softens, becoming a spare, pulsing beat. The lights dim until there’s only a single, stark white spotlight on you. You walk to the very front of the stage, right to the edge, your sparkling boots just inches from the precipice.
You look out over the crowd, a sly, knowing smile on your face. You hold the microphone delicately in one hand.
“Wanna try out some freaky positions?” You ask, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries to every corner of the arena.
The crowd holds its breath.
You pause, letting the tension hang in the air for one, two, three beats.
Then you ask, your voice dripping with suggestion, “Have you ever tried … this one?”
And you drop to your knees.
Right there, in front of seventeen thousand people.
You bring the microphone to your lips, tilt your head back, and close your eyes. Your movements are slow, deliberate, and utterly unmistakable. It’s a pantomime of obvious fellatio. It’s shocking. It’s hilarious. It’s the most brazenly confident thing Max has ever seen in his life.
And it completely, unequivocally, resets his brain.
Every thought in his head — the upcoming race weekend, the sponsor obligations, the feeling of being out of place, the simmering annoyance at his sister — vanishes. It’s all gone. Wiped clean. The intricate wiring of his meticulously controlled mind short-circuits, throwing sparks into the darkness. There is only the image of you, on your knees, bathed in a single spotlight.
The arena explodes. It’s a tidal wave of screams, laughter, and whistles. Victoria beside him is shrieking, clutching his arm so hard he’ll probably have bruises tomorrow.
Max doesn’t make a sound. He can’t. His jaw is slack. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm. He feels a primal, electric shock jolt through his entire system, a feeling so potent it almost makes his knees weak.
It’s not just desire. It’s … awe.
You hold the pose for a few seconds longer before pulling the microphone away with a wink, jumping back to your feet as the beat drops back in, and finishing the song as if nothing happened. As if you didn’t just detonate a small bomb in the chest of every person watching.
For the rest of the song, Max is on another planet. He’s disconnected from the noise, the crowd, from his own body. He is just a pair of eyes, locked on you.
After the song finishes, you’re breathing heavily, a triumphant grin on your face. You take a bottle of water from the side of the stage, take a long drink, and then address the crowd.
“Amsterdam!” You yell, and they yell back. “You guys are incredible tonight. So much energy. So much love.” You pause, scanning the faces in the front rows. “But … I’m afraid I have to be the bearer of bad news. There’s a criminal in our midst tonight.”
The crowd plays along with a chorus of dramatic boos and gasps.
“I know, I know,” you say, shaking your head sadly. “It’s a serious offense. This person has committed a crime of the highest order. The crime … of being illegally hot in a public place.”
The audience cheers, everyone hoping they’re about to be chosen.
You place a hand on your hip, your eyes sweeping across the crowd with theatrical seriousness. Your gaze travels over the screaming girls, the couples, the guys trying to look cool. Your eyes move, section by section. Max watches, his heart still beating a little too fast, a strange sense of dread and something else pooling in his stomach.
Then, your eyes stop.
They stop on him.
For a moment, he thinks it must be a mistake. You must be looking at the person behind him, or next to him. But no. Your eyes lock directly onto his. A slow, predatory smile spreads across your face. You lift a finger, pointing right at him.
“You,” you say, your voice ringing through the arena. The spotlight that was just on you swings over, blinding him as it finds its new target. “Yes, you, sir. In the plain black t-shirt. The one who looks like he’d rather be at a dentist appointment.”
The entire crowd around him turns to stare. Victoria lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a cackle.
Max freezes. The world narrows to the blinding white light and your smiling face on the giant screens. He can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. This is his worst nightmare. No, his worst nightmare is a DNF due to engine failure. This is a close second.
“Don’t look so scared,” you tease, your voice echoing around him. “Although, you should be. That level of handsome is a public disturbance. It’s distracting me from my job.” You motion to a burly security guard at the side of the stage. “Bring him to me. He needs to be apprehended.”
“Go!” Victoria hisses, pushing him forward. “Oh my god, Max, go!”
He feels like he’s walking through cement. The security guard, a man the size of a small car, gently but firmly guides him towards the barrier. A gap is opened, and he’s being led through the backstage wings and then up a small set of stairs. His ears are ringing.
He steps out onto the stage, and the roar of the crowd is a physical blow. The heat of the lights is intense. He squints, trying to see past the glare.
And then you’re in front of him.
Up close, you’re even smaller than he thought. And infinitely more terrifying. You’re radiating energy, your skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat, your eyes sparkling with mischief. You’re holding a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs.
“Hello, criminal,” you say, your voice now soft enough that only he can hear it over the music that has started to play softly in the background. Your microphone is still live, though, broadcasting your words to the entire arena.
“Hi,” Max manages to croak out. His own voice sounds foreign to him.
“What’s your name, handsome?” You ask, circling him like a shark.
“Max.”
“Max,” you repeat, tasting the name. “Well, Max, tonight you’ve been a very, very bad boy. You thought you could just show up here, looking like that, and get away with it? Not on my watch.”
You take his wrist. Your touch is light, but it sends another jolt straight through him. Your fingers are cool against his skin. He watches, mesmerized, as you fasten one of the fuzzy pink cuffs around his wrist. The crowd is going insane.
“I sentence you,” you declare, your voice booming again, “to one song, served right here, where I can keep an eye on you.”
You attach the other cuff to the base of the microphone stand, effectively tying him to the center of the stage. You step back to admire your handiwork, a satisfied smirk on your face.
“Don’t go anywhere,” you say, tapping him lightly on the chest before turning your back to him and facing the crowd.
The opening chords of another upbeat, ridiculously catchy song fill the air. And you start to sing.
Max is trapped. He’s standing on stage, handcuffed to a microphone stand, at a pop concert he didn’t want to be at, in front of seventeen thousand people. And all he can do is watch you.
From this vantage point, it’s a completely different universe. He can see the intricate details of your costume, the concentration in your eyes as you hit a complex dance move, the way you connect with individual people in the front row, making each one feel like you’re singing only to them. He sees the consummate professional, the master of your craft, the artist in her element.
You keep glancing back at him, a playful wink here, a little shimmy in his direction there. He knows it’s part of the show, a performance for the crowd, but it feels intensely personal. He feels his blush deepen with every look. He’s acutely aware of how stiff he’s standing, how out of place he must look. He’s Max Verstappen. He’s used to being looked at. But not like this. Never, ever like this.
The song seems to last an eternity and also be over in a flash. As the final note rings out, you spin around and walk back to him, your chest rising and falling with exertion.
“Well?” You say, leaning in close again, your voice a low murmur just for him. “Have you learned your lesson?”
He finds his voice, a little rough. “I think so.”
“Good.” You produce a tiny key from a hidden pocket and unlock the handcuff on his wrist. As you free him, your fingers brush against his again. This time, the touch lingers for a fraction of a second too long. “You’re free to go, Max. For now.”
You give him a final, dazzling smile before turning to the audience. “Let’s hear it for our good sport, Max!”
The crowd cheers as the same security guard leads him back down the stairs and to his spot. He feels like he’s just run a full race distance. His adrenaline is pumping, his palms are sweaty, his mind is a complete blur.
He stumbles back into his spot next to Victoria, who immediately grabs him.
“Oh. My. God,” she says, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and glee. “That just happened. You were handcuffed by Y/N Y/L/N. On stage. I cannot believe that just happened!”
Max just shakes his head, unable to form a coherent sentence. He looks back towards the stage. You’re already launching into your next song, a global smash hit that everyone knows the words to.
But he doesn’t hear the music anymore. He doesn’t feel the press of the crowd. He can only see you. He can still feel the ghost of your touch on his wrist, can still hear your whispered “for now” ringing in his ears.
The grumpy, reluctant man who walked into this arena a few hours ago is gone. In his place is someone else. Someone who just had his entire world tilted on its axis by a five-foot pop star in sparkling boots.
He watches the rest of the show in a daze, a strange, small smile he can’t control playing on his lips.
Victoria was right. He didn’t regret it. Not one bit.
***
The ringing in Max’s ears finally subsides somewhere in the taxi back to the hotel, replaced by the relentless, high-pitched ringing of Victoria’s voice.
“I just can’t get over it. The look on your face! It was like a computer that had just been unplugged. Just … blank. Blue screen of death, Max, honestly.”
Max stares out the window, the blurred lights of Amsterdam streaking across the glass. The city is alive, humming with a nocturnal energy he usually appreciates. Tonight, he barely registers it. His mind is a looped video file, playing one specific scene over and over. The spotlight. The smirk. The fuzzy pink handcuffs.
“Are you even listening to me?” Victoria asks, nudging him.
“I’m listening,” he says, his voice quiet. “You’re enjoying my public humiliation. Loud and clear.”
“Oh, it was not humiliation! It was an honor!” She insists. “Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position? She chose you. Out of everyone. She thought you were the hottest person there.”
“She thought I was the most miserable-looking person there,” he corrects, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “She said so.”
“Details, details. The point is, you were on stage with Y/N Y/L/N. My very boring, very serious brother who only cares about tire degradation and understeer was just handcuffed by one of the world’s biggest pop stars. This is the best night of my life.”
“Glad I could provide the entertainment,” he says, the sarcasm lacking any real bite. He can’t even summon the energy to be properly annoyed with her. Something else is occupying that space, a low-level hum of … something. He can’t put a name to it. It’s not excitement, not exactly. It’s more like the feeling he gets on the grid just before the five red lights go out. A deep, thrumming anticipation of the unknown.
When they pull up to his hotel, Victoria leans over and gives him a quick, tight hug. “Seriously, though. Thanks for coming with me tonight, Max. I know it wasn't your thing.”
“It was …” he starts, searching for the right word. He settles for, “… not as bad as I thought it would be.”
Victoria pulls back, her eyes shining with laughter. “That’s the most glowing review I’ve ever heard you give anything that doesn’t have four wheels and an engine. I’ll take it. Now go get some sleep. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He hasn’t seen a ghost. He’s seen a goddess, maybe. Or a succubus. He’s not quite sure which.
The hotel room is just as he left it: sterile, quiet, and blessedly empty. The silence is a physical presence after the overwhelming noise of the concert. He toes off his shoes, drops his keys on the console table, and walks over to the floor-to-ceiling window. The view of the city is panoramic, a glittering tapestry of light and darkness.
He pulls his phone from his pocket, intending to put it on the charger and forget about the world. But the screen is lit up with a relentless barrage of notifications.
Dozens of them.
Lando: mate what the FUCK is this??????
Lando: [Link to Twitter video]
Lando: VERSTAPPEN YOU DOG
Daniel: I leave you alone for five minutes and you get arrested by a pop star? Proud of you.
Charles: Are you okay? I saw a video.
Even a message from his dad: Wat is dit? Bel me.
Max’s thumb hovers over the link Lando sent. He feels a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. He presses it.
The Twitter video player opens. It’s shaky, clearly filmed on a phone from somewhere in the crowd, but the audio is surprisingly clear. He watches the whole scene unfold from an outsider’s perspective. He sees you scan the crowd. He sees you point. He sees the spotlight hit him, sees his own deer-in-the-headlights expression magnified on the giant screens. He watches himself walk stiffly to the stage, looking like a man being led to the gallows.
And he watches you. The way you moved, the confidence radiating from you, the playful but utterly dominant energy you exuded. Then he sees the moment you handcuffed him, leaning in to whisper in his ear. From this angle, it looks intimate. Conspiratorial.
He scrolls down. The video has over a million views. It was posted less than an hour ago.
The comments are a chaotic whirlwind.
WHO IS THIS MAN??? HE’S GORGEOUS
Wait … no … that CAN’T be Max Verstappen.
THE F1 AND Y/N Y/L/N CROSSOVER I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED IN MY LIFE
THE WAY SHE LOOKS AT HIM OMG SHIP SHIP SHIP
he looks so flustered i can’t breathe
my man’s brain left the chat during Juno and never came back lmao
His cheeks burn. He clicks off the app, but it’s no use. He opens Instagram. He’s been tagged in hundreds of photos. His follower count is climbing at an alarming rate. He’s trending. #MaxVerstappen, #YNYLN, and #FuzzyPinkHandcuffs are the top three trends in the Netherlands.
He throws the phone onto the bed and runs a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the room. This is a PR nightmare. Or a PR dream, depending on who you ask. His media team is probably having a collective aneurysm. He’s supposed to be in Amsterdam for Heineken, projecting a mature, corporate-friendly image. Not … this. Not being the flustered boy toy in a pop star’s stage show.
But as he paces, another feeling starts to bubble up through the mortification. A slow, undeniable thrill. No one ever saw him like that. He was always in control, always the champion, the ‘Mad Max’ in the car, the cool professional out of it. Tonight, the world saw him completely disarmed. Vulnerable. And it was all because of you.
He stops in front of the window again, staring at his faint reflection in the glass. The corner of his own mouth quirks up into a smile.
“What the hell,” he whispers to the empty room.
***
“I cannot believe you arrested Max Verstappen.”
You’re sitting on a plush couch in your dressing room, a bottle of water in one hand, while your makeup artist gently removes the layers of glitter and eyeliner from your face. The post-show adrenaline is still singing in your veins, a pleasant, fizzy sensation that makes the whole world feel bright and conquerable.
“I arrested a hot guy in a black t-shirt,” you correct, taking a long sip of water. “I didn’t ask for his resume.”
Your tour manager, a perpetually stressed but fiercely loyal woman named Brit, is pacing in front of you, phone pressed to her ear. Your best friend and personal assistant, Laila, is the one who broke the news, and she’s now sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through her phone with a look of manic glee.
“It doesn’t matter! The internet has decided he’s Max Verstappen,” Laila says, not looking up. “And, I mean, they’re not wrong. I’ve cross-referenced. It’s him. Official accounts are posting about it. Sports journalists are posting about it. It’s a thing.”
“Okay, so he’s … a sports guy?” You ask, feigning nonchalance as your makeup artist dabs at your eyelids with a cotton pad.
Laila finally looks up, her expression aghast. “A sports guy? Y/N, he’s a Formula 1 driver. He’s like … the Michael Jordan of driving in circles really, really fast. He’s a four-time world champion. He’s a Dutch national hero. We are in his country. You basically arrested the king.”
The information settles over you. It clicks into place, explaining a few things. The way he held himself, even when he was clearly uncomfortable — there was a coiled, athletic stillness to him. The look in his eyes wasn’t just surprise, it was the analytical gaze of someone constantly processing data, assessing a situation. And it explained the crowd’s slightly more frenzied reaction when the spotlight hit him. You’d assumed it was just for the gag.
“Huh,” is all you say. A slow smile begins to form on your newly cleaned face. “So the king is a fan?”
“I don’t think he was a fan,” Laila snorts. “From the videos of him before you pulled him up, he looked like he was being held at gunpoint. I think he was dragged there.”
This is even better. You didn’t just fluster a fan. You broke through the shell of a world champion who didn’t even want to be there. You got under his skin. The thought is ridiculously satisfying.
“Well, he’s a fan now,” you declare with a wink.
Brit hangs up her phone with a dramatic sigh. “Okay. So, I just spoke with your publicist. Her official take is: this is fantastic. It’s unexpected, it’s organic, it’s getting you in front of a completely new demographic. The sports blogs are eating it up. She says to just lean into it. Be playful. Don’t make it weird.”
You take the final cotton pad from Sarah and wipe the last of the lipstick from your mouth. “When have I ever made things weird?”
Laila and Brit share a look.
“Okay, fine,” you concede. “But this is different. This is … fun.”
You take Laila’s phone and start scrolling. You see the same videos Max saw, but from your perspective. You watch his face, magnified on the giant screens. The initial shock. The slow creep of a blush up his neck. The way his eyes darted around before inevitably locking back onto you. Laila was right. His brain had completely stalled. And you were the one who’d done it.
You click on his Instagram profile. It’s exactly what you’d expect. Polished, professional photos. Him in his race suit, him celebrating on a podium, him in a tailored suit at some gala. Intense. Focused. Untouchable.
Then you scroll to the tagged photos. The most recent ones are all from tonight. A sea of pictures of him on your stage, looking boyish and overwhelmed, a stark contrast to his own curated feed.
You feel a little flutter in your stomach, a spark of something potent and exciting. It’s the thrill of the chase, but with the roles reversed. You’re not used to being the pursuer, but then again, you’re not used to a man who looks at you with such a baffling mixture of terror and utter fascination.
“What are you doing?” Laila asks, noticing the dangerous glint in your eye.
“Conducting some market research,” you say sweetly.
You follow him.
Then you switch back to your own account, navigate to your direct messages, and type his name into the search bar. His profile pops up. The little blue checkmark sits next to his name, a silent confirmation.
Your thumb hovers over the message bar.
What do you say to the king you’ve just publicly dethroned?
Brit’s advice rings in your ears. Be playful. Don’t make it weird. But ‘not weird’ is boring. ‘Not weird’ is for other pop stars. Your entire brand is built on being a little weird, a lot bold. On singing the things most people only dare to think.
You think back to the show. The moment the energy shifted. The moment his carefully constructed composure finally cracked.
You smile. You know exactly what to say.
You type it out quickly, your heart giving a little thud of exhilaration. You read it back once. It’s perfect. It’s audacious. It’s you.
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
***
Max is lying on his back in the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep is a distant country he has no visa for. His mind is a racetrack, and the memory of you is doing endless hot laps.
He’s analysed it from every angle, the way he would with telemetry data after a qualifying session. The initial moment of eye contact. The walk to the stage. The feel of the fuzzy cuff on his wrist. The sound of your voice up close, stripped of the arena’s reverb. It was lower, huskier than he expected.
He rolls over, punching his pillow into a new shape, as if that will somehow rearrange his thoughts. It doesn’t work. He’s restless, agitated. He feels like he’s full of unspent energy, the phantom limb of an adrenaline crash that never came.
His phone, lying face down on the nightstand, buzzes against the wood.
He groans. It’s probably Lando again, with a newly created meme photoshopped from a picture of the concert. He resolves to ignore it. He needs to shut his brain off.
The phone buzzes again. A persistent, insistent little vibration.
With a sigh of resignation, he reaches over and grabs it. Maybe if he just looks at it, the itch of curiosity will be scratched and he can finally sleep.
He squints at the lock screen, his eyes adjusting to the brightness. There are two new notifications. Both from Instagram.
His breath catches in his throat.
It’s not a tag. It’s not a comment. It’s a message request.
@yourusername wants to send you a message.
Max sits bolt upright in bed. The sheet pools around his waist. He stares at the notification, his heart starting a frantic, staccato rhythm against his ribs. This can’t be real. It has to be a fake account, a prank. One of the millions of fan accounts.
But the profile picture is the same one from her official page. And his mind, ever the pragmatist, supplies the logical next step: check.
His thumb, feeling strangely clumsy, slides to open the notification. It takes him to the message request folder. There it is, at the top of the list. Your name, your picture, and the little blue checkmark that means everything in this strange, online world.
It’s real.
He taps on it, his pulse thundering in his ears. The chat opens. There’s only one message from you, sitting there, glowing in the darkness of his hotel room.
He reads it.
Y/N Y/L/N: So. That was fun. But the stage lighting doesn’t really do it justice. Ever wonder what a real demonstration of the Juno position looks like?
Time stops.
The air leaves Max’s lungs in a silent whoosh. He reads the message again. And a third time, just to be sure his sleep-deprived brain isn’t hallucinating.
It’s still there. Bold. Unapologetic. A direct challenge wrapped in a deeply provocative question. It’s the verbal equivalent of you dropping to your knees in that spotlight. It’s designed to shock, to disarm, to get a reaction.
And it works.
A slow, wide grin spreads across Max’s face. The last vestiges of his embarrassment evaporate, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated adrenaline that’s more potent than winning a race. The mortified man-boy from the concert stage is gone. The champion is back.
You’re playing his game. Or rather, you’re inviting him to play yours. High stakes, high risk, high reward. This, he understands. This is a language he speaks fluently.
His mind races, cycling through a dozen possible replies.
A simple ‘yes’ is too eager, too predictable. He’d be handing her all the power.
‘I might be interested’ is too weak, too corporate.
Ignoring it is an admission of defeat. And Max Verstappen does not lose.
He needs something that matches her energy. Something that acknowledges her move and raises the stakes. He needs a response that is as concise, confident, and just as cocky as her message.
He thinks about the terse, coded language of the racetrack. The call and response between driver and race engineer. Information received. Action required.
He knows what to write.
His thumbs fly across the screen. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t second-guess.
Max Verstappen: Copy. Send location.
He hits send.
The single grey tick turns to two. Then, instantly, they turn blue. She’s seen it.
He holds his breath. The ball is back in her court. For a full ten seconds, there is nothing. He wonders if he’s been too bold, if he’s misread the entire situation.
Then, the little bubble with the three dots appears.
She is typing.
***
You stare at his reply, a genuine, delighted laugh bubbling up from your chest.
It’s perfect. It’s not the fawning, overly enthusiastic response you get from most guys, nor is it an attempt to play it cool that just comes off as insecure. It’s direct. It’s efficient. It’s a challenge met with equal force. It’s the most Formula 1-sounding text you could possibly imagine, and you find it ridiculously charming.
He’s not intimidated. He’s ready.
Laila is asleep in the bunk across from you on the tour bus, which is now hurtling down a dark highway toward your next stop. The only light is the glow of your phone. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud and waking her.
Okay, champion. You want to play? Let’s play.
You could send him your hotel address. You could tell him to meet you tomorrow. That would be the easy way. The boring way. You want to draw this out, just a little. You want to see what he’s made of.
Y/N Y/L/N: Not so fast, champion. A proper demonstration requires a proper setting. And I’m not sure you’ve earned it yet.
You hit send. The response comes back almost immediately.
Max Verstappen: What’s the objective?
You grin. Objective. He’s treating this like a race strategy. You can practically hear his engineer in his ear.
Y/N Y/L/N: The objective is for you to convince me you can handle it.
Max Verstappen: I handle 200 mph corners for a living. I think I can handle a pop star.
Oh, he’s cocky. You love it.
Y/N Y/L/N: Driving is easy. You’re just sitting down. This requires stamina. Finesse. An appreciation for the craft.
Max Verstappen: You have no idea what you’re talking about. But I’m a fast learner.
Y/N Y/L/N: I’m sure you are. But I have a very busy schedule. My European tour is tightly packed. You might have missed your window of opportunity.
You’re testing him. Seeing if he’ll back down. Seeing if he’ll push.
There’s a longer pause this time. You watch the screen, your heart doing a little tap dance against your ribs. Maybe you pushed too far. Maybe he’s decided it’s not worth the effort.
Then, the three dots appear again.
Max Verstappen: I’m looking at your tour schedule. And my race calendar. You have a day off in two days, after your show in Cologne. I have a simulator session I can move.
You blink at the message. He’s … planning. He’s looking at logistics. This isn’t just a flirtatious game to him anymore, it’s a puzzle to be solved. The seriousness of it, the methodical way he’s approaching this, is the hottest thing you’ve ever encountered.
Y/N Y/L/N: Stalking my tour schedule now? A little desperate, don’t you think?
Max Verstappen: It’s called preparation. You should try it. So. Cologne. You’re at the Hyatt. I can get a room there. We can have dinner. You can … convince me of your craft.
He’s flipped it back on you. Now you’re the one who has to perform. It’s brilliant.
Y/N Y/L/N: Dinner? How charmingly old-fashioned.
Max Verstappen: I am an old man, remember? That’s what you told 17,000 people tonight.
You laugh softly. He’s got a sense of humor buried under all that intensity. This is getting better and better.
Y/N Y/L/N: Fine, Verstappen. Dinner. Two days. Cologne. If you can keep up with the conversation, maybe I’ll consider giving you a private demonstration.
Max Verstappen: I’ll be the one deciding if you get a second date.
The sheer audacity. You have to put the phone down for a second, a wide, incredulous smile on your face. He’s not just playing the game; he’s trying to rewrite the rules.
Y/N Y/L/N: Don’t get ahead of yourself. Just because you have a world title doesn’t mean you’re getting past the first round with me.
Max Verstappen: Good. I like a challenge.
Max Verstappen: Good night, Y/N.
He used your name. Your actual name. It feels surprisingly intimate after the verbal sparring. And he ended the conversation. He won the last word. He’s in control.
You stare at his final message, a giddy, unfamiliar feeling fluttering in your chest. You have a feeling that Max Verstappen is unlike anyone you have ever met before. And you cannot wait to see him again.
You type back one last message.
Y/N Y/L/N: Good night, Max. Don’t get your hopes up.
You turn your phone off and slide it under your pillow. You lie back in the darkness of your bunk, the gentle rocking of the bus a soothing lullaby. But you know you won’t be sleeping for a while. Your mind is already in Cologne, in a hotel restaurant, sitting across from a man who looks at you like you’re the most terrifying and fascinating puzzle he’s ever seen.
And you think, with a thrill of pure, delicious anticipation, that the show is only just getting started.
***
The two days that follow are a strange, suspended reality. A low-frequency hum of anticipation lives just under your skin, a constant companion through your soundcheck in Cologne, the press interviews, the meet-and-greet with fans. You are physically present for all of it, smiling, charming, hitting your notes. But a part of your mind is elsewhere, replaying a text exchange, dissecting the subtext of every concise, infuriatingly confident message from Max.
He doesn’t text often, but when he does, it’s with purpose.
The morning after your initial conversation, a message appears.
Max Verstappen: Good morning. My travel is booked. I will see you tomorrow.
It’s a statement of fact. A confirmation of a logistic. It’s the least romantic text you’ve ever received, and yet it sends a ridiculous thrill through you. There are no emojis, no playful banter. Just the cold, hard fact that he is coming. He is committed to the objective.
You, on the other hand, play your part.
Y/N Y/L/N: Don’t get lost on the way. Big cities can be scary for country boys 😉
His reply takes an hour.
Max Verstappen: I navigate Monaco at 300 kph. I can find the hotel.
You laugh out loud when you read it, earning a strange look from your choreographer.
The day of the date feels like the slow, torturous climb of a rollercoaster. The show that night is electric. You feel alive, every nerve ending tingling with a mixture of performance adrenaline and the knowledge that he is somewhere in the same city, waiting. You pour all of that crackling energy into your set, giving the Cologne audience a performance that feels even more charged, more brazen than the one in Amsterdam. When you get to the Juno position, you hold his imagined gaze, a silent promise hanging in the air of the arena.
Back in your hotel suite, you dismiss your team with breezy assurances that you just want to decompress alone.
“Are you sure?” Laila asks, lingering by the door, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You usually want to order a mountain of fries and dissect the show for at least an hour.”
“I’m sure,” you say, already pulling off your stage-dusted boots. “Just tired tonight. Long day.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, unconvinced. “Well, text me if you need anything. Or if a certain Dutch national hero happens to get lost and wander into your room.”
You throw a pillow at her, and she ducks out of the room, cackling.
Alone, the silence of the suite buzzes around you. You stand under the spray of the shower, the hot water sluicing away the sweat and glitter of the show, but it can’t wash away the thrumming anticipation. This is different from the usual pre-date jitters. This isn’t about impressing someone. This is a game. A high-stakes match against an opponent who is, in his own way, as much of a champion as you are.
You choose your outfit with the care of a general planning a campaign. Nothing too overt. That would be too easy. You settle on a black silk slip dress. It’s simple, elegant, and whispers rather than shouts. It skims your body, hinting at every curve without clinging. It says, I didn’t try too hard, but you’re going to have a very hard time not thinking about what’s underneath this.
You leave your hair slightly damp, letting it wave naturally. Your makeup is minimal — a touch of mascara, a sheer gloss on your lips. This is not the Y/N from the stage. This is the you he hasn’t seen. The you behind the performance. That, you decide, is the most strategic move of all.
At exactly nine o’clock, your phone buzzes.
Max Verstappen: I’m in the lobby bar. In the corner.
No ‘are you ready?’, no ‘let me know when you’re coming down’. Just a statement of his position. He’s in place. He’s waiting.
Your heart gives a single, hard thump.
Showtime.
***
The hotel bar is the kind of place that specializes in expensive brown liquor and hushed conversations. It’s all dark wood, low lighting, and the quiet clinking of heavy glassware. You spot him immediately.
He’s exactly where he said he’d be, in a discreet booth in the far corner, nursing a glass of what looks like sparkling water. He’s not on his phone. He’s just watching the room with a calm, unnerving stillness. He’s wearing a dark grey jumper that makes his shoulders look even broader than they do in a race suit, and his hair is soft and unstyled. The sight of him, so different from the intense, helmeted athlete or the flustered boy on your stage, sends a fresh jolt of electricity through you.
He sees you the moment you step into the room. His eyes lock onto yours, and for a second, the rest of the bar melts away. He doesn't smile, but you see a flicker of something in his gaze — appreciation, surprise, something else you can’t quite name. He stands up as you approach, a simple, almost formal gesture of courtesy that feels surprisingly charming.
“Hi,” you say, your voice a little softer than you intended.
“Hi,” he replies. His voice is a low rumble that seems to vibrate in the space between you. He gestures to the seat opposite him. “You look … different.”
You slide into the booth, the leather cool against your bare legs. “Different good, or different like I’ve just escaped a glitter factory?”
A small smile finally touches his lips. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp, intense lines. “Different good. Very good.”
A waiter materializes at your elbow. You order a glass of champagne, and Max orders another water.
“No celebration drink?” You ask, arching an eyebrow after the waiter has gone. “I thought you Heineken guys were always on the clock.”
“I’m working tomorrow,” he says simply. “Simulator. Can’t be slow.”
“Ah, yes. The discipline,” you say, leaning your elbows on the table. “Tell me, Max, are you ever not working? Do you ever just … turn it off?”
“Do you?” He counters, his blue eyes sharp and intelligent. He’s not just making conversation; he’s probing, gathering data.
You have to give him a small, impressed smile. “Touché. No, I guess not. Even when I’m ‘off,’ I’m thinking about lyrics, melodies, the next tour …”
“It’s the same,” he nods, seeming to understand completely. “There is always the next race. The next corner. You can’t leave it behind. It’s who you are.”
In that single moment, a bridge forms between your two vastly different worlds. The pop star and the racing driver. On the surface, nothing alike. But underneath, you are both predators, obsessive perfectionists, addicted to the roar of the crowd and the taste of victory. You both live your lives in the unforgiving glare of the public spotlight.
“So,” you say, changing the subject, a playful glint returning to your eyes. “Will you enjoy the show tonight? Or did you need a chaperone to drag you here, too?”
He takes a slow sip of his water, his gaze never leaving yours. “I came on my own this time.” He pauses. “It was good. You are … very good at what you do.”
Coming from him, the simple, unadorned compliment lands with more weight than a thousand gushing reviews. It’s a professional assessment. Champion to champion.
“And you’re very good at what you do,” you reply. “Though I still think it’s mostly just sitting down and turning a wheel.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “You wouldn’t last ten laps.”
“You wouldn’t last one song in my heels.”
“Deal,” he says, his smile widening. “But you have to wear the race suit.”
The waiter arrives with your champagne. You lift the glass, the tiny bubbles catching the light. “To unlikely deals,” you say.
He lifts his water glass. “To keeping up.”
The clink of your glasses hangs in the air. The overture is over. The real match is beginning.
You talk for over an hour. The conversation flows with a surprising ease. He asks you about your songwriting process with a genuine, technical curiosity. You ask him about the psychology of racing, of pushing a machine and your own body to the absolute edge of their limits. You find you are both fluent in the language of pressure.
He’s not what you expected. He’s not arrogant, but he has a deep, unshakable core of self-belief that is more potent than any boast. He’s funny, in a dry, deadpan way. And he’s an intensely focused listener. When you speak, he watches you with an unnerving concentration, as if he’s trying to memorize the very cadence of your voice.
You feel the familiar pull of attraction deepening into something more dangerous. A genuine fascination. You’re enjoying this too much. You’re letting your guard down. Time to retake the offensive.
As he’s explaining the physics of downforce, you stretch your legs out under the table. You let your bare foot brush against his ankle.
He stops talking. Mid-sentence.
It’s just for a second. A tiny, fractional pause. But you see it. A flicker in his eyes. A subtle tightening of his jaw. You’ve breached his defenses.
You pretend it was an accident, pulling your foot back slightly before letting it find his leg again, this time with a little more purpose. You slowly, deliberately, trace the line of his calf with your toes, the silk of your dress whispering against the leather of the booth.
He resumes his explanation of downforce, but his voice is a fraction deeper. He doesn't acknowledge what you're doing. He just keeps talking, his eyes locked on yours, as if he’s daring you to push it further.
Challenge accepted.
You slide your foot higher, your toes finding the rough denim of his jeans at his knee. You press, gently. He continues to speak, his composure on the surface absolute. But you can feel the rigid tension in his leg muscles under your foot. You’re getting to him. The untouchable champion is not so untouchable after all.
You get bolder. You hook your ankle around his, pulling his leg slightly closer to yours. You’re playing a secret, silent game in the middle of a respectable hotel bar, and the illicit thrill of it is intoxicating.
He finishes his point about tyre degradation and then falls silent. He just looks at you, his gaze intense, unreadable. The air between you is thick with unspoken things. Your foot is still hooked around his ankle.
“Are you finished?” He asks, his voice low and steady.
For a second, you think he means with your drink. But the look in his eyes tells you he means something else entirely.
“I’m just getting started,” you whisper.
He holds your gaze for another long moment. Then, he puts his napkin on the table, a gesture of finality.
“I have a suite,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. An instruction. “We should go.”
He’s taking back control. Calling the play. And every cell in your body sings in agreement.
“Lead the way, champion,” you say, your voice a purr.
***
The walk from the bar to the elevator is the longest walk of your life. He doesn’t touch you, but you can feel the heat radiating from him. He walks a half-step ahead of you, a silent, dominant presence clearing a path through the lobby. You feel like a satellite caught in his gravitational pull.
Inside the elevator, the silence is deafening. The mirrored walls reflect the two of you, standing a foot apart, not looking at each other but acutely aware of every tiny movement, every breath. The air is so charged you feel like a spark could set it all on fire. You watch his reflection. His jaw is set, his hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides. He is a picture of forced composure, a volcano putting a lid on itself.
The soft ding of the elevator arriving at his floor makes you both jump.
He leads you down the hallway to his room, his key card beeping softly as he unlocks the door. He pushes it open and stands back, letting you enter first.
The suite is huge and impersonal, the way all expensive hotel rooms are. A sprawling living area, a minibar, and a wall of windows showing the glittering lights of Cologne. But you don’t see any of it. All you see is him as he closes the door behind you, the solid click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.
The sound seals you in. The public game is over. The private one is about to begin.
He walks past you towards the minibar. “Do you want a drink?” He asks, his back to you. It’s a last, desperate grasp at normalcy. At control.
You’re not going to let him have it.
You walk up behind him, stopping so close you can feel the warmth of his body. You can smell his cologne, a clean, sharp scent of citrus and something woody.
“I don’t want a drink, Max,” you say, your voice low and husky.
He turns around slowly. You’re so close you have to tilt your head back to look up at him. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide. The cool, collected man from the bar is gone. In his place is someone else. Someone raw and unguarded.
“Then what do you want?” He asks, his voice rough.
You reach up and place a hand flat on his chest. You can feel his heart hammering against your palm, a frantic, wild rhythm that matches your own.
“I want to know if you can still talk a big game up close,” you whisper, letting your fingers trail up his chest to the collar of his jumper. “Still think you can handle me, champion?”
That’s it. That’s the word. The spark.
He snaps.
His control shatters into a million pieces. In one swift, fluid movement, he has you backed against the solid wood of the door, his body caging yours. One of his hands comes up to brace the door next to your head, the other finds your waist, his fingers digging into the silk of your dress, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the hard, undeniable proof of his arousal pressed against your stomach.
His face is inches from yours, his eyes burning with an intensity that steals your breath.
“Handle you?” He growls, his voice a low, guttural sound that vibrates through you. “I have thought about nothing else for two days. Since the moment you put those ridiculous handcuffs on my wrist. I’ve thought about your mouth. I’ve thought about this dress. And I’ve thought about every single word of that fucking song.”
Your mind goes blank. All the witty comebacks, the playful teasing, it all evaporates in the face of this raw, overwhelming honesty. This is what was hiding beneath all that discipline. A ferocious, tightly leashed desire. And you are the one who just snapped the leash.
“Max …” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper.
“Don’t,” he says, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Don’t talk. Not yet.”
And then he kisses you.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. It’s desperate and hungry and furious. It’s two days of tension and a lifetime of control being obliterated in a single, devastating moment. His mouth is hot and demanding, his lips crashing against yours with a bruising force that makes you see stars. He tastes of mint and bottled water and pure, unadulterated need.
You kiss him back with equal ferocity, your hands coming up to tangle in his soft hair, pulling him closer, deeper. You open your mouth to him, and his tongue sweeps in, claiming you with a possessive, masterful confidence. It’s a battle, a fight for dominance, and you are both losing, both winning, both surrendering completely.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your jaw, along your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. You arch your back, a low sound of pleasure escaping your lips. His hand at your waist slides lower, cupping your ass, lifting you up and grinding you against him.
“Is this … handling it?” He murmurs against your neck, his breath hot on your skin.
“You’re getting warmer,” you pant, your brain struggling to form coherent thoughts.
He lifts his head, his eyes blazing, and kisses you again, hard and deep. He walks you backwards, away from the door, his mouth never leaving yours. You stumble over something, but he holds you steady, his arms like steel bands around you. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. He pushes you down gently, following you, his body covering yours, caging you on the mattress.
He breaks the kiss, his chest heaving, and props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. Your dress is rucked up around your thighs, your hair is a mess, your lips are swollen from his. You probably look like a storm just passed through you.
“Okay,” he says, his voice still rough with passion. “Okay.” It’s like he’s trying to reboot his own brain, to find the control again.
But you’re not done with him yet. You haven’t fulfilled your promise.
You reach up and place your hands on his chest, pushing him gently. “My turn,” you say, your voice breathy.
He looks at you, confused, but allows you to push him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He watches you, his eyes full of questions, as you slide off the bed and onto your knees in front of him. You look up at him from the floor, and you see the exact moment recognition dawns in his eyes. It’s the same look he had at the concert. Shock. Awe. Utter, brain-melting disbelief.
“The stage lighting really doesn’t do it justice,” you whisper, repeating your words from the DM. You give him a slow, wicked smile. “Time for your private demonstration.”
You reach out and unbuckle his belt, the metallic click loud in the silent room. You pull the zipper of his jeans down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. His breath hitches. His hands, which had been resting on his knees, clench into tight fists.
You take him into your hand. He’s hot and hard and heavy, and a fresh wave of desire, of power, washes over you. You lean in, your lips brushing against the tip of him, a teasing, feather-light touch. He lets out a low, strangled groan and his head falls back against the headboard.
“Look at me,” you command softly.
His eyes snap open, locking with yours. They are dark, hazy with lust.
“Do you want to try,” you whisper, “this one?”
And you take him into your mouth.
You put every ounce of your skill, your confidence, your audacity into it. This is a performance, but it’s the most intimate one you’ve ever given. It’s slow and deep and decadent. You use your tongue, your lips, your hands, orchestrating his pleasure with the precision of a conductor. You watch his face the entire time, watch the way his jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck cord, the way his eyes squeeze shut as you push him closer to the edge. You’re in complete control, and the power is a heady, intoxicating drug.
He lasts longer than you expect, his famous discipline fighting a losing battle against the pure, overwhelming sensation. His hands come down to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding on, anchoring himself in the storm you’ve created. His breathing is harsh, ragged.
“Y/N …” he chokes out your name, a plea and a prayer.
You know he’s close, on the brink. And just as he’s about to shatter, you pull away.
He lets out a frustrated growl, his eyes snapping open. They are wild, furious, and filled with a desperate need that makes you weak at the knees.
“What are you doing?” He rasps.
You get to your feet, a triumphant smirk on your lips. “Demonstration over,” you say, your voice a little shaky.
For a second, he just stares at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Then, in a movement so fast you don't have time to react, he’s on his feet. He grabs your arm, spins you around, and pushes you face down onto the bed.
“My turn,” he growls in your ear, his voice a low, predatory rumble.
He pushes the silk of your dress up to your waist, his hot breath on the back of your neck. His hands explore your body, not with gentleness, but with a hungry, desperate curiosity. He spans your waist, his thumbs pressing into the small of your back.
“You have no idea what you just started,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your earlobe.
He parts you with his fingers, and you gasp as his thumb finds your clit, pressing down with a firm, knowing pressure. You moan into the pillow, your carefully constructed control completely gone. You are pure sensation, pure need.
Then, his mouth replaces his hand.
And your world ends.
If your performance was a work of art, his is an act of sheer, focused demolition. There is no finesse, no teasing. It is a direct, relentless, overwhelming assault on your senses. His tongue is masterful, merciless. He finds your rhythm instantly and pushes you, harder, faster, deeper. He’s not performing, he’s claiming. He’s not asking, he’s taking. He’s a champion, and he is determined to win.
You lose all sense of time and space. There is only the bedspread clutched in your fists, the sound of your own helpless moans, and the exquisite, unbearable pleasure he is inflicting on you. Your hips buck against his mouth, chasing the feeling, chasing the release.
“Max, please,” you cry out, not even sure what you’re asking for.
He doesn’t stop. He just holds your hips tighter, his mouth becoming even more insistent. He is pushing you over an edge you didn't even know was there. The pleasure builds and builds, a tight, coiling knot in your stomach, until it becomes unbearable.
And then, it snaps.
Your climax rips through you, a violent, soul-shattering wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the pillow as your body convulses, the release so powerful it leaves you trembling and breathless, completely undone.
He doesn't stop until the last aftershock has faded. He stays there for a moment longer before moving up, collapsing onto the bed beside you, his body slick with sweat. He pulls you against his side, his arm wrapping around you, holding you tight.
You lie there in silence for a long time, the only sound the ragged rhythm of your breathing slowly returning to normal. Your body feels boneless, your mind blissfully blank.
He broke through all your defenses. He met your challenge and raised the stakes to a level you never could have imagined. He didn't just handle you. He conquered you.
You turn your head on the pillow to look at him. His eyes are closed, but a small, satisfied smile plays on his lips.
“So,” you say, your voice a wrecked, husky whisper. “Second date?”
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you, his eyes clear and bright, and the smile widens into a genuine, breathtaking grin.
“Copy,” he says. “Send location.”
***
The morning light in Cologne is grey and unforgiving, slicing through a gap in the heavy blackout curtains. You wake slowly, your body a warm, heavy tangle of limbs and satisfaction. For a moment, you don't know where you are. Then you feel it — the solid weight of an arm draped possessively over your waist, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat against your back.
It all comes rushing back in a dizzying, cinematic flash. The bar. The elevator. The devastating, all-consuming kiss against the door. The demonstration. And his … rebuttal.
A slow smile spreads across your face. You lie still, listening to the sound of his breathing, the quiet hum of the city outside. This is usually the part you hate. The awkward morning-after shuffle, the polite but pointed small talk, the unspoken question of who leaves first. You’re an expert at the clean getaway.
But as you lie there, pinned by the arm of a sleeping world champion, you feel a distinct lack of any desire to escape. You feel … comfortable. Calm. It’s a dangerously unfamiliar sensation.
You carefully, quietly, try to slide out from under his arm. You fail. The arm tightens, and a low, sleepy groan rumbles from his chest. He pulls you back against him, his face nuzzling into the curve of your neck.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.
“I was just going to the bathroom,” you whisper, your heart giving a little flutter at the casual intimacy of the gesture.
“Bathroom can wait,” he says, his lips brushing against your skin. “Five more minutes.”
You surrender, letting your body relax back into his. The five minutes stretch into fifteen, a peaceful, silent bubble in the heart of a bustling hotel. He doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you. You just lie there, existing in the same space, and it feels more natural than it has any right to.
Eventually, the silence is broken by the insistent buzz of a phone on the nightstand. Max groans again, a sound of pure protest this time. He reluctantly untangles himself from you, the loss of his warmth immediate, and leans over to grab the offending device.
He squints at the screen, running a hand through his already messy hair. “It’s my race engineer,” he says, his voice still gravelly. He clears his throat. “I have to … I have a session.”
“The famous simulator,” you say, propping yourself up on your elbows, the sheet pooling around your waist.
He looks at you, and for the first time in the clear morning light, you see him without the mask of intensity or the haze of lust. He just looks like a guy who’s been woken up too early. A handsome guy, yes, but a normal one. There’s a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. It’s ridiculously endearing.
“Yeah,” he says, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He seems suddenly, uncharacteristically awkward. “I, uh, I have to go.”
Here it is. The pivot. The moment the magic of the night gives way to the harsh reality of the morning.
“Okay,” you say, keeping your voice light and breezy. You start to get out of bed, ready to gather your dress from the floor and perform your signature vanishing act.
“Wait,” he says, and his voice is sharp enough to make you pause.
You turn to look at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his phone in one hand, looking at you with that intense, analytical gaze you’re coming to recognize. The awkwardness is gone, replaced by a focused seriousness.
“What?” You ask.
He seems to be weighing his words carefully. “This wasn’t … I don’t do this.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do what? Have spectacularly hot, mutually satisfying sex with international pop stars? I’m sure it’s a rare occurrence.”
A small smile tugs at his lips, but his eyes remain serious. “No. This. A … one-night thing. It’s not my style.”
“Relax, champion,” you say, a little too quickly. “You don’t have to give me the ‘it’s not you, it’s my demanding career’ speech. I get it. I wrote the platinum-selling album on the subject. No strings, no expectations. It was a great demonstration. End of story.”
You’re protecting yourself, throwing up your usual walls of wit and nonchalance. But the words feel hollow even as you say them.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he says, his gaze unwavering. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping just in front of you. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, and you have to actively force your brain to focus on his face. “I’m saying this isn’t the end of the story. For me.”
Your breath catches in your throat. “What are you saying, Max?”
“I’m saying I want to see you again,” he says, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “Not for a game. Not for a challenge. I just … want to see you.”
The raw, unvarnished honesty of it knocks the air out of your lungs. There are no clever lines, no carefully constructed moves. Just a simple, direct statement of intent. It’s terrifying. And it’s thrilling.
“My schedule is insane,” you hear yourself say, the old excuses coming automatically. “I’m in a different city every other day. And you’re …”
“I know what my schedule is,” he cuts in. “I know what yours is. I looked it up again this morning.” Of course he did. “It’s difficult. It’s not impossible.” He reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch surprisingly gentle. “I want to try.”
You look into his eyes, and you see no games, no pretense. You see the same focus and determination he probably has when he’s hunting down a rival on the last lap of a race. And it’s all directed at you.
A slow, genuine smile spreads across your face. “Okay, Verstappen,” you say softly. “Let’s try.”
***
Trying, it turns out, is a logistical nightmare that feels like the easiest thing in the world.
Your life becomes a chaotic puzzle of time zones, flight paths, and encrypted text messages. It’s a relationship built in the stolen moments between soundchecks and simulator sessions, in quiet hotel rooms in cities you barely have time to see.
It’s a study in contradictions.
You are loud, he is quiet. Your life is a curated performance of joyful chaos, his is a monastic devotion to the millimeter, the microsecond. You thrive on the energy of thousands of screaming fans, he finds his peace in the solitary focus of the cockpit.
And somehow, it works. He becomes your anchor in the whirlwind of your life. You become his escape from the crushing pressure of his.
The first time you go to a race, it’s Monaco. Of course it’s Monaco. You step into the paddock, and it’s like entering another planet. The air is thick with the smell of burning rubber and expensive perfume, the sound a constant, high-strung symphony of screaming engines and a dozen different languages. It’s the only place on earth where your sequined jumpsuit doesn't even warrant a second glance.
Max meets you by the Red Bull hospitality suite, a rare, genuine smile on his face as he watches you take it all in.
“A bit much, isn’t it?” He says, his hand finding the small of your back.
“Honey, ‘a bit much’ is my brand,” you reply, grinning up at him. “I feel right at home.”
He gets a jealous look from another driver and Max’s hand on your back becomes just a little more possessive. He introduces you to his race engineer, GP, a man with a perpetually amused glint in his eye.
“So you’re the one,” GP says, shaking your hand. “The one who finally managed to knock him off his focus.”
“Oh, I think his focus is perfectly intact,” you say, giving Max a sly wink. “I’m just … recalibrating his suspension.”
GP lets out a bark of laughter. “I like her, Max. Don’t mess this one up.”
You spend the race in the garage, a pair of oversized headphones clamped over your ears. You don’t understand ninety percent of what’s happening, but you understand the tension. You watch the data on the screens, the focused ballet of the pit crew, the raw, primal emotion when Max makes a daring overtake. You see him in his element, a modern-day gladiator in a carbon fibre chariot, and your fascination with him deepens into a profound respect.
He starts showing up to your shows whenever his calendar has a twenty-four-hour gap. He’ll fly from Spa to London, from Monza to Paris, just to stand at the side of the stage and watch you. He never says much. He just stands there, his arms crossed, a small, proud smile on his face as you command the adoration of thousands. He’s your quiet island in the middle of the screaming ocean of your life.
One night, after a show in New York, you’re back in the hotel, exhausted and high on adrenaline. He’s sitting on the couch, watching you pace around the room as you dissect the performance.
“The bridge in ‘Tornado Warning’ was a little pitchy, and I missed my mark on the final chorus choreography …”
He just watches you, his expression calm and steady. “It was amazing,” he says when you finally pause for breath.
“You always say that,” you say, flopping down onto the couch next to him.
“Because it’s always true,” he replies simply. He reaches over and pulls you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you. You sigh, your body melting into his, the frantic energy of the show finally draining away.
“How do you do it?” You whisper into his neck. “How do you stay so … calm?”
“It’s easy,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “You’re loud enough for both of us.”
***
For his birthday, you decide to give him a gift only you can.
“I’m writing a song for you,” you announce one evening over a crackly FaceTime call. He’s in Singapore, you’re in L.A.
He groans, but he’s smiling. “Please don’t. My team already gives me enough shit for dating you. And Lando will be insufferable.”
“Oh, it’s too late,” you say sweetly. “The hook is already written. It’s very … aerodynamic.”
The song, titled ‘Pole Position’, drops two weeks later. It’s a pulsing, synth-heavy, ridiculously sexy track. It’s also the most explicit thing you’ve ever written. It’s filled with barely-veiled metaphors about G-forces, chicanes, and finishing first. The bridge is a breathy, spoken-word masterpiece that contains the line, “They say you’re the master of the late-breaking … I can attest to your stamina.”
It’s an instant, scandalous, global smash hit.
Max texts you the day it’s released.
Maxie ❤️: You are going to be the death of me.
You text back: You love it.
There’s a long pause.
Maxie ❤️: The car is on its way to your video shoot.
You had somehow, through a combination of dazzling charm, irrefutable brand synergy logic, and possibly a little light blackmail, convinced the Red Bull marketing team to let you use one of their F1 cars for the music video.
The video is a masterpiece of high-gloss camp. You, writhing on the chassis of an RB19 in a leather catsuit. You, licking champagne off a winner’s trophy. You, sitting in the cockpit, running your hands over the steering wheel with a look of pure, unadulterated lust on your face.
The video breaks the internet. Red Bull’s social media engagement goes up by 500 percent. Red Bull sends you a case of champagne with a note that says, “Well played.”
Max’s response is more succinct.
He wins the next race in Austin in a dominant, lights-to-flag victory. As he crosses the finish line, GP’s voice crackles over the radio.
“Okay, Max, that is P1. A brilliant, brilliant drive, mate. Absolutely flawless.”
There’s a pause, filled only with the sound of Max’s heavy breathing and the whine of the downshifting engine.
Then, his voice comes over the global broadcast, clear and steady.
“Yeah, that was a good one,” he says. “That one was for you, Y/N.”
You’re watching from the green room of a talk show in New York, and you burst into tears. It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you.
***
Time blurs, the way it does when you’re happy. Seasons pass in a flurry of checkered flags and sold-out stadiums. Your love story becomes a strange, accepted part of the cultural landscape. The scandalous pop star and the stoic racing champion. The odd couple who, against all odds, make perfect sense.
You are there in the suffocating humidity of Singapore, the glamour of Las Vegas, the historic grandeur of Silverstone. He is there in the wings of Madison Square Garden, the front row of the O2 Arena, the chaotic backstage of Glastonbury.
Then comes the race in Abu Dhabi.
It’s the culmination of a long, brutal season. He’s been fighting tooth and nail, a relentless battle for every point. It all comes down to this one race, under the desert lights. If he wins, he secures his fifth World Championship.
You’re in the garage, a nervous wreck. You’re twisting the strap of your paddock pass, your heart hammering in time with the screaming engines. You watch the race unfold on the monitors, your stomach in knots. It’s a tense, strategic affair. He doesn’t put a wheel wrong. He is a machine, a perfect fusion of man and carbon fiber.
He crosses the line. He wins.
The garage explodes. A tidal wave of joy and relief washes over everyone. Engineers are hugging, mechanics are crying. You are just standing there, tears streaming down your face, a sob of pure pride caught in your throat.
Later, after the podium, the interviews, the whirlwind of celebration, you find him in his driver’s room. He’s sitting on a bench, his head in his hands, the emotion of the day finally catching up to him.
You walk over and sit next to him, placing a hand on his back.
He looks up, his eyes red-rimmed. He gives you a watery, exhausted smile. “We did it.”
“You did it,” you say softly, wiping a tear from his cheek. “You’re incredible.”
He leans in and rests his forehead against yours. “Couldn’t do it without you,” he whispers. “My lucky charm.”
A few days later, you’re on stage in London. It’s the first show of your new world tour, a bigger, more ambitious production than ever before. The “arrest” segment with the fuzzy handcuffs has long been retired, replaced by new, even more elaborate gags.
Halfway through the set, as you’re catching your breath between songs, you scan the crowd. And you see him.
He’s not at the side of the stage. He’s in the audience, standing in the middle of the crowd with Victoria and some of his friends. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled down low, but you’d recognize him anywhere. He looks happy, relaxed, the weight of the championship finally lifted. He’s just a guy at a concert, watching his girlfriend.
He catches your eye. He smiles and gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod.
And an idea, a crazy, perfect, full-circle idea, sparks in your mind.
You grin at your band, a silent, mischievous signal that you’re going off-script. They look confused but nod along, ever the professionals.
You turn back to the microphone, a dramatic, serious expression on your face.
“London,” you say, and the arena quiets down, sensing a shift in the show. “I’m afraid I have to interrupt this evening’s proceedings for a very serious matter.”
A confused murmur ripples through the crowd.
“It has come to my attention,” you continue, your voice ringing with theatrical gravity, “that there is a criminal in our midst. A repeat offender.”
The crowd starts to buzz, a mixture of confusion and excitement.
“This man is guilty of multiple offenses,” you declare, starting to pace the stage. “Disturbing the peace. Driving too fast. Stealing way, way too many trophies. And, most egregiously … he stole my heart.”
A collective “aww” rises from the audience as they start to understand.
You look directly at Max, a spotlight operator catching your cue and swinging a beam of light onto him. The crowd around him erupts as they realize who it is. He buries his face in his hands for a second, a mixture of embarrassment and laughter, before looking back up at you, his eyes shining.
“Yeah, you,” you say, pointing at him, your voice softening. “In the stupid baseball cap. The five-time World Champion who looks like he just won the lottery.”
You motion to your stage manager in the wings. He whispers into his headset. A moment later, your prop master runs out and hands you something.
Fuzzy. Pink.
The arena explodes. The sound is deafening. It’s a roar of recognition, of joy, of love for the public, ridiculous story that has become yours.
“Security,” you say into the microphone, your voice thick with emotion but a wide, triumphant grin on your face. “Bring him to me. He’s got a life sentence to serve.”
They part the crowd for him, and he makes his way to the stage, a look of pure love on his face. He’s not the flustered, overwhelmed man he was all those years ago. He’s a king, walking onto a stage that is as much his as it is yours.
He bounds up the stairs, and you meet him in the center of the stage. The roar of the crowd fades into a distant hum.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, his voice for your ears only.
“You started it,” you whisper back, your eyes sparkling with happy tears.
You take his wrist, the familiar fuzzy cuff soft against his skin. “Max Emilian Verstappen,” you declare to the cheering arena, “for the crime of being illegally handsome, impossibly talented, and for loving a chaotic pop star with your whole heart …”
You click the other cuff onto your own wrist, linking you together.
“… I sentence you to a lifetime with me.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just leans in, cups your face in his free hand, and kisses you. It’s a kiss filled with years of history, of stolen moments and public declarations, of quiet mornings and screaming crowds. It’s a kiss that says home.
The crowd is a roaring, beautiful, joyful blur. But in the center of the stage, in the middle of the storm you’ve created together, there is only the two of you. Linked together. Finally and forever apprehended.
pixelskylines
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
