in which you start pulling away because connor’s so consumed by hockey that you feel invisible, and when he finally realizes something’s wrong, the two of you have the hard conversation you’ve both been avoiding.
author's note: my boyfriend proofread this so if it's bad it's his fault!
it happened so slowly that you almost couldn’t pinpoint when it started.
one missed text turned into two. one rescheduled dinner turned into three. one night of him coming over exhausted and falling asleep halfway through your movie turned into a week of half-finished conversations and tired kisses at your front door.
and the worst part was, you knew why.
hockey.
always hockey.
practice, travel, media, recovery, meetings, games, training, watching film, sleeping just enough to do it all over again. connor wasn’t doing anything wrong, not really. he wasn’t out partying, wasn’t ignoring you for fun, wasn’t being cruel. he was just… consumed.
and how could you be mad at him for that?
this was his dream. his whole life. the thing he had worked toward forever.
so every time your chest tightened when he canceled plans, every time you stared at a dry text thread and felt stupidly sad, every time you wanted to ask him to stay longer or look at you more or put his phone down and just be with you—you swallowed it.
because what kind of girlfriend complained that her boyfriend cared too much about the thing he’d spent his whole life chasing?
an unsupportive one, your brain whispered.
so you didn’t complain.
you just got quieter.
you stopped asking if he was free because the answer was usually no. you stopped double-texting. stopped sending little updates about your day when his replies got shorter and later. you stopped asking him to come over if you knew he had morning skate, stopped asking him to stay if you could feel how tired he was.
you told yourself you were being understanding.
but understanding, it turned out, looked a lot like disappearing.
and connor noticed.
not right away. because he was, in fact, exhausted and overbooked and stretched thin in every direction.
but he noticed.
he noticed when you stopped calling him first.
noticed when your texts turned from full little paragraphs into things like hope practice went well and sleep good? and good luck tonight <3.
noticed when he came over one evening after a game and you kissed him hello but didn’t melt into him the way you usually did.
noticed when he asked what you wanted to eat and you just shrugged and said, “whatever’s easiest.”
noticed when you laughed at something he said, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
it sat with him. quietly at first. then louder.
by the end of the week, he was thinking about it during practice.
which, for connor, was how you knew it was serious.
he texted you after skate.
CONNOR
you good?
u seem kinda off lately
you stared at the message way too long.
then typed back:
YOU
i’m okay! just tired
it was technically true. just not the whole truth. he sent a thumbs up. you hated the thumbs up.
and then you hated yourself for hating the thumbs up, because he was probably literally walking into a meeting or media or lifting or something and didn’t mean anything by it.
so you locked your phone and tried not to cry over a tiny blue icon like a crazy person.
by friday night, it all came to a head in the dumbest possible way.
connor had told you he’d stop by after practice. not for long, just to see you, but still — he said he would.
you cleaned your apartment. changed your sheets. put on one of his favorite hoodies of yours. ordered food from the place he liked because you remembered he hadn’t eaten much before heading to the rink.
seven o’clock came and went.
then eight.
then eight-thirty.
at eight-forty-seven, your phone buzzed.
CONNOR
shit
i’m sorry
extra film session and treatment ran late
i’m dead on my feet
can i see u tomorrow instead?
you stared at the message until the words blurred.
it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. it wasn’t some betrayal. it was hockey. again. of course it was hockey.
but something in you just… cracked.
you set the phone down without answering.
you turned off the lamp. put the food in the fridge. changed out of the hoodie. got in bed.
and when he texted again—
CONNOR
?
baby?
—you flipped your phone over and let it buzz against the nightstand until it stopped.
the next morning, you woke up to three missed calls and a knot in your stomach. you called him back immediately, guilt crashing over you.
he picked up on the first ring.
“hey,” he said, voice rough with worry. “are you okay?”
you swallowed. “yeah. sorry. i fell asleep.”
there was a pause.
“you didn’t answer me.”
“i know.”
another pause. longer this time.
“did i do something?” he asked carefully.
your throat tightened.
“no,” you said too fast. “you’re fine.”
he was quiet for a second, and you could picture the exact little furrow between his brows, the one he got when he knew he was being lied to.
“you don’t sound fine.”
“i’m just tired.”
“you said that yesterday.”
“because i am.”
he exhaled slowly. “okay.”
you hated how disappointed he sounded. hated that you were doing this. hated that you couldn’t seem to stop.
“i have to head in soon,” he said. “but… can i come by later?”
you almost said no. not to punish him — just because you didn’t know if you could hold yourself together and pretend everything was normal. but then your traitor heart said yes for you.
“okay.”
when he got there that night, he looked as tired as ever. but determined. he knocked once, then used his key when you didn’t answer fast enough. he stepped inside, spotted you on the couch, and immediately knew. you were curled up in one corner, blanket around your legs, movie paused on the screen. you looked fine. normal, even.
except you didn’t light up when you saw him.
his whole chest tightened.
“hey,” he said softly.
“hey.”
he closed the door behind him. “you didn’t come say hi.”
you tried for a smile. “you found me anyway.”
he didn’t smile back.
that was when you knew you were in trouble.
connor crossed the room slowly, like he was approaching a scared animal. he sat on the coffee table in front of you instead of beside you, forcing you to look at him.
“what’s wrong?”
you looked down at your hands. “nothing.”
“don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“say nothing when it’s obviously something.”
your chest tightened. “i’m not trying to start a fight.”
his expression softened immediately.
“i’m not trying to fight either,” he said quietly. “i’m trying to figure out why my girlfriend has barely looked at me in a week.”
your eyes stung.
you shook your head. “connor—”
“no, seriously,” he said, gentler now. “talk to me.”
and that was the problem, wasn’t it? because talking to him meant saying the thing you didn’t want to say. the ugly, selfish-sounding thing. the thing that made you feel small and clingy and unsupportive.
so you looked away and whispered, “i don’t want to make this harder for you.”
he stared at you. “harder for me?”
you nodded once, miserably.
“by telling me what’s wrong?”
silence.
he leaned forward slightly, trying to catch your eyes. “baby.”
that did it.
you laughed once — short and shaky and close to tears. “i just miss you, okay?”
the room went still.
you swallowed hard and stared at the floor because now that it was out, you couldn’t stop.
“i know hockey is your job and your dream and your whole life, and i’m not trying to take that away from you, and i know you’re busy and tired and under pressure all the time, so i feel horrible even saying any of this, but…” your voice broke. “i miss you. i miss talking to you. i miss feeling like i’m in your life instead of just waiting around the edges of it.”
connor didn’t move. didn’t breathe.
you wiped angrily at your eyes. “and i didn’t want to say anything because i know how important this season is and i didn’t want to sound like some awful girlfriend who can’t handle that you’re focused on hockey, so i just— i don’t know. i just tried to deal with it.”
he was still staring at you.
then, very quietly:
“you thought telling me you missed me would make you a bad girlfriend?”
the hurt in his voice made your stomach drop. you looked up. he looked wrecked. not angry. not defensive. wrecked.
“i know that sounds stupid,” you whispered.
“no,” he said immediately. “it sounds like i made you feel like you couldn’t come to me.”
you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
connor stood up suddenly, then knelt in front of you, hands going gently to your knees over the blanket.
“look at me.”
you did. his eyes were glassy, wide, and miserable.
“i am so sorry.”
your breath caught.
“connor—”
“no.” his grip tightened a little, not hurting, just grounding himself. “i’m serious. i knew i was busy. i knew i was tired. but i didn’t realize i was making you feel alone.”
you shook your head helplessly. “you didn’t mean to.”
“i know i didn’t mean to,” he said, voice thickening, “but that doesn’t make it okay.”
that was it. that was the thing that cracked your heart wide open. because he wasn’t brushing it off. wasn’t acting like you were dramatic. wasn’t telling you it came with the territory or that you knew what you signed up for.
he was just… hearing you. really hearing you.
tears slipped down your cheeks and his entire expression crumpled.
“hey,” he whispered, moving closer. “hey, no—come here.”
he climbed onto the couch beside you and pulled you into him so fast you barely had time to breathe. you folded into his chest instantly, face pressed into his hoodie, his arms tight around you like he wanted to hold the hurt out of you by force.
“i’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “i’m so, so sorry.”
“i didn’t want to be difficult,” you whispered.
he pulled back just enough to cup your face.
“you are not difficult.”
your lip trembled.
“you are not difficult,” he repeated, firmer now. “wanting your boyfriend to show up for you is not difficult. missing me is not difficult. being hurt because i haven’t been present is not difficult.”
a fresh wave of tears hit you, and he wiped them away immediately with both thumbs.
“i love hockey,” he said softly. “you know i do. but i love you too.”
the words landed warm and heavy in your chest.
“and if i’m making you feel like you come second to everything all the time, then i need to fix that. not because i have to choose between you and hockey. but because you matter. you matter enough for me to figure it out.”
you stared at him.
“connor…”
he rested his forehead against yours.
“i’m sorry i made you feel like you had to be low-maintenance to be loved right.”
you made the saddest little sound, and he kissed you immediately — soft, slow, comforting. not heated. not hungry. just there.
just i’m here, i’m here, i’m here.
when he pulled back, he stayed close, noses brushing.
“what do you need from me?” he whispered.
you swallowed. “i don’t know.”
“that’s okay.”
“i just…” you looked down. “i want to feel like i’m part of your life. not like i’m interrupting it.”
he nodded instantly. “okay.”
“and maybe,” you said carefully, “if you’re going to be late or can’t come, just… tell me earlier? so i’m not sitting there waiting and wondering.”
he closed his eyes briefly, pain flashing across his face.
“yeah,” he whispered. “yeah. i can do that. i should’ve done that already.”
you looked at him. “and i know you’re tired. i know you have a lot going on. i’m not asking for every second.”
“i know.”
“i just want the seconds you do have to feel real.”
connor’s eyes softened so much it almost hurt to look at him.
“they will,” he said. “i promise.”
he kissed your forehead, then your temple, then tucked you back into his chest and just held you. for a long time. long enough for your breathing to even out. long enough for the ache in your ribs to soften. long enough that when he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, more tentative.
“i’ve been scared too,” he admitted.
you shifted enough to look up at him. “of what?”
he stared at the blanket over your legs.
“of messing this up,” he said. “of not being good at both. hockey and… us. of needing hockey the way i do and hurting you without meaning to.”
your heart squeezed.
“you’re allowed to need it,” you whispered.
“i know. but i don’t want to lose you because i got lazy and assumed you’d always just understand.”
he looked at you then, eyes honest and tired and very, very young in a way he almost never let himself be.
“i need you to tell me when i’m screwing up.”
you gave him a tiny smile. “you mean communicate?”
he winced. “yeah. that.”
you laughed softly, and the relief that flooded his face was immediate.
“there she is,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth.
you tucked yourself closer to him. “i can do that. if you can not look at me like i’m ruining your career every time i have feelings.”
his eyes widened. “have i ever looked at you like that?”
“no. but my brain has.”
he frowned, offended on your behalf. “your brain’s being mean to you.”
you smiled against his hoodie. “i know.”
he rubbed your back slowly. “can i make this up to you?”
you tilted your head. “how?”
he thought for a second.
“i cleared tomorrow morning.”
you blinked. “what?”
“no practice until the afternoon. no media. no treatment i can’t move.” his cheeks pinked slightly. “i want the whole morning with you. breakfast, coffee, no phone, no film, no hockey unless you bring it up.”
your chest warmed. “you did that?”
“i did it in the parking lot before i came up,” he admitted. “because i had a feeling this was more than just you being tired.”
you stared at him for a moment, then kissed him — quick and soft and full of feeling.
he smiled into it.
“breakfast?” he asked.
you laughed. “right now?”
he shrugged. “it’s nine. breakfast food is emotionally supportive.”
you actually snorted at that, and he grinned wider, clearly delighted just to get a real laugh out of you.
“you’re ridiculous.”
“yeah, but you love me.”
your expression softened.
“yeah,” you whispered. “i do.”
he went still for one tiny beat, like even now hearing it did something permanent to him. then he kissed you again, forehead pressed to yours afterward.
“good,” he murmured. “because i really, really love you too.”
and for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like you were standing at the edge of his life hoping not to be forgotten. it felt like he was right there with you. choosing to stay.
jj who got bitchy!kook!reader to crumble…and is a smug bastard about it.
jj had been pestering you for a very, very long time. constantly teasing mocking, and poking fun at you — always having a remark locked and loaded for whatever snarky, sassy comment you gave him that day.
for a pogue, he handled your attitude well. perhaps pogues just handle it better, as you’ve never met a kook boy who hasn’t called you psycho bitch with a big mouth.
the relentless mockery and vulgar flirting from jj, along with the lingering touches and downright gropes he gave you left you in a state you knew damn well you shouldn’t be in.
you often found yourself thinking about him late at night, and in most those cases, whilst your hand was stuffed into your victoria secret panties.
it was another one of those nights, playing with your own pussy until it was left sticky and throbbing, moaning jj’s name to your empty room. you had become sick of your pathetic excuse of an orgasms by your own hands, trotting your way over to jj’s house at gone midnight.
you were at his door, clearly disgusted by the actual state of the cut — and jj’s house, but feeling your own arousal, causing your panties to stick to you, it was the very least of your concerns.
which is how you ended up right here, in playboy pogues bed, getting your cunt absolutely drilled by him, his hand flat between your shoulder blades and forcing your chest to the mattress.
“this is all you needed, huh? just needed someone to fuck all that bitchiness outta you.” he drawled from behind you, amused at your slightly dazed look.
despite your loud, pornograhic moans bouncing off the walls as jj fucked you like the world would end tomorrow — you still had something to say.
“f-fuck you, pogue. this — this doesn’t mean shit.” You spat, reaching back to scratch your neatly manicured nails against his forearm.
he gave a deep chuckle, rumbling from deep in his chest as he grabbed your hips, yanking you closer, thrusting somehow deeper, hitting that spot your fingers or stupid frat kooks couldn’t ever hit.
“the sounds you’re makin’ say different, mama.” he commented, listening to your loud, borderline yelps as he pounded into you, hands gripping your hips tight enough to leave fingerprint bruises.
“g-god, you’re so full of yourself.” you hissed, and he leant down, snaking a large arm around your neck and pulling you to his chest tightly, other hand wandering from your hip to the bulge in your lower abdomen — pressing down on it with a smirk.
