Broad Street Pookies

18+ hockey fanfiction ships, smut, and feelings minors dni • requests open

[broadstpookies]

welcome to the rink 🏒

this is a hockey fanfiction + headcanon blog

requests: open Masterlist content: fluff, angst, smut, au, blurbs, imagines

feel free to send asks, prompts, or brainrot anon is always on

please read rules before requesting ♡

[broadstpookies]

lol oops!

Hey y'all,

So I have been going through life hard af rn and I kinda stopped posting.... BUT I have some things in the works that I think are gonna make this disappearing act worth it!

Can't wait to share these things with you I'm so excited!

xo

K

[broadstpookies]

Noah Cates — In Every Language, It’s You

Watching your brother at the rink is one of your favorite pastimes, from the ponds in Serov, the KHL rinks, even now to the NHL, watching your brother do what he does best has been the highlight for you. Being the oldest is hard, especially when you're the oldest girl. Nikita loves to act like a big brother to you, which technically is correct as he stands at 6 ‘2 and you’re lucky to be 5 ‘1 on a good day. He’s always monitoring you and keeping a close eye to who you talk to no matter where you are, he knows you can handle yourself, he just doesn’t ever want to see you get hurt.

You don’t mind, you think it’s sweet, you keep to yourself mainly anyway as talking to his teammates in english has never been your strong suit. Always self conscious of your accent and the way you unintentionally say something wrong that makes native speakers laugh. Which is why you typically just cock your head to the side and smile politely at his teammates when they try to speak with you, even though that feels unnatural as well.

Today was different though, you’d been in a funk all January and now February was settling in and the feeling was getting worse. So when you were sitting in the stands waiting for Nikita to come out after practice, you saw an opportunity you couldn’t pass up. You noticed your brother's team mate Noah Cates looking between you and his phone for the last few minutes, gear bag slung on his shoulder as he just stood there, seemingly at war with himself. You’re just reading your book on the stands waiting for something interesting to happen, then it does, Noah begins to approach you. 

Mumbling something to himself, he takes a deep breath, stopping in front of you and finally looking up from his phone you hear him ask “Kak Dela?”

You bite the inside of your bottom lip trying to stifle a laugh, now you understand how native English speakers feel, he butchered the pronunciation. Still you smile gently and respond “Ной, ты первый в команде, кто попытался заговорить со мной по-русски.” (You're the first person on the team to try to speak to me in Russian, Noah)

He looks up at you eyes wide and confused, like a cat who escaped outdoors for the first time “I think I heard my name in there, I didn’t know that you knew it.” he replied.

“Я стараюсь запомнить имена товарищей Никиты по команде.” (I try to remember the names of Nikita's teammates.) You reply with a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

You watch Noah fumble with his phone for a second trying to open an app “Can you repeat that?” You realize what he’s trying to do, live translate your conversation so he can be an active participant. You just shake your head and let out a small laugh. 

“Моему брату не понравится, если ты со мной будешь разговаривать.” (My brother won't like it if you talk to me.) You say, as your eyes spot Nikita coming out of the locker room and over your way in lock step with Matvei Michkov.

Noah’s eyes frantically read the translation that comes up on the screen “Your brother, why would I have to be worried about what he likes?” He says as Nikita and Matvei come to a stop behind him, Nikita looks up at you inquisitively and Matvei is holding in a laugh.

“You have to worry about what I like since I like what is good for her.” Nikita says from behind Noah, causing him to jump out of his skin and turn around in horror.

“No that’s not– I didn’t mean it like that, I asked her what’s up– I think, and then she said something back in Russian, I thought she spoke English too but– I’m sorry dude.” Noah says nervously, not wanting to upset Nikita in any way. You, however, are loving every moment of this giggle to yourself on the bench. Your brother shoots you a look over Noah’s shoulder that roughly translates to “Can you leave the poor guy alone?” You shrug and throw your hands up in surrender with a playful smirk.

“Ника, пожалуйста, веди себя так, будто я делаю что-то не так. В этом нет ничего плохого.” (Nika, please you act like I'm doing something wrong. There's nothing wrong with it.)

“Когда ты заденешь его чувства, тебе останется винить только себя.” (When you hurt his feelings, you only have yourself to blame.)  he says back to you.

You turn your attention to Michkov, eyes pleading “Он прав, Яна, на этот раз я тебя спасти не смогу.” (He's right Yana, I can't save you this time)

Noah is looking back and forth between the three of you trying to keep up, you can tell his head is spinning.

You roll your eyes and hop up from the stands joining your brother “It was nice seeing you try to talk to my sister Cates, but we do have dinner plans unfortunately” your brother says apologetically to his team mate.

“Oh no problem dude, I’ll see you tomorrow at morning skate before the game.” he replies.

Nikita gives a nod and you give Noah a very heavily accented “goodbye” with a wave and follow your brother out of the arena and into the cold February air.

“Whatever it is that you’re planning Yana, it’s not going to work.” He says without even looking back at you.

“Nika, I am not planning anything, I was simply talking to one of your teammates. Not my fault he doesn’t speak Russian.” you say defensively while trying to keep up with his long strides.

“Catesy is a good guy, he was really trying with you, can you please be nice to him and speak to him in English?”

You scoff “Right, and embarrass myself like I did in Toronto with Domi. I’ve never had someone laugh at me so hard for a mispronunciation before. I’d like him to hear me speak in Russian, you know how smart I am in our native language.”

The memory even now brings slight stinging tears to your eyes, finding out that a video of you mispronouncing basic english foods on a date with Domi was being sent around the locker room in Toronto was not the best experience. It’s not your fault that the English language is so confusing.

“Yana, you know it’s not like that and even if it was, I would protect you better this time.” Nikita says. You know he beats himself up from not learning about Domi’s plan to embarrass you and your accent and he wishes that he could go back in time and do a better job to find out and put a stop to it before it happened.

“I don’t need you to protect me Nika, besides I don’t think I’ll be going on a date with any of your teammates for the foreseeable future.” You say nudging his elbow with your shoulder.

— — — — — —

You didn’t know it then but you were more wrong than you could ever imagine. Practice after practice you found yourself in the company of one Noah Cates, and his trusty translator app. He really was making an effort to get to know you and you stopped giving him such a hard time with the app. Today was no different, the beginning of March made you feel like a new person, your birthday coming up in a few short weeks had you giddy in a way you thought you would never feel again in February.

Noah drops his gear bag on the bench near you and takes his usual place on the bench below you in the stands so he’s looking up at you. “Hey Yana, did you see my impressive work on those breakout drills today?” he says almost like an excited puppy

You close the book you were reading and without looking up reply “Ты неплохо справилась, хотя, думаю, наша одноногая бабушка могла бы справиться лучше.” (You were okay, I think our one legged grandma could do better though.)

He lets out a laugh reading the translation of what you just said, his big lopsided grin looking up at you. You finally meet his eyes and your breath catches slightly in your chest, feeling like you were seeing him for the first time while also feeling seen for the first time. You push the feeling down; you only feel like this because your birthday is coming up you try to convince yourself.

You let your eyes roam over his face, drinking him in, dark stubble on his jaw, dark messy hair still wet from a combination of practice sweat and post practice shower. Imagining that face, and that smile, waking you up in the morning, while you tussle his hair and make him laugh with some secret joke.

“Are you okay, Yana?” His voice snaps you from whatever trance his face had held you in.

“Yeah, what do you mean, do I not look well?” You say in English, hands rushing to your face to cool your cheeks from all the blushing you’re undoubtedly doing, not even realizing you answered him in English at first.

“You.. you speak English, I thought you only knew russian?” Noah says with a very confused look on his face.

“Noah, I’m so sorry, yes I’ve spoken english this whole time.” you say, feeling your stomach drop, you suddenly can’t stop talking in english “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, I’ve been made fun of for my accent before, I didn’t want the same thing to happen again I’m so sorry. If you don't want to try to be my friend anymore I understand.”

“I’m not hurt, I'm just confused.” He stays sitting there, elbows on his knees, phone forgotten in his hands for once. The translator app times out and the screen goes dark between you.

“I just… thought you were more comfortable in Russian,” he says carefully. “So I was trying to meet you there.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tighten.

“I am more comfortable in Russian,” you admit. “It feels like home in my mouth. English feels like I am walking in someone else’s shoes.” You give a small, embarrassed shrug. “Too big. Too loud.”

He smiles at that, softer now. “Your English doesn’t sound loud.”

“You didn’t hear it in Toronto,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

Noah’s expression shifts immediately. “Was that the thing with Domi?” he asks gently. He doesn’t say the first name, but you know who he means. The date. The video. The humiliation that followed you like a shadow for months.

You nod once, staring down at your hands. “He thought it was funny. I did not.”

Noah’s jaw ticks. “That’s not funny.”

“Well,” you try to brush it off, forcing a small laugh, “apparently it was.”

He shakes his head. “Yana, listen to me.” His voice loses that playful edge you’ve grown used to. It’s steady. Grounded. “Having an accent just means you speak more than one language. That’s impressive. I can barely order food in Russian without offending somebody’s grandmother.”

You huff out a reluctant laugh.

“I butchered ‘kak dela’ so bad you almost fell off the bench,” he adds.

“You did,” you say, a smile finally tugging at your lips. “It was terrible.”

“See? And you didn’t record me and send it around the locker room.”

The simplicity of that statement hits harder than anything else he’s said.

“I would never,” you say quietly.

“I know.” He tilts his head, studying you the way you had studied him minutes before. “And I would never laugh at you for trying. Not like that. If I laugh, it’ll be because you call me a one-legged grandma again.”

You groan, covering your face. “You were not supposed to understand that.”

“I have technology,” he says, wiggling his phone. “And now apparently I have you in full English mode.”

Heat creeps back into your cheeks, but this time it’s different. Lighter.

“I don’t want to hide,” you admit. “I just… didn’t want to be the joke again.”

“You’re not a joke,” he says immediately. “You’re—” He cuts himself off, like he almost said too much. “You’re Yana.”

The way he says your name—careful, like it matters—makes your heart do something inconvenient. There’s a sudden commotion near the tunnel. You don’t need to look to know your brother is somewhere within ten feet of you.

“Catesy,” Nikita’s voice calls out, suspicious in the way only an overprotective older brother can manage.

Noah doesn’t even flinch this time. He just looks up past you and says, “Relax, Nik. We’re discussing linguistics.”

“Linguistics,” Matvei repeats from somewhere behind him, clearly trying not to laugh.

You stand, leaning over the railing so you can see them. “Он не делает ничего плохого,” you call down. (He’s not doing anything wrong.)

Nikita narrows his eyes at Noah anyway. “She speaks English,” he says flatly.

Noah grins. “Yeah. Found that out.”

“And?” your brother presses.

“And I think she sounds great.”

You freeze.

Nikita looks between the two of you, clearly trying to decide if this is a problem he needs to solve. Finally, he sighs dramatically. “Yana,” he warns in Russian, “when you break his heart, I will not be responsible.”

“Who says I will break his heart?” you shoot back.

Matvei lets out a full laugh at that and physically drags your brother toward the exit before he can escalate further. When they’re finally gone, the arena feels quieter. Smaller. Noah stands up so he’s only one step below you now. Close enough that you can see the faint scar on his chin, the one you’ve always wanted to ask about.

“So,” he says. “Since we’re being honest. Are you planning anything?”

You tilt your head. “Planning what?”

“With me.”

Your pulse jumps. “I thought my brother already interrogated you about this.”

“He did,” Noah says. “But I’m asking you.”

You consider lying. Deflecting. Retreating back into Russian where everything feels safer. Instead, you take a breath.

“I was not planning anything,” you say slowly. “But I also was not expecting you.”

His brows lift slightly. “Is that good or bad?”

“I have not decided yet.”

He smiles, that crooked, unfair smile that makes you imagine mornings and messy hair and private jokes. “Well,” he says, “your birthday’s coming up, right?”

Your eyes widen. “How do you—”

“Nikita talks,” he says simply. “And I listen.”

“That is dangerous.”

“For him or for me?”

“For you,” you reply, and this time you don’t hide the warmth in your voice.

He takes one more step up so you’re standing on the same level. Not towering over you like your brother. Not looking up at you from the bench. Just… even.

“Let me take you out,” he says. “Not as Nikita’s teammate. Not as the guy with the translator app. Just me.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“In English?” you ask.

“In whatever language you want,” he says. “We can mix them. You can teach me. I’ll embarrass myself first.”

You study him for a long moment, searching for any hint of mockery, of hidden laughter.

There is none.

“Okay,” you say finally.

“Okay?” he repeats, like he’s afraid he misheard.

“Yes. But if you laugh at my accent—”

“I won’t.”

“You will be dead,” you finish sweetly.

He laughs at that, but it’s the right kind of laugh. The kind that wraps around you instead of cutting.

“Deal,” he says, holding out his hand.

You look at it for a second before slipping your much smaller one into his.

As you walk out into the cold March air together, you realize something quietly, almost shyly. Maybe English does not feel like someone else’s shoes anymore. Maybe, with the right person walking beside you, it can start to feel like your own.

The entire week leading up to the date, you pretend you are calm.

You are not calm.

You change your outfit three times the night before and twice the morning of. You text your best friend back home in Serov blurry mirror pictures and receive voice messages filled with dramatic gasps and very strong opinions. You almost ask Nikita for advice, then remember that would require admitting you are going on a date with his teammate.

Absolutely not.

Noah had insisted on planning everything. “I’ve got it,” he’d said, that quiet confidence in his voice again. “You just show up.”

Which is how you find yourself standing outside a small Italian restaurant a few blocks from the arena, staring at your reflection in the dark window and debating whether you can still fake a stomach flu.

“Yana.”

You turn at the sound of your name.

Noah is walking toward you, hands shoved into the pockets of a navy coat, hair actually styled for once instead of damp and chaotic. He slows when he sees you fully, and for a second he just… looks.

And looks.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

“What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he says softly. “You just look… wow.”

You roll your eyes automatically, but your cheeks betray you. “You clean up well too, Cates.”

He grins. “I showered twice.”

“I can tell.”

He steps closer, awkward for just a second, like he’s debating whether he’s allowed to hug you. You solve it for him, leaning in briefly. His arms wrap around you carefully, like he’s afraid you might break. He smells like cologne and something familiar underneath—soap, maybe, or just him.

Okay. Breathe.

Inside, the restaurant is warm and softly lit. Not fancy enough to make you nervous, not loud enough to hide behind. He pulls out your chair without making a big show of it. You notice.

“So,” he says once you’re seated. “I was going to take you somewhere super high-end, but then I thought maybe we save that for when I’m not terrified.”

“You’re terrified?” you ask, delighted.

“Completely.”

You tilt your head. “Good.”

He laughs. “You are enjoying this way too much.”

A waiter approaches, launching into a fast explanation of specials. You understand most of it, but when he starts listing cheeses, you freeze.

Cheese names in English are a trap.

Noah notices immediately.

“Hey,” he says gently once the waiter leaves to give you a minute. “We can take our time.”

“I just don’t want to pronounce something wrong,” you admit quietly. “Last time I tried to order… ricotta… it did not go well.”

“Ricotta,” he repeats carefully. “You said it fine just now.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re lying.”

“I swear I’m not.” He leans forward slightly. “And even if you did say it wrong, who cares? We’ll still get fed.”

You study his face, searching again for that edge of teasing.

There isn’t one.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Then I will order.”

When the waiter returns, you force yourself not to overthink it. You speak clearly, accent and all. The word ricotta leaves your mouth and lands on the table between you.

Nothing explodes.

The waiter nods and writes it down like it is the most normal thing in the world.

Noah beams at you like you just scored a hat trick.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, but you can’t stop smiling.

Dinner unfolds easily after that. You slip between English and Russian without noticing. When you can’t find a word, he waits. When he doesn’t understand, he asks.

At one point, he attempts an entire sentence in Russian.

“Ты… очень… красивая сегодня,” he says slowly, clearly concentrating.

You blink.

“You just called me beautiful.”

His ears turn red. “Did I say it right?”

Your chest feels too small for your heart. “Yes,” you say softly. “You did.”

“Good,” he replies, looking relieved. “Because I meant it.”

You look down at your hands, suddenly shy. “Thank you.”

There’s a comfortable pause. Not awkward. Just full.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a moment.

“You already are.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Why did you really keep speaking Russian with me?”

You trace the rim of your water glass. “Because in Russian, I am confident. I am funny. I am smart without translating myself first.” You glance up at him. “In English, I have to think about every word before I let it go.”

He nods slowly, absorbing that.

“Well,” he says, “for what it’s worth, I like both versions. But the one who’s thinking carefully before she speaks?” His eyes soften. “She’s kind of my favorite.”

Your breath catches.

“You are very smooth tonight,” you accuse.

“I practiced,” he admits. “Matvei graded me.”

You burst out laughing. “That explains nothing.”

When the food arrives, conversation shifts to lighter things—childhood stories, disastrous peewee hockey haircuts, your birthday coming up.

“I was thinking,” he says casually, stabbing a piece of pasta. “Maybe I could steal you for your birthday. Just for a few hours.”

“Steal me?” you echo.

“I’ll return you. Probably.”

“You would have to get through my brother.”

“I’m aware,” he says grimly. “I’ve accepted that risk.”

You shake your head, smiling. “We will see.”

By the time dinner ends, you don’t feel like you’re walking in someone else’s shoes anymore. You’re not counting syllables. You’re not bracing for laughter.

Outside, the March air is crisp, the sky dark and clear. He walks you toward your building, close but not crowding.

When you stop at the entrance, the moment hangs between you.

“I had a really good time,” he says.

“So did I.”

“I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” you admit.

He steps a little closer. “Can I—”

“Yes,” you say before he can finish, then immediately flush. “I mean. I think so.”

His smile is soft this time. No teasing. No nerves. Just him.

He leans down slowly, giving you time to change your mind. You don’t.

The kiss is gentle, warm, not rushed. His hand comes up to cup your cheek like it’s something precious. For a second, the world narrows to just that feeling.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours.

“Still terrified,” he murmurs.

You smile. “Good.”

He laughs quietly, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “I’ll text you when I get home?”

“You better,” you reply.

As you slip inside your building, heart racing and lips still tingling, your phone buzzes almost immediately.

Noah: Did I pass?

You grin at the screen before typing back.

Yana: You were okay. Yana: I think our one-legged grandma could do better though.

Three dots appear instantly.

And for the first time in a long time, February feels very, very far away.

March fifteenth arrives loud.

Not just because it’s your birthday—but because apparently half of the Philadelphia locker room has decided it is their personal mission to make sure you cannot experience a single quiet moment.

You should have known.

When you walk into Nikita’s place that evening, Noah’s hand warm at the small of your back, the first person you see is Travis Konecny already halfway through a drink and grinning like he’s been waiting for this.

“There she is!” he shouts. “The birthday girl! Twenty-four, huh? We’re getting old, Michkov!”

Matvei, who is balancing a plate of something fried and suspicious, gasps dramatically. “Do not group me with her ancient age.”

You roll your eyes. “You are literally younger than me by months.”

“Exactly,” he says smugly.

From the kitchen, Travis Sanheim calls out, “Who let TK near the decorations? The ‘2’ is upside down.”

“I did that on purpose!” Konecny protests. “It’s abstract.”

You step further inside and take it all in. Streamers—orange and black—are strung across the ceiling. A massive gold 24 balloon is tied to a chair that looks seconds away from tipping over. On the coffee table sits an enormous cake with аккуратная icing in Russian that reads: С ДНЁМ РОЖДЕНИЯ, ЯНА.

Your heart squeezes.

“Who wrote that?” you ask.

Jamie Drysdale raises his hand cautiously. “I copied it from Google. If it says something weird, that’s on the internet.”

You laugh. “It says happy birthday. You did well.”

From the corner, Cam York and Tyson Foerster are arguing about the playlist. Owen Tippett is taste-testing frosting. Denver Barkey is pretending to help Nikita with food but mostly stealing pieces when he thinks no one sees.

Chaos.

Warm, ridiculous chaos.

You barely have time to set your purse down before someone yells, “Gifts! Open gifts!”

You groan. “Can I breathe first?”

“No,” Konecny says. “Absolutely not.”

Before you can protest further, Noah appears in front of you, holding a small navy-wrapped box with tiny silver stars.

The room doesn’t go quiet, but it shifts. People notice.

“This one’s just from me,” he says, a little softer than everything else happening around you.

Your stomach flips.

As if summoned, Konecny drapes an arm over your shoulder. “So, Yana, tell us—did Catesy do a good job on his gift?”

Noah, who is standing just behind you, chokes. “Travis.”

“What?” TK shrugs. “He’s been stressed all week.”

You turn slowly to look at Noah. “You were stressed?”

“I just wanted it to be good,” he mutters, ears already pink.

Sanheim leans against the wall, smirking. “He made us vote on three different options.”

“You voted?” you gasp.

“Unanimously,” Tippett confirms.

You look back at Noah, eyes wide. “You crowdsourced my birthday present?”

He winces. “In my defense, they have surprisingly decent taste.”

“I do not,” Konecny says proudly.

You take the box carefully. The paper crinkles loudly in your hands, suddenly amplified in your ears. You peel it back slowly, aware of how close he’s standing.

Inside is a thin rectangular case.

You open it.

A delicate gold necklace rests against the velvet lining. Two small interlocking rings—one slightly smaller, one slightly larger—looped together.

You look up at him, confused and already overwhelmed.

“One’s for English,” he says quietly. “One’s for Russian.”

The room feels smaller somehow.

“They overlap,” he continues, voice steady despite the fact that Konecny is very obviously trying not to comment. “Because you don’t have to choose one. You don’t have to be one or the other.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

For a split second you’re back in Toronto, laughing too loud, speaking too carefully, wishing you could disappear into your own accent.

And then you’re here. Twenty-four. Surrounded by people who waited for you to finish your sentences instead of laughing through them.

“You’re going to ruin my makeup,” you whisper, blinking fast.

“Worth it,” he murmurs.

You step closer without thinking. “It’s beautiful,” you say softly. “Really.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

You turn slightly, lifting your hair off your neck. His fingers brush your skin as he fastens it, careful and warm. The clasp clicks into place.

When you turn back around, the rings rest perfectly at your collarbone.

Konecny squints dramatically. “Okay, that’s actually good.”

“Thank you,” Noah says dryly.

Tippett nods in approval. “Solid move.”

Matvei leans over your shoulder to inspect it. “This is acceptable.”

You laugh through the last of your tears. “High praise.”

Before the moment can get too intimate, Barkey yells, “Cake before Nikita eats it all!”

“I would never,” your brother says, already holding a fork.

The lights dim. Foerster starts the birthday song in English. Matvei loudly begins the Russian version at the same time. It dissolves into chaos within seconds.

You stand in front of the cake, fingers brushing the new necklace unconsciously.

Twenty-four.

You close your eyes.

You don’t wish for your accent to disappear. You don’t wish to be less noticeable. You don’t wish to shrink.

You just wish to stay this brave.

You blow out the candles.

Cheers erupt. Someone pops something that absolutely was not approved by Nikita. Frosting nearly ends up in York’s hair.

Later, after cake and an aggressive dance-off between Tippett and Foerster, you slip toward the kitchen for air. Noah follows quietly.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, touching the necklace again. “No one has ever given me something like this before.”

He leans back against the counter. “You deserve something that reminds you who you are.”

“And who is that?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Someone who doesn’t have to translate herself to be understood.”

Your heart stumbles.

Across the room, Nikita notices your proximity and narrows his eyes. You raise your brows in challenge.

He sighs and looks away.

Noah glances over. “Is he going to murder me?”

“Not tonight,” you reply. “It is my birthday. He will wait.”

“That’s comforting.”

You smile, stepping just a little closer. The noise of the party hums behind you—York arguing about music, Konecny yelling about a rematch, Matvei switching between Russian and English so fast it gives Barkey a headache.

And for once, you don’t feel like you’re standing outside of it.

You’re in it.

Both languages. Both worlds. Both rings resting against your skin.

Noah squeezes your hand gently.

“Happy birthday, Yana,” he says.

And when you kiss him this time, you don’t worry about who’s watching.

You’re twenty-four.

You’re not hiding.

And you are exactly where you’re supposed to be.

[broadstpookies]

Maybe a niche request but sub!Hathaway/masc!Reader if you’re willing? Doesn’t matter if it’s a fic or imagine or whatever you think is best! (Not forced ofc :] Also loved ur 2 Hathaway fics he gives me terrible brainrot :,])

I loved this request so much! He is my brother's favorite flyer so I am always on the lookout for him on the ice at games. I wasn't sure if you wanted it to be 18+ or not so I kept it on the tamer side but I can definitely add a part two if you want!! I also made the reader v masc! because I think he'd look so good with another super masc bf!!

Sub!Hathaway x Masc!Reader - The Softest Place to Fall

The thing about Garnet Hathaway was that people assumed they understood him the second they saw him.

The grit. The edge. They saw the smirk under the visor. The way he leaned into scrums like he was born for the chaos of it. The edge in his grin when he chirped someone across the faceoff circle. On the ice, he thrived in the noise of boards rattling, skates carving sharp lines, the crowd roaring when he threw a clean hit that made the bench erupt.

And when they looked at you standing beside him—broad shoulders, deep voice, calloused hands of your own—they usually assumed they understood that, too.

They were wrong about both of you.

You were unmistakably male-presenting: sharp jaw usually shadowed with stubble, solid build that filled out your T-shirts, hands just as rough from your own work and workouts. When you wrapped an arm around Garnet in public, there was no mistaking that it was your boyfriend tucked into your side. And Garnet never shied away from it. If anything, he leaned in harder.

Still, it was in private that the real softness lived.

The one who texted you the second the plane landed.

The one who FaceTimed you from hotel rooms with his hair still damp from a shower, voice low so he wouldn’t wake his teammates.

The one who, despite being built like he could knock down walls, always paused at your door like he needed a second to breathe before stepping inside.

Tonight, when he got back from a road trip, he barely made it two steps inside your apartment before sagging slightly at the sight of you, you could see the fatigue in the way he carried himself.

He tried to hide it. Of course he did.

He was still in team sweats, duffel slung over one shoulder, jaw tight like he hadn’t quite turned the “hockey” part of himself off yet.

You stood from the couch and crossed the room in a few long strides. You were taller by just enough that when you stepped into him, he had to tilt his head up a fraction.

“C’mere,” you said, voice low and steady.

He dropped the bag without argument.

Your hands slid to his waist first, firm and grounding. He exhaled like that simple touch knocked the wind out of him. When you pulled him in, his forehead bumped against your collarbone.

“Missed you,” he muttered into your chest.

The words were muffled by your shirt, but the heat of his breath seeped through the fabric. You hooked a finger under his chin and tilted his face up. Your thumb brushed the bruise forming along his cheek. Your other hand stayed planted at the small of his back, protective and sure.

“You let them hit you too much,” you murmured.

He huffed a faint laugh. “Part of the job.”

Your thumb dragged slowly along his jaw, over the scruff there. “Not in here.”

He went quiet at that.

You kissed him first—slow, deliberate. You didn’t rush it. Your hand spread wide against his back, fingers pressing into solid muscle. He melted into the kiss, hands gripping at your sides. For a guy who could level opponents into the boards, he was almost shy when it came to you taking control.

He liked when you did.

When you deepened the kiss, angling his head with a gentle but unmistakably firm hand, he made a low sound in his throat—soft, needy. His fingers curled into your shirt like he was bracing himself. You pulled back just enough to look at him. His ears were pink. His breathing uneven.

“Talk to me,” you said, brushing your nose against his. “What do you need?”

He hesitated, eyes flicking down to your mouth before back up again. That tough exterior cracked so easily in your hands.

“Just… wanna be yours for a bit,” he admitted quietly. “No fighting. No proving anything.”

Your chest tightened. “You are,” you said simply.

You guided him backward until his calves hit the couch. With a gentle push at his shoulders, you sat him down. Standing between his knees, you looked down at him—solid, capable, powerful—and completely willing to let you take the lead.

Your hands moved to the hem of his hoodie, pulling it up slowly. He raised his arms without being asked. When the fabric cleared his head, his hair was mussed, his expression open. Leaning down you pressed a kiss to the bruise on his shoulder. Then another along his collarbone. Your stubble scratched lightly against his skin, and he shivered at the sensation.

“God,” he breathed, fingers sliding into your belt loops like he needed to hold onto you. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You smirked faintly. “Think I do.”

Your hands were firm when you touched him—masculine, steady, unapologetic. You kneaded at the tight muscle in his shoulders, thumbs digging in just enough to make him groan. He let his head fall back, exposing his throat to you. You took advantage of it, pressing slow kisses along the column of his neck. He reacted instantly, hips shifting forward before he caught himself.

“Easy,” you murmured against his skin.

He swallowed hard. “You make it hard to be.”

You laughed softly at the unintentional pun and pressed your forehead to his. “You don’t have to be anything right now.”

He leaned forward suddenly, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face against your stomach again. His grip was strong, possessive almost, but the intent wasn’t dominance. It was comfort.

You slid your fingers into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. His entire body softened under your touch.

“Miss when you do that,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

Eventually you stood and held out your hand. He took it without hesitation, letting you lead him down the hallway like he trusted you with every inch of himself.

In the bedroom, the lights were dim. You shut the door and turned back to him. He stood there watching you, a big frame filling the space, but his expression was soft—expectant.

You stepped in close again, crowding him until his back hit the wall. Your forearm braced beside his head. Your free hand slid under his chin, tilting his face up. He looked smaller like this, even though he wasn’t. It was the way he gave in to you. The way he let you hold him in place.

“You’re mine,” you said quietly.

His eyes darkened. “Yeah.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time. Your hand slid down his chest, over firm muscle, stopping at his waist. He followed your lead easily, letting you guide him toward the bed.

When you finally pushed him back onto the mattress, he went willingly, stretching out and looking up at you with flushed cheeks and parted lips. You climbed over him, bracketing his hips with your thighs. The weight of you settled over him, solid and grounding. He exhaled slowly, hands sliding up your back, thumbs pressing into muscle there.

“Feel safe with you,” he admitted softly.

You bent down, pressing your lips to his one more time—slower now, more tender than heated.

“Good,” you murmured against his mouth. “That’s the point.”

Later, when the intensity ebbed and the room went quiet, you lay back against the pillows and pulled him onto your chest. He fit there easily despite his size, cheek resting over your heart. Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, hand splayed across his back.

His fingers hooked into the chain around your neck, absentmindedly toying with it.

“You’re stronger than me,” he teased faintly, already half-asleep.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “On the ice? Not a chance.”

He shifted closer, leg tangling with yours.

“In here,” he murmured, voice fading. “You are.”

You pressed a kiss into his hair, stubble brushing his temple.

On the ice, he was grit and fire and controlled aggression.

In your arms, under your steady hands and low voice, he was just a man who liked being held by someone just as solid as he was.

And you held him there until sleep claimed him completely.

[broadstpookies]

Nico Hischer - Clean Ice & Captain’s Eyes

Being an Ice Girl for the New Jersey Devils wasn’t as effortless as people liked to think. From the stands it looked fun and polished — red jacket, sleek ponytail, perfect smile, skating out during timeouts like it was part of the show. The music is loud, the crowd is louder, and you’re just this blur clearing snow with a shovel before cameras swing away again.

But that’s not really what it feels like.

Game days start early. Earlier than most people realize. You’re at the Prudential Center when it’s quiet and kind of echo-y, when the ice still looks untouched and perfect. You test your edges in slow arcs, feeling for soft spots, noticing where the Zamboni overlapped a little too heavy. You pay attention to the corners. You always pay attention to the corners.

During warmups you’re not watching the plays like a fan. You’re studying patterns. Who stops hardest along the half wall. Who digs their edges deep in the circle. Where snow piles up near the crease after repeated battles. You build a mental map without even thinking about it.

That’s when Nico Hischer really started noticing you.

It wasn’t some dramatic slow motion moment. It was during a regular first period TV timeout. Whistle blows, music hits, you’re already skating. You drop to one knee in front of the defensive zone crease, shoveling thick snow that built up from three consecutive hard stops.

You stand, brush stray ice off your glove, and feel eyes on you.

He’s leaning over the bench boards, helmet tilted back slightly, watching like he’s analyzing tape.

When you skate past the bench he says, kind of casually, “That spot gets bad.”

You don’t look at him. “Your left defenseman pivots heavy there.”

There’s a pause.

“You study us?” he asks.

You glance up finally. “I study the ice. You just happen to be on it.”

Behind him, Jack Hughes instantly loses it. “Ohhhh, Cap just got humbled.”

Nico throws him a look. “Play hockey, Jack.”

Jack leans over the boards toward you. “Hey, if he ruins your perfect ice again, you tell me. I’ll bench him.”

“You don’t have that authority,” Jesper Bratt mutters dryly from beside him.

You push off backward, smirking a little. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

After that, it becomes a thing.

Jesper starts calling you “Ice Inspector” whenever you clear near the bench. Timo Meier once taps the boards and says, “Captain getting VIP treatment again?” loud enough for you to hear. You straighten up, rest your hands on the shovel and say, “Performance based system.” And the whole bench erupts.

Nico pretends to be annoyed but he’s smiling. He can’t really hide it.

Off the ice is different. You switch gears fast. One minute you’re scraping snow with thirty seconds on the clock, the next you’re hyping up section 122 for a t-shirt toss. You pose for pictures, you laugh, you answer the same five questions from kids over and over again. At youth clinics you kneel on pavement to show little kids how to hold a stick properly.

“Top hand firm,” you tell a tiny defenseman seriously. “Bottom hand relaxed.”

“Like Jack?” the kid asks.

Jack whips around from ten feet away. “Hey!”

You grin. “Exactly like Jack.”

Jesper laughs under his breath. Timo shakes his head. Nico just watches you, arms loosely crossed, that quiet expression he gets when he’s thinking too much.

Later, when the kids run off to drills, he steps closer. “You’re good at that.”

“At roasting your teammates?” you say.

“At everything,” he replies, softer than before.

Your stomach does a weird little flip. You hate that it does that.

Timo yells from across the rink, “Nico stop flirting and help me!”

“I’m not flirting,” Nico says automatically.

“You are,” Jesper and Jack both say at the same time.

You pretend not to be blushing. You are.

The moment that really messed with you though wasn’t funny at all. It was a rough March game. Physical. Chippy. The kind where every shift feels like it might explode into something worse.

Nico takes a hard hit into the boards in the second period. It’s loud. The sound of it kind of echoes. He goes down awkward and your chest just drops. You hate that you react like that. You’re supposed to be professional. Composed.

Whistle blows. You’re out there immediately. You kneel near that same corner and scrape snow harder than you need to. Your movements are tight, almost aggressive. You’re aware of him on the bench.

As you skate past, he leans forward slightly. “I’m okay.”

“I know,” you say, but your jaw is clenched.

Jack notices. Of course he does. “She just murdered that snow pile,” he mutters to Nico.

Nico doesn’t laugh.

In the third period he scores. Clean wrist shot from the slot. Arena goes insane. During the next line change he skates past the tunnel and taps his chest twice with his glove.

You pretend not to understand what that means.

After the game, when most of the building has emptied and you’re finishing up near center ice, you find him waiting.

“What was that?” you ask.

“What?”

“The chest tap.”

He hesitates, then shrugs lightly. “You looked scared.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were,” he says gently. “That was to tell you I’m fine.”

You don’t know what to do with that. It’s not his job to reassure you. And it definitely isn’t your job to care that much. But you do.

From somewhere near the bench Jack’s voice echoes, “Are we interrupting a rom-com?”

You both jump apart like you’re in high school.

Jesper walks by with a smirk. “We give you five minutes.”

“Go home,” Nico mutters.

Eventually he asks you to dinner. It’s not dramatic. No big speech. Just you leaning on your shovel near the Zamboni entrance.

“Are you free tomorrow?” he asks.

“Depends. Is this Captain Nico asking?”

He shakes his head. “Just Nico.”

You study him for a second. He looks nervous. Actually nervous. It’s kind of adorable.

“Okay,” you say. “But if you’re late because of practice, I’m charging you.”

“Fair.”

From across the rink Timo yells, “He’s smiling like an idiot by the way!”

“Why are you still here?” Nico calls back.

“Because this is better than Netflix,” Jack replies.

Dating him isn’t loud. There’s no big public reveal. It’s small things. He makes sure not to spray snow toward you during warmups. You clear his usual faceoff dot just a little extra carefully. At charity events he somehow always ends up standing next to you.

The team notices everything.

One night, long after everyone leaves, you’re both still there. The ice has just been resurfaced. It’s smooth and quiet and almost glowing under dim arena lights.

“You ever skate without the shovel?” he asks.

You step onto the ice without answering, gliding in slow arcs. No rush. No music. Just the sound of blades cutting clean lines. You feel lighter without the headset, without the pressure.

“You look different,” he says.

“How?”

“Free.”

He steps onto the ice too. No puck. No stick. His edges are powerful, not graceful, but when he reaches you it feels right anyway. Strong meeting steady.

He reaches for your hand carefully, like he’s not totally sure he should.

“You take care of my ice every night,” he murmurs.

“And you make it worth maintaining,” you say quietly.

For a second it’s just the two of you. No crowd. No teasing.

Then from the dark bench area—

“Oh my God, are they holding hands?”

You both freeze.

Jack is standing there with Jesper and Timo behind him, grinning like they just won the lottery.

“We forgot our gear,” Jesper says innocently.

“This is so wholesome,” Timo adds.

Nico closes his eyes. “Why.”

You start laughing. You can’t help it.

Jack points dramatically. “Captain confirmed whipped.”

You squeeze Nico’s hand once before letting go. “Don’t worry,” you say. “Premium ice still costs extra.”

He shakes his head but he’s smiling, soft and real.

And standing there, under dim lights with his teammates chirping relentlessly, it doesn’t feel like a performance anymore.

It just feels… right.

[broadstpookies]

Author's Note

Hi hi!

So I am only going to address this once because I had an anon ask accusing me of using AI. I do not and will never use AI to do anything, let alone write my fics for me. I have had a lot of these saved and written from my free time at work and I decided to post them recently and start a blog again.

I used to have a blog on here during COVID where I wrote at least 2 10k+ fics a day (and god only knows how many imagines, blurbs and dribbles), I will never sacrifice my artistic ability in favor of a machine. Everything on here comes from my heart and my soul, if you want to accuse someone of using AI please find someone else because it will NEVER be me.

[broadstpookies]

Garnet Hathaway – Off the Ice (Series)

Second Shift

You told yourself you were getting used to it.

The locker room didn’t hit like an assault anymore—didn’t make your senses recoil or your stomach tighten on entry. It felt more like stepping into a storm you’d started to understand. Still loud, still humid with trapped heat and the dense smell of damp gear and adhesive, but predictable now. Familiar. The kind of chaos with a rhythm you could move through without thinking.

Music thumped somewhere near the showers. A stick clattered against tile. Someone laughed too loud at a joke you didn’t catch. Tape ripped in short, sharp bursts. The air carried that layered scent of sweat, rubber, detergent, and liniment that no amount of ventilation ever really erased.

Controlled chaos.

Work.

You slipped past the benches with your treatment bag slung across your body, fingers brushing stall edges automatically to steady your path. Your eyes moved before your feet—cataloguing movement patterns, guarded joints, asymmetry. A limp near the far row. Fresh wrap on a knee. Shoulder elevation on someone reaching overhead.

It took less than three seconds to find him.

Garnet Hathaway sat at his stall, elbow planted on his thigh while he retaped his left wrist with the absentminded efficiency of someone who’d done it since junior hockey. Head bent. Jaw set lightly in concentration. Dark hair still damp at the temples. His tape job was… functional. Messy, but intentional.

He looked up before you even reached him.

Like he’d felt you coming.

“There she is,” he said.

You stopped short, blinking once. “I have a name.”

“Yeah,” he said easily, tearing tape with his teeth. “But ‘team savior’ felt dramatic.”

You snorted despite yourself, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “You’re laying it on thick today.”

“Just honest,” he said, flexing his hand experimentally. “You here to fix me or just judge my technique?”

You crossed your arms, studying the wrap. “That tape job is a crime.”

His grin came slow and satisfied. “Good. Gives you job security.”

You stepped closer before you could second-guess it, setting your bag on the bench beside his stall. “Move.”

He did.

Immediately. No hesitation. No stubborn pushback. He simply rotated his wrist toward you, forearm settling across his knee so you had access. That part still caught you off guard sometimes—the way the man who hit people for a living went completely still in your hands. Cooperative. Trusting. Like once you switched into clinical mode, you occupied a different category for him entirely.

You unwound his tape, the adhesive pulling softly from warm skin. “You tweaked this again?”

“Little bit,” he admitted. “Blocked a shot yesterday.”

You glanced up sharply. “And didn’t come see me.”

He held your gaze without flinching. “Didn’t want you fussing.”

“I don’t fuss.”

“You absolutely fuss.”

You huffed. “I apply evidence-based treatment.”

“Mm-hmm,” he said. “With extra sighing.”

You bit back a smile and continued unwinding the wrap. His wrist was warm under your fingers, skin slightly rough from repeated tape removal, pulse steady beneath your thumb. You moved automatically—palpation, range check, stability. Routine.

Except he was watching you.

Not casually. Not distractedly. Intently. Like the act of you working was the thing holding his focus in place.

“You’re staring,” you said.

“Yep.”

You kept your eyes on his wrist. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, voice low enough that it slipped under the locker room noise, “you get this crease between your eyebrows when you concentrate. Like the world depends on this tape job.”

Your mouth twitched. “It kind of does. Your job involves punching people.”

He chuckled. The vibration ran through his forearm into your hands. “You care more than half the guys I’ve had tape me.”

“That’s because half the guys you’ve had tape you were interns,” you said. “And you’re impossible.”

“Still here, though,” he said quietly.

You smoothed the new anchor strip around his wrist, pressing the adhesive flat. “Because it’s my job.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the reason.”

Something in his tone—not the words, the weight—tightened under your ribs. You sat back slightly on your heels, fingers still braced lightly against his arm. “Test it.”

He rotated his wrist, flexed, closed his fist. Tendons shifted under your wrap. “Solid.”

“Obviously.”

He looked at you instead of his hand. “You’re good at this.”

“I know.”

His mouth tipped at one corner. “Confident.”

“Accurate.”

“Dangerous combo.”

You started packing your tape away. “You’re the one who asked for help.”

“I always ask you,” he said.

Your fingers paused mid-motion. “You ask whoever’s on duty.”

“No,” he said simply. “I ask you.”

The locker room seemed to dull at the edges for a second—sound flattening, movement blurring. You looked up slowly. “Why?”

He shrugged one shoulder, but his eyes stayed on yours. Steady. Unflinching. “You notice things.”

“That’s… literally my job.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you notice the stuff people hide too.”

Your throat went dry. “You’re being weirdly intense for a pre-practice tape job.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I just like knowing you’re the one keeping me together.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. You swallowed, forcing lightness. “You’re not falling apart, Hathaway.”

“Not yet,” he said.

Then, softer: “But if I did, I’d come to you first.”

Your heart stumbled, misfiring once against your ribs. You forced a crooked smile. “I’d bill you extra.”

He laughed, head tipping back, throat exposed for a second in a way that felt oddly intimate to witness. “Worth it.”

You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “You’re cleared. Try not to wreck this wrap in five minutes.”

“No promises,” he said.

You turned.

“Hey.”

You glanced back. “What?”

He held up his wrist slightly, the fresh tape bright against his skin. “Thanks.”

It shouldn’t have mattered. You treated everyone. Fixed everyone. Stabilized joints and reset muscles and wrote protocols all day long. Gratitude was routine.

But something in the way he said it—quiet, direct, like it was meant only for you—settled under your ribs and stayed there.

“You’re welcome,” you said.

You made it three steps before he spoke again.

“Off the ice,” he said.

You turned. “What?”

He leaned back against his stall, arms loose at his sides, expression unreadable in the shifting locker room light. “You ever notice you’re different off the ice?”

Your pulse ticked up. “Everyone is.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you especially.”

You shifted your weight, bag strap creaking softly. “Meaning?”

He studied you for a second like he was choosing words he didn’t usually bother with. “Out there, you’re all business. Hands steady. Voice calm. Like nothing rattles you.”

“And off?” you asked.

His mouth curved faintly. “You laugh easier. You get this… chaos energy. Like you’re one bad joke away from losing it.”

You stared at him. “That is wildly unprofessional feedback.”

“Good thing I’m not HR,” he said.

You tried to roll your eyes but felt heat creeping up your neck. “You’re observing me now?”

“Always have been.”

The admission hung there.

You forced a scoff. “That’s concerning.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”

Another beat of silence stretched between you—thick, charged, unfamiliar. The locker room noise swelled back in around it: a zipper ripping open, someone calling for tape, the hiss of a shower turning on. But the space between you stayed strangely insulated.

Finally you jerked your chin toward the ice. “Go. Before coach realizes you’re flirting with medical staff instead of warming up.”

His grin returned, slower this time. “So you admit it’s flirting.”

“I admit nothing.”

He pushed to his feet.

For a second he was too close—broad frame filling your space, heat radiating through the thin air between you. You could smell soap and sweat and fresh tape adhesive. Your breath caught before you could stop it.

“Hathaway—”

“See you after,” he said quietly.

“After what?”

“Practice,” he said. “Wrist check.”

“You don’t need another—”

“I will,” he said.

Then, softer: “If it’s you.”

And before you could answer, he turned and headed for the tunnel, shoulders rolling loose, already shifting into ice-mode.

You stood there longer than you should have, fingers tight around your bag strap, heart doing something unsteady and inconvenient in your chest.

You’d thought the dangerous part of your job was the ice.

You were starting to realize it wasn’t.

It was everything that happened off it.

You should have gone straight to the training room.

That was the logical path: out of the locker room, down the hall, into fluorescent light and paperwork and the comfortable distance of professionalism. You even took a step in that direction.

Then you stopped.

Because you could still feel where he’d stood too close. Still hear the low certainty in If it’s you. Still feel that strange shift under your ribs, like something had tilted and hadn’t settled back.

You exhaled hard and dragged a hand down your face.

“Get it together,” you muttered to yourself.

You turned toward the training room.

And nearly ran into him.

Garnet caught your elbow automatically, steadying you before you even registered the collision. “Whoa—easy.”

Your brain short-circuited for half a second. “You—practice—”

“Coach got pulled into media,” he said. “Five-minute delay.”

Of course he did.

Of course Garnet Hathaway would somehow exist in the exact sliver of time where you hadn’t escaped yet.

You stepped back, reclaiming space that didn’t feel entirely reclaimable. “You should be stretching.”

“Was,” he said mildly. “Then I saw you hovering like you forgot where you were going.”

“I did not hover.”

“You hovered,” he said. “Right by the tape rack. Looked existential.”

You opened your mouth to retort, then stopped. “Why are you here?”

His expression didn’t change. “Locker room’s that way.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he said.

The hallway hummed with distant rink noise—skates on concrete, a puck clattering somewhere, voices echoing. But the air between you felt oddly sealed off, like you’d stepped into a quieter pocket of space.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. “You okay?”

The question landed softer than anything he’d said before.

You crossed your arms automatically. “Yes.”

“Mm.”

“What does ‘mm’ mean?”

“It means,” he said, “you’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“Where you answer fast so nobody asks again.”

Your stomach dipped. “You’re projecting.”

“Maybe,” he said easily. “Still right.”

You shook your head. “You need to go.”

“In a minute.”

“Now.”

He didn’t move.

You felt irritation spark—sharp, defensive, necessary. “Hathaway.”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer—not crowding, but close enough that you could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the faint flush from warm-ups still in his skin.

“You know,” he said quietly, “most people don’t notice when I’m banged up unless it’s obvious.”

You blinked. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he said. “Guys see hits, not after.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s why I exist.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You do.”

Something in the way he said it made the words feel less like a job description and more like a fact about the world.

You swallowed. “You’re very intense today.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

He considered that. “You’re very avoidant today.”

You stared at him. “I am not.”

“You are,” he said. “You keep trying to leave.”

“Because I have work.”

“And you still haven’t gone,” he said.

Your pulse kicked. “Because you’re blocking the hallway.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

He shifted half an inch aside.

The path opened.

You didn’t move.

His mouth tipped, just barely. “See?”

Heat flared up your neck. “You’re insufferable.”

“You like me anyway.”

“That is a wild assumption.”

“Is it?” he said softly.

The question hung there—dangerous, ridiculous, impossible to answer without detonating something.

You broke eye contact first. “You’re late.”

“Five minutes.”

“Coach will notice.”

“Coach always notices,” he said. “But he won’t bench me for talking to medical.”

You looked back up. “You’re not talking to medical.”

“No,” he said. “I’m talking to you.”

Your chest tightened again, harder this time. “Those are the same thing.”

“Not really.”

You forced steadiness into your voice. “They need to be.”

He watched you a long second, and something shifted in his expression—not retreat, not apology. Just… acknowledgment. Like he understood the boundary and had no intention of pretending he didn’t see it.

“Okay,” he said.

Relief flickered—thin, temporary.

Then he added, “Off the ice, then.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

“Off the ice,” he repeated. “Those aren’t the same thing.”

You searched his face. “You’re… asking me out?”

“Not exactly.”

“Good,” you said too fast.

His mouth curved. “You sure?”

You ignored that. “Then what are you asking?”

He scratched his jaw, suddenly looking less like the composed agitator from five seconds ago and more like a man choosing his footing. “I’m asking,” he said slowly, “if you ever exist somewhere that isn’t rink-adjacent.”

You blinked. “I live somewhere.”

“Right,” he said. “But do you live, or do you just recover there?”

You stared at him. “That is an incredibly rude question.”

“It’s a curious one.”

“You don’t know anything about my life.”

“I know you’re here before half the team and leave after most,” he said. “I know you eat protein bars like meals. I know you forget your coffee until it’s cold.”

Your stomach dropped. “You’ve been observing me way too closely.”

“Told you,” he said. “Always have been.”

The admission hit different in the quiet hallway than it had in the noise of the locker room. More deliberate. More personal.

You shifted your weight. “That’s… concerning.”

“Probably,” he agreed.

“Borderline creepy.”

“Only borderline?”

You almost smiled despite yourself, then caught it and buried it. “You need to go.”

“Yeah,” he said. But he didn’t move yet. “So do you.”

“I am going.”

“After I leave?”

“Obviously.”

He studied you one last second—like he was memorizing something you couldn’t see. Then he pushed off the wall fully.

“Wrist check after,” he said.

“You don’t need another—”

“I know,” he said. “Still want one.”

You exhaled. “You’re impossible.”

“You keep fixing me anyway.”

“That’s my job.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the reason.”

There it was again—that line between truth and something else.

He stepped backward, already turning toward the locker room tunnel. Then he glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey.”

You looked up before you could stop yourself. “What?”

His expression had softened—not teasing now, not challenging. Just steady.

“You should laugh more at work,” he said. “It suits you.”

Your throat went tight. “Go to practice, Hathaway.”

He grinned, the familiar version of him snapping back into place. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then he was gone—boots thudding down the corridor, presence receding into the noise of the rink.

You stood there a moment longer than you should have, the hallway suddenly too bright, too empty.

He wanted off-ice you.

The you who laughed too loud, who forgot coffee, who apparently hovered existentially by tape racks.

You dragged in a breath and finally turned toward the training room.

Because the dangerous part wasn’t the ice.

It was the possibility that he saw you when you stepped off it.

And wanted you there too.

-

By the time practice ended, you had almost convinced yourself you’d imagined half of it.

Hallway conversations stretched all the time. Players lingered. Lines blurred in small, harmless ways. It meant nothing that he’d stood too close, or watched you like that, or asked about you off the ice like it mattered.

You were good at compartmentalizing.

You had to be.

So when the locker room doors burst open and the first wave of players spilled out in sweat-damp gear and loud relief, you were already in motion—clipboard, towels, the familiar choreography of post-practice triage.

Ankle check. Shoulder mobility. Ice packs. Questions. Notes.

Normal.

Safe.

Professional.

You kept your focus tight and efficient, moving from station to station. It worked—until you felt it.

That awareness.

The same one from earlier.

You didn’t look up immediately. You finished wrapping a forward’s hand, gave aftercare instructions, signed off his sheet.

Then you straightened.

And there he was.

Garnet stood a few feet away, helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp, chest still rising slightly from exertion. He wasn’t saying anything. Wasn’t interrupting.

Just waiting.

Your pulse tripped anyway. “You survived.”

“Barely,” he said.

You nodded toward the empty chair beside the table. “Sit.”

He did without comment, dropping into the seat with a tired exhale. The compliance still did something strange to your brain—this man who threw himself into collisions without hesitation settling instantly when you told him to.

You rolled your stool closer. “Glove off.”

He tugged it free, flexing his fingers once before resting his forearm on the table in front of you. The tape from earlier was scuffed, edges lifting slightly from sweat and friction.

You peeled at a corner. “You destroyed this in under an hour.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“You’re the hazard,” you said, unwinding the wrap.

“Still here, though,” he murmured.

You ignored that. “Pain?”

“Dull.”

“Sharp with movement?”

“Little.”

You palpated along the joint line, thumb pressing gently. He didn’t flinch—but his breath shifted, just a fraction.

“Mm,” you said. “Inflamed.”

“Story of my life.”

You glanced up. “You’re very committed to the bit today.”

“Not a bit,” he said. “Just accurate.”

You unwound the last of the tape and set it aside, your fingers automatically bracing his wrist as you rotated it through range. His skin was still warm from practice, pulse steady under your touch.

You were aware of it.

Too aware.

“You’re staring again,” you said quietly.

“Yep.”

You kept your eyes on his wrist. “Why?”

“Because you do this thing,” he said.

Your throat tightened. “What thing.”

“You go quiet,” he said. “But not distant. Focused quiet.”

“That’s called concentration.”

“No,” he said softly. “It’s different.”

You swallowed. “You’re analyzing me again.”

“Always have been.”

You exhaled through your nose. “You’re supposed to be the patient.”

“I am,” he said. “You’re just more interesting.”

Your hands paused for half a second before resuming. “That is wildly inappropriate.”

“Probably,” he said. “Still true.”

You reached for fresh tape. “You’re flirting with medical staff.”

“Only one.”

Your heart stuttered. “Hathaway.”

“What?”

“You can’t.”

“Can’t what.”

You met his eyes then—and immediately wished you hadn’t. He wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t grinning. Just watching you with that same steady, searching attention.

“Blur lines,” you said.

“I’m not blurring,” he said. “I’m stepping outside them.”

“That’s worse.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

He considered that. “You ever step outside anything?”

You scoffed lightly. “I have a life.”

“I asked about that.”

“You interrogated it.”

“Curious,” he corrected.

You started wrapping his wrist again, slower this time. The room buzzed around you—other players, equipment noise, trainers moving—but the space between you felt narrowed to hands and breath and proximity.

“You hover,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Earlier,” he said. “By the tape rack.”

You stared at him. “You’re bringing that back?”

“You do it,” he said. “When you’re thinking.”

“I do not hover.”

“You do,” he said. “Like you’re deciding whether to stay or go.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “That’s called existing in space.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Sure.”

You smoothed the tape along his wrist, pressing it down. His skin shifted under your palm.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re different here than in the hallway.”

You kept your tone neutral. “You said that already.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Still true.”

“And the difference is?”

“You let me closer here.”

Your breath caught.

“This is treatment,” you said carefully.

“Mm,” he said. “But you’re less armored.”

You stared at the tape. “You’re projecting again.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But you didn’t deny it.”

You finished the wrap and held his hand steady a second longer than necessary. “Test.”

He flexed, rotated, made a fist. “Solid.”

“Good.”

You started to pull back.

His other hand closed lightly around your wrist.

Not tight. Not restraining.

Just there.

Your pulse slammed. “Hathaway.”

“Sorry,” he said immediately—but he didn’t let go yet. His thumb brushed once, absent, along the inside of your wrist where your pulse jumped.

Your breath hitched. “You need to let go.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

But his eyes were on your face, not your hand.

“Why do you always look like you’re about to bolt?” he asked.

The question landed straight in your chest. “I don’t.”

“You do,” he said. “Even now.”

You forced steadiness. “I’m working.”

“You’re leaving,” he said.

“I finished.”

“You always finish fast with me.”

“That’s efficiency.”

“That’s escape,” he said softly.

Something in you flared—defensive, exposed. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me because I tape your wrist.”

He released you instantly.

“Okay,” he said.

The word held no pushback. No challenge. Just acceptance.

Which somehow felt worse.

You pulled your hand back, heart hammering. “We’re done.”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

But he didn’t stand yet.

And you didn’t move away.

The air between you stayed charged, fragile as spun glass.

Finally he rose, towering into your space again—but slower this time, cautious in a way he never was on the ice.

“Off the ice,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to finish fast.”

Your throat went dry. “That’s not—”

“I know,” he said. “Job.”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He studied you a second longer, like he was weighing something. Then he stepped back.

“Thanks,” he said.

It was the same word as before.

But softer.

Closer.

Yours.

You forced your voice to work. “You’re welcome.”

He turned to go, then paused, glancing back once more.

“You ever decide not to bolt,” he said, “I’ll be there.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. “Go shower, Hathaway.”

His mouth tipped faintly. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then he disappeared into the locker room again, leaving you standing beside the treatment table with your hands still tingling where he’d touched you.

You’d always thought the dangerous part of your job was proximity to impact.

Blades. Boards. Bodies.

You were starting to understand it wasn’t any of that.

It was the moments after.

When he looked at you like he saw past the armor—

and waited to see if you’d step out of it.

[broadstpookies]

Jake Oettinger - Across the Hall

It started with a knock.

You were fumbling with your grocery bags, juggling a carton of eggs and a bag of cereal, when the sound echoed through your apartment door. You nearly dropped everything trying to reach it.

Standing there was Jake Oettinger, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair messy in that perfectly effortless way, and a grin that immediately made your knees go weak.

“Hey,” he said casually, one eyebrow raised. “Need some help with those?”

You blinked, juggling the eggs with a squeak. “Uh… sure? I think I might drop everything otherwise.”

“Thought so,” he said, stepping in before you could protest, grabbing a couple of your heavier bags. “I’m Jake—your neighbor, by the way. Floor below. I’ve been meaning to say hi properly, but, well…” He shrugged like he hadn’t just made your heart skip a beat.

“I’m Y/N,” you said, still fumbling with the cereal. “Nice to officially meet you… neighbor.”

He grinned, handing over the bags. “Nice to meet you too. And don’t worry, I’m friendly. Just… occasionally heroic with groceries.”

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’ll remember that next time I need a hero.”

That was two days ago. Since then, Jake had become the best accidental part of your mornings. You never saw him deliberately, but he had a way of popping up at exactly the right moment: holding a coffee for you when you ran into him in the hallway, teasing you about how loud you were playing music through the thin walls, or waving from his balcony when you left for work in your mismatched socks and messy hair.

And somewhere along the way, he started texting.

“Hey, Y/N. Did you survive the cereal incident?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but I just managed to drop an entire salad on the floor. Send help.”

“On my way. With mop and hero vibes. Also, coffee?”

You laughed, replying: “Stop being so helpful and annoying at the same time.”

“No promises. I’ve perfected the balance.”

A week later, Jake showed up at your door unannounced again—but this time, not with groceries. He was holding a small box of pastries, grinning like a kid who had just pulled off the perfect prank.

“For you,” he said, extending it toward you. “Neighborhood perks. Also, apology for laughing at your salad disaster.”

You took it, laughing. “You didn’t have to bring me pastries for a silly mess.”

“But I wanted to,” he replied, leaning casually against your doorframe. “And maybe… I wanted an excuse to hang out for a minute. Just… us, no chaos, no spilled food. I like seeing you.”

Your chest tightened. “You’re… really smooth, you know that?”

“I prefer the term charming,” he said, grinning, brushing a stray hair from your face. “But sure, we can go with smooth.”

It became a routine. Random texts, coffee on your balcony together, grocery runs that turned into long conversations, and little playful competitions over everything from who made the better scrambled eggs to who could carry more bags at once.

One evening, you found yourself on your balcony again, watching the city lights glow over the rooftops. Jake leaned casually against the railing beside you, hands in his pockets, eyes catching the glow of street lamps.

“You really do live up here in the clouds, huh?” he said, smiling at you.

“I try,” you replied, brushing your hair out of your face. “But you’re lucky I let anyone see me like this.”

“I wouldn’t call it luck,” he murmured, voice soft, almost hesitant. “I’d call it… privilege.”

You laughed, heart warming, leaning back slightly. “You’re going to make me blush, neighbor.”

“Maybe I want to,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his. “Maybe I like seeing you like this—messy hair, relaxed, laughing. It’s… nice. And I don’t usually say that kind of stuff.”

Your pulse quickened. “You’re usually very smooth, and now you’re saying vulnerable things? Dangerous combo.”

“Not dangerous,” he said softly, turning toward you, eyes locking on yours. “Perfectly human. And I want more of it. More of you.”

That night, you both sat on your balcony, pastries in hand, laughing about the weirdest things. He leaned a little closer, brushing your hand lightly. “You know,” he said, voice soft, teasing, “I think living next to you is the best accident of my life.”

“Accident?” you echoed, heart hammering.

“Yeah,” he admitted, inching closer. “I didn’t plan to like you this much, but… I do. And I want to be around you. All the messy, human, chaotic… everything.”

Your chest tightened, and you laughed softly, letting your head brush against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” he whispered, voice low.

“I… might,” you admitted, laughing again, heart swelling.

He turned just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. “Then it’s settled,” he said, grinning. “Neighbors? Friends? Or maybe… a little more?”

You smiled, leaning into him, letting the city lights and night air wrap around you both. “A little more sounds perfect.”

And somehow, having Jake Oettinger as your neighbor suddenly felt like the best accident you’d ever had.

[broadstpookies]

Nikita Grebenkin - Whispers on the Bench

You were sitting side by side on the bench, jerseys still damp, watching the ice staff clean the rink. Nikita nudged your shoulder and spoke quietly in Russian.

“Ты думаешь обо мне?” (Do you think about me?)

You laughed softly, leaning closer. “Всегда.” (Always.)

He smirked, eyes sparkling. “Вот это хорошо.” (That’s good.)

Finally, no need to pretend—the language barrier disappeared, and your words carried intimacy only the two of you could understand.

[broadstpookies]

Garnet Hathaway - Off the Ice (Series)

First Shift

The locker room hit you like a body check the moment you stepped through the door.

Heat. Noise. Smell.

It all came at once—thick air saturated with sweat and damp gear, the rubbery tang of skate mats, sharp adhesive tape, muscle liniment, and something faintly metallic that you didn’t want to think too hard about. Sticks clattered against tile. Someone’s speaker blasted bass-heavy music that echoed off concrete. Laughter cut through it, loud and unfiltered.

You stalled just inside the doorway, fingers tightening around the strap of your treatment bag.

“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, “wow. That is… intense.”

A laugh rolled across the room—low, rough, unmistakably amused.

You looked up too fast and nearly walked straight into a bench.

And him.

Garnet Hathaway leaned against his stall like he’d always existed there, one boot planted on the floor, forearms resting casually on his thighs. A towel hung loose around his neck, hair still damp from the showers, the dark strands curling slightly at the ends. He watched you with open interest, eyes bright in a way that said he’d already clocked your reaction and filed it away for later.

“First day?” he asked.

Your spine straightened automatically. Professional posture snapping on. “First day with this team,” you said. “Not first day in a locker room.”

He tipped his head, considering you like a puzzle. “Yeah,” he said. “But ours is special.”

You exhaled once through your nose. “I can see that.”

His mouth curved. “You made a face.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“It was a controlled sensory response,” you said.

He barked a laugh, loud enough that two nearby players glanced over. “That might be the fanciest way I’ve ever heard someone say ‘this place smells.’”

You set your jaw and stepped fully into the room, refusing to hover by the door. “I’ll acclimate.”

“Big word,” he said. “You a doctor?”

“Physical therapist,” you said, already scanning automatically—wrapped knees, taped wrists, guarded posture. Habit was comfort. Assessment steadied you.

“Ah,” he said. “So you’re the one who ruins my fun.”

You glanced at him. “Only if your definition of fun includes preventable injury.”

“It does,” he said easily.

“That tracks,” you muttered.

His grin widened. “Oh yeah. I like you already.”

You stopped organizing your supplies and looked at him flatly. “You don’t know me.”

“Sure I do,” he said. “You walked into a pro hockey locker room, almost gagged, but didn’t run. That tells me plenty.”

Your cheeks warmed despite yourself. “I did not gag.”

“You flinched.”

“It was involuntary.”

“Adorable.”

You stared at him. “Please do not call the medical staff adorable.”

“Can’t promise,” he said.

You turned away before the corner of your mouth betrayed you and began unpacking your bag onto the central treatment table—tape rolls, scissors, wipes, wraps—lining them in clean, practiced rows. Familiar motion. Grounding.

You could still feel it though: his attention. Not crude. Not invasive. Just… steady. Like he’d decided you were interesting and was going to watch until he figured out why.

“You always this comfortable staring at coworkers?” you asked without looking.

“Depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“If they’re interesting.”

You snorted. “I’m taping ankles.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you’re doing it like you’re about to defuse a bomb.”

You glanced up despite yourself. “Precision matters.”

His eyes flicked to your hands, then back to your face. “You look like you care more than the guys you’re taping.”

“I care about preventing surgeries,” you said. “It’s a hobby.”

He laughed again—deeper this time. “You’re intense.”

“You play professional hockey,” you said. “You don’t get to call anyone else intense.”

“Fair,” he said.

A beat passed. You went back to your setup. The room buzzed around you—gear rustling, someone shouting for tape, the sharp scent of ammonia caps cracking open—but his presence still cut clean through it.

“So,” he said after a moment.

You looked up. “So?”

He rolled his right shoulder once, expression casual. “Since you’re here.”

You followed the movement instantly. Subtle restriction. Protective pattern. “What did you do.”

“Blocked a shot yesterday,” he said.

“And didn’t report it,” you said.

He shrugged. “Didn’t want the lecture.”

“You’re getting one anyway,” you said.

“Worth it,” he said.

You gestured to the table. “Sit.”

He did. Immediately. No argument, no bravado. The big, stubborn enforcer just planted himself where you pointed. That part surprised you more than you let show.

You stepped in close, hands finding his shoulder through the thin compression fabric. Heat radiated under your palms. Dense muscle. Familiar territory—and yet not, because you were suddenly very aware of proximity in a way you usually weren’t.

“Where,” you said.

He tapped just behind the joint. “There.”

You pressed along the line. He sucked a quiet breath through his teeth.

“Yeah,” you said. “You strained this.”

“Bad?”

“Manageable,” you said. “If you don’t ignore it.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching your face instead of your hands. “You’re strong.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your hands,” he said. “Didn’t expect that.”

You snorted. “I move two-hundred-pound athletes for a living.”

“Not complaining,” he said. “Just surprised.”

You continued the assessment, deliberately neutral. “You guard pain.”

“Comes with the job.”

“Not with me,” you said.

His gaze sharpened. “No?”

“No,” you said simply. “You lie to coaches. Teammates. Media. Not medical.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Bossy.”

“Professional,” you corrected.

“I like it,” he said.

You ignored that, sliding your fingers down to check surrounding tension. “You’ll need heat tonight. Mobility work. I’ll send protocol.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You sighed. “Do not call me that.”

“Can’t promise,” he repeated.

You stepped back finally. “You’re cleared for practice today. But if this worsens—”

“I come to you,” he said.

The certainty in it made you pause. “Yes,” you said. “You come to me.”

He hopped down from the table, rolling his shoulder experimentally. Then he looked at you—not at your hands, not at your notes. You.

“You always this serious?” he asked.

“At work?” you said. “Yes.”

He studied you a second longer than necessary. “Bet you’re not off the clock.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Feels like you’ve got some chaos in you,” he said lightly.

You huffed a laugh. “You met me three minutes ago.”

“Doesn’t take long,” he said.

You shook your head, grabbing your tablet. “You’re very confident for someone whose shoulder I can bench tomorrow.”

He stepped closer as he passed—close enough you felt the heat of him before the brush of air. His voice dropped just enough to skim your ear.

“You’d enjoy that.”

Heat shot up your neck instantly. “Hathaway.”

He grinned, already backing away. “See you around, doc.”

You stood there a moment longer than necessary, pulse not quite steady, palms still remembering the solid warmth of his shoulder under your hands.

You’d expected this job to be hard because of the pace. The injuries. The pressure.

You hadn’t expected it to be hard because one player looked at you like he’d already decided you were interesting.

And somehow, on your very first shift, you already knew something with dangerous clarity:

Garnet Hathaway was going to be trouble.

Not on the ice.

Off it.

[broadstpookies]

Trevor Zegras - Behind the Glass

You shivered as you walked into the Wells Fargo Center, the cold Philly air still clinging to your scarf. The crowd was loud, orange and black everywhere, and you could already hear the echoes of chants from fans who clearly came early. You slid into your glass-side seats behind the Flyers’ bench, knees bouncing from nerves and excitement.

“Hey, you made it!” Trevor’s voice came from the ice before you even spotted him. He skated over during warmups, grinning like a fool, and waved. “I thought you were gonna bail on me and eat a cheesesteak instead.”

“Pfft. Me? Bail on you?” You laughed. “You know I’m the only person crazy enough to scream at the top of my lungs for you in every game.”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Screaming, huh? Is that what counts as motivation now? I was thinking hot chocolate, but screaming works too, I guess.”

“Hot chocolate? Are you kidding me? It’s February, dude. You’re on ice, not in some cozy cafe. I’d freeze before you even touched a puck.”

He shook his head, laughing, then skated off to warm up. You watched him weave through the ice like he was born there, passing and pivoting with the kind of grace that made you sigh quietly to yourself. You always got a little caught up in him—always had—but tonight it felt… different. There was a pulse in the air, in him, that made your stomach twist in a familiar way.

The first period passed in a blur. Midway through the second, Trevor snatched the puck in the neutral zone and zipped past two defenders. You jumped out of your seat, hands thrown in the air, when he made a perfect pass that set up a goal.

He skated past the bench and winked at you. You groaned, laughing and clutching the glass. “Ugh, stop doing that!”

“Doing what?” he called over his shoulder, grinning. “Winking at my biggest fan?”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, but the blush creeping up your neck betrayed you.

After the Flyers’ win, the crowd still buzzing, you stayed near the glass, waiting for Trevor to come off. He jogged over, helmet in hand, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead.

“You… were nuts tonight,” you said, tossing him a bottle of water. “Seriously, that third goal—insane.”

“Yeah, well, don’t act like you didn’t cheer me on like a maniac.” He leaned on the glass, still catching his breath. “You know, I can hear you from here, right?”

You snorted. “Good. Consider it motivation. Or harassment. Whichever works for you.”

He laughed, but then his grin softened. “Hey… can I be honest for a sec?”

“Uh-oh,” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “I should run?”

“No, seriously,” he said, scratching the back of his neck like he always does when he’s nervous. “I’ve been… thinking about stuff. You know… us.”

Your stomach did a little flip. “Us?”

“Yeah,” he said, finally meeting your eyes. “I mean, you’ve always been there—at every practice, every game, yelling at me, embarrassing me in front of everyone—and… I don’t know. I kinda like you. More than… friends like.”

You blinked. “Wait. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Probably. Yeah.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I’m terrible at this.”

You laughed, half in disbelief, half from relief. “Oh my god, you’re the worst… and also the best.”

He smiled, leaning a little closer. “So… you feel the same?”

“I think… yeah,” you admitted, biting your lip. “I’ve been trying not to, but… yeah.”

Trevor’s grin turned triumphant, and he shook his head like he couldn’t believe it was real. “About time,” he muttered. Then he leaned over the glass and gently pressed a quick, nervous kiss to your cheek, just to see your reaction.

You rolled your eyes and laughed, heart pounding. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, but your voice was soft, and your hand brushed his.

He caught it. “Yeah, but apparently it works,” he said, winking again, and you groaned, because you knew he was right.

From that night on, everything changed. Practices became more fun, games more electric, and every glance across the rink carried a little extra weight. You were still best friends, still partners in crime, but now there was something more. Something messy, thrilling, and yours. And in Philly, with the roar of the fans echoing through the arena, it felt like maybe, finally, you were both exactly where you were supposed to be.

[broadstpookies]

Macklin Celebrini - Chasing Chaos with You

Life had been monotonous for months. Work, sleep, gym, eat, repeat. You loved your job at the domestic violence shelter, loved helping people rebuild pieces of themselves that had been broken. But it didn’t change the fact that your life outside those walls felt empty. Nights alone on the couch with a half-eaten takeout container and a streaming service queued up didn’t exactly scream excitement.

So when Macklin Celebrini’s name popped up in your messages one Tuesday evening, you couldn’t help the small thrill that snuck into your chest.

"You free tonight?"

You blinked at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Macklin didn’t need to ask; he knew your schedule. Somehow, he always knew the perfect moment to disrupt your routine. Your thumb finally tapped out a reply:

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because life’s boring and I plan to fix that. Be ready in 20."

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. Twenty minutes later, a knock on your door announced him before you even opened it. He leaned casually against the frame, tousled hair and that infuriating smirk you could never resist.

“Ready to make your boring life a little… less boring?” he asked, voice teasing.

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be unimpressed. “I wasn’t aware life needed fixing.”

Macklin stepped inside, brushing past you like he owned the place—which, in a way, he did. Somehow, he always did. “Trust me. By the end of tonight, you’ll thank me.”

The city outside had softened into a velvet dusk, streetlights painting everything gold and pink. Macklin grabbed your hand before you could protest. “C’mon, we’re starting with something simple. Ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” you repeated, trying not to laugh at the absurdity.

“Yes, but not just ice cream. Street cart, double scoop, chocolate and whatever flavor you’re feeling brave enough to try.” He winked. “Trust me.”

You found yourself laughing, swept along by the energy that always seemed to radiate from him. Somehow, the world felt lighter just by being around Macklin. He had a way of turning ordinary streets into a labyrinth of adventure.

By the time you were walking side by side, ice cream dripping down your fingers, he nudged you gently. “You know,” he said softly, almost casually, “I’ve been trying to get you out of your apartment for months. I think you were starting to turn into part of the couch.”

You smacked his shoulder playfully. “I could say the same about you. How many times have I found you leaning on my doorframe, grinning like a cartoon character?”

“Guilty,” he admitted, eyes glinting in the streetlight. Then he leaned closer, voice dropping into something softer. “But maybe… maybe I just like seeing you smile.”

Your chest tightened. “Macklin…” you started, unsure if you should be teasing or serious.

He tilted his head, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah?”

“I—never mind.” You shook your head, trying to dismiss the flutter in your stomach.

He smiled that maddening smile of his, the one that made your heart do little somersaults. “You don’t get to leave it at ‘never mind.’ Not tonight.”

And somehow, that night stretched longer than it should have. You wandered through the city, laughing at ridiculous roadside performers, sharing stories about your childhood dreams, about high school parties and dance recitals, and discovering things about each other that made every step feel electric.

At some point, Macklin had dragged you into a tiny, hidden jazz club that smelled like old wood and mystery. The music wrapped around you both, soft and intoxicating, and you found yourselves swaying together, arms brushing, fingers occasionally tangling.

“You’re nervous,” he murmured, close enough for his breath to tickle your ear.

“Maybe,” you admitted, leaning into him just slightly.

He smirked. “You’re lying. You love this—this… unpredictability. Admit it.”

“I—maybe I do,” you whispered, feeling warmth bloom in your chest.

“Good,” he said, then leaned in. “Because I plan to make sure your life is never boring again.”

And then he kissed you. Soft at first, testing, teasing, until the world around you disappeared. The jazz, the city, even the late-night ice cream stand faded into nothing. There was just Macklin and you, tangled together in a quiet, thrilling intimacy that made your heart feel too big for your chest.

Later, as you walked home under the glow of streetlights, fingers entwined, he pressed a kiss to your temple. “See? Life’s better when you don’t follow the rules.”

“Maybe,” you said softly, leaning your head on his shoulder, “but I think it’s also better when I follow you.”

Macklin chuckled, a low, happy sound that made your stomach twist in the best possible way. “Then I’ll take full responsibility for your life from now on.”

And for the first time in months, your schedule didn’t matter. The days of monotony were gone, replaced by laughter, stolen kisses, and endless possibilities. Life wasn’t boring anymore. And it never would be—as long as Macklin Celebrini was around.

It had been a week since that night. A week of stolen glances, lingering touches, and the constant, insistent pull of Macklin Celebrini. Your routine no longer felt like chains—it felt like a safety net you could jump off of, because you knew he would catch you.

You were sitting at your apartment, nursing a mug of too-hot coffee, when your phone buzzed.

"You still alive, or do I have to come rescue you from boredom again?"

You smiled, already knowing the answer. Macklin never gave you a choice. He had a way of appearing in your life exactly when you needed it, even if you didn’t realize it.

"Alive. But your rescue sounds tempting," you typed back.

"Good. Be ready in 30. We’re going on an adventure."

Thirty minutes later, he was at your door, grinning like mischief had a human form. “Ready?” he asked, his eyes glinting.

“You already know the answer,” you said, slipping on your jacket.

He took your hand and led you out into the city night, the streets alive with a soft hum of lights and late-night chatter. “Tonight,” he said, “we’re going somewhere you’ve never been.”

You laughed. “Every time you say that, it ends up being either illegal or terrifying.”

“Tonight,” he said, ignoring your joke, “it’s neither. Well… maybe a little terrifying, but in a good way.”

He guided you to a small, tucked-away rooftop bar, the kind that seemed invisible unless you were exactly where you needed to be. The skyline spread before you like a secret gift, glowing and alive.

“You brought me here,” you said, looking at him, “just to see the view?”

“Partly,” he admitted, eyes sparkling. “Mostly because I wanted to see you like this. Happy. Breathless. Off-balance. You look… unstoppable.”

Your stomach fluttered. “Macklin…”

He tilted his head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah?”

“You always know what to say,” you whispered, feeling warmth bloom under his gaze.

“That’s because I notice things. Always have.” He leaned in, voice dropping low. “Like how you bite your lip when you’re nervous, or how your laugh sounds when you’re genuinely surprised, or how… you’re always a little too hard on yourself.”

Your breath caught. “I—”

“Shh.” He pressed a finger to your lips, soft, deliberate. “I like you like this. Messy, complicated, beautiful. And I plan to remind you of it every day.”

You laughed, a soft, shaky sound, because it was impossible to argue when he looked at you like that. “Every day, huh?”

“Every day.” He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Starting… now.”

And then he kissed you, slow and deliberate, giving you all the space to melt into him. The city’s hum faded. The lights blurred. There was only the press of his lips, the warmth of his hand at your back, and the undeniable pull between you.

Later, as you leaned against the railing, watching the city twinkle beneath you, Macklin whispered, “You know, I could do this forever. Just you and me, this city, nights that don’t end.”

“I… think I could like that,” you admitted, resting your head on his shoulder.

He smirked. “Think? Babe, you’re already hooked. Don’t fight it.”

You laughed, but it was true. Every spontaneous plan, every stolen kiss, every late-night laugh had pulled you closer to him in ways you hadn’t expected. And for the first time, the thought of routine—boring adult life—wasn’t terrifying. Because Macklin had taught you something: life didn’t have to be boring when someone made it extraordinary with you.

“Promise me,” you said softly, fingers entwining with his, “you won’t ever stop dragging me into your chaos.”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “I promise. But you have to promise me something too.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll keep letting me in. Even when life feels heavy, even when work and stress try to swallow us whole. You let me in, and I’ll… I’ll make sure the boring never returns.”

“I can do that,” you whispered, heart swelling.

“Good.” He kissed you again, and the city felt smaller, quieter, and somehow perfectly aligned with the two of you.

For the first time in forever, your life didn’t feel like a loop. It felt like it was just beginning, and Macklin Celebrini was determined to make every moment unforgettable.

And you were ready to follow him, anywhere.

Macklin pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes tracing your features like he was memorizing you in the dim glow of the city lights. “You know,” he said softly, “there’s something kind of magical about a city at night.”

“I’d say the magic is enhanced by the company,” you teased, leaning against him.

He chuckled, pressing his cheek to the top of your head. “Flattery will get you everywhere. But seriously… nights like this… I feel like time should just stop.”

“Stop?” you echoed, tilting your head.

“Yeah. I mean, look at us. The city buzzing below, lights shimmering, music from somewhere distant drifting up… and it’s just us. Like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

You smiled, feeling your chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the rooftop’s breeze. “I like this… us.”

Macklin’s hand slid down to entwine with yours, squeezing gently. “Me too. But you know… I don’t want it to be just tonight.”

“Oh?” you said, pretending to be coy, though your pulse had already sped up.

“Yeah,” he murmured, lowering his voice, the kind of low, intimate tone that made your stomach feel like it was being flipped inside out. “I want this—us—every day. Not just stolen nights, not just chaos for chaos’ sake. I want the… slow mornings, the lazy afternoons, the nights where we can’t sleep because we’re talking about everything and nothing. I want the real deal.”

Your fingers tightened around his, unsure if you were trembling from nerves or anticipation—or both. “Macklin… I…”

He pressed his forehead to yours again, soft and grounding. “I know. You don’t have to say it yet. Just… feel it. Because I’m serious. About us.”

You swallowed hard, letting the words form inside you before they even left your mouth. “I… want that too,” you whispered finally, your voice barely audible over the distant hum of the city. “I want all of it.”

Macklin grinned, a flash of mischief sparkling in his eyes even as his expression softened. “Good,” he said. Then, without warning, he scooped you up in his arms. You squeaked, laughing as he spun you around once, careful but undeniably playful. “And just to make sure you never forget… I’m going to hold you like this until the city starts spinning too.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re insane.”

“But lovable,” he corrected, brushing your lips with his in a quick, teasing kiss before setting you back down.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of small adventures. Macklin led you to a tiny diner still open in the early hours, where you both shared greasy fries and laughed about the absurdity of adult responsibilities. Later, he took you to a little 24-hour bookstore he had discovered, where you wandered between stacks of novels, arguing over which books were overrated and which ones deserved your undivided attention.

At some point, he reached out and brushed his hand across yours, interlacing fingers without asking. “You know,” he said, voice low and intimate, “I could get used to this.”

“Get used to what?” you asked, smiling softly.

“This… us. The chaos, the laughter, the way your hair smells when it’s messy, the way your laugh echoes when you’re really happy. I… I think I could fall in love with you like this.”

You froze, your chest tightening. “Macklin…”

He leaned closer, tilting his head, watching your face as if trying to read your every thought. “I mean it. I don’t do casual, you know that. But you… you’ve got me completely off-balance, in the best way possible. And I don’t want it to stop.”

Your heart thundered in your chest, and without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him, slow and deliberate. His lips moved against yours with the same intensity, the same certainty, that had been in his words. When you finally pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathless, you whispered, “I think… I’m falling for you too.”

Macklin smiled that infuriating, unstoppable smile. “Good. Because I already have.”

Hours later, you found yourselves back on the rooftop where the night had begun, curled against each other on a soft blanket Macklin had somehow carried up. The city lights twinkled below, stars hidden by the glow, and the silence between you was comfortable, intimate, and full of unspoken promises.

“Promise me,” you said softly, your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, “we’ll keep doing this. Nights like this. Adventures. Just… us.”

“I promise,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And not just nights. Days too. Every day I can get with you, I’ll make unforgettable.”

You smiled, closing your eyes. “Then I’m ready. For all of it.”

“And I,” he said, tightening his hold around you, “am never letting you go.”

The city hummed around you, alive, endless. And for the first time in months, your life wasn’t just a loop. It was infinite, chaotic, messy, beautiful—and entirely, utterly yours.

[broadstpookies]

Nikita Grebenkin - Warning Signs

The club was alive, and so were you. Bass thrummed through the floor, lights flickered in chaotic patterns, and the air smelled faintly of alcohol, perfume, and sweat. You laughed too loudly at something someone said, tossing back another drink, feeling untouchable and unstoppable. Your heels were killing you, but you didn’t care—you thrived in this mess, in the blur of lights and movement, in the chaos that made your heart beat fast and your skin tingle.

Then you noticed him.

Nikita Grebenkin. Dark eyes that scanned the crowd like he was looking for something specific, broad shoulders moving with the ease of someone who didn’t have to fight for attention. He wasn’t loud, didn’t shove anyone aside, didn’t grin at the wrong people. He was deliberate. And somehow, when his gaze met yours, the rest of the club—loud music, flashing lights, screaming strangers—seemed to fade.

“Impossible,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.

You blinked, smirk tugging at your lips. “Excuse me?”

He noticed you. Perfectly chaotic, messy hair, eyeliner slightly smudged, laughing too loud, moving too freely. “You,” he said, voice low but carrying over the music. “You’re impossible. And I want to know you.”

“Good luck with that,” you replied, grinning, slightly defensive. “I don’t usually let strangers get to know me.”

“Not usually,” he said, stepping closer, brushing lightly against your arm, making your stomach tighten. “But something about you… I can’t ignore it.”

You laughed, a little breathless. “You’re bold. I’ll give you that.”

He tilted his head, smirk growing. “Bold? Maybe. Or maybe I just chase the kind of trouble I want to find.”

“Trouble?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I’m trouble?”

“You are,” he said, dark eyes locked on yours. “And I want it.”

You laughed, heart hammering in that ridiculous, chaotic way only he could inspire. “You don’t even know me.”

“I like that,” he murmured, leaning closer, letting his voice drop low and warm. “I like not knowing, because it means I get to chase.”

The next morning, your phone buzzed relentlessly. Groaning, you reached for it, expecting missed messages from friends. Instead, you found thirteen missed calls and multiple texts from an unknown number.

“Did you survive last night, or should I send a search party?”

Your stomach flipped. You didn’t recognize the number, but the tone—playful, teasing, daring—made your pulse race.

You typed back quickly: “Who is this?”

“Nikita. From last night. You. Me. Dance floor chaos. Remember?”

You laughed, smudged eyeliner and all. “Oh. Right. The guy who said I was impossible.”

“Exactly. The impossible one I can’t stop thinking about.”

And just like that, the chase began.

Over the next few days, your phone buzzed constantly. You were doing your usual—late brunches, errands in heels, trying not to fall into yet another nightclub trap—and Nikita’s name kept lighting up your screen.

“Another day, another chance to know you better. When are you free?” “I swear I’m not stalking you. Okay, maybe a little.” “Answer me before I come find you in person. You’re too chaotic to vanish this easily.”

You tried to ignore him. Really, you did. But each text made your pulse quicken. Each voicemail—his deep voice saying your name in that casual, teasing way—made you blush despite yourself.

Finally, you caved.

“Alright, fine. I’ll see you. But only because you’re ridiculous.”

His reply was instant: “Good. You’re worth the ridiculous.”

That night, you met at a quiet rooftop bar, away from the chaos of the club. The city sparkled below, the lights reflecting off puddles from a brief drizzle. Nikita was already there, leaning against the railing, dark eyes catching the glow of neon, his grin crooked and knowing.

“You made it,” he said, voice low, teasing. “I thought you’d vanish again.”

“Maybe I was testing you,” you replied, smirking. “To see if you’d actually come find me.”

“I always find the ones worth chasing,” he said softly, stepping closer. Warmth radiated off him, fingers grazing your waist lightly. “And you… are definitely worth it.”

Your chest tightened. “You’re… intense,” you murmured.

“And you’re chaotic,” he countered, leaning close enough for your hair to brush his face. “Perfectly, maddeningly chaotic. I like it.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m not usually like this with strangers.”

“I know,” he whispered, voice dropping. “But tonight… you are. And that’s enough for me.”

Over the next week, Nikita didn’t let up. Texts, calls, and little voice notes—some playful, some teasing, some honestly vulnerable—made your phone vibrate relentlessly.

“Why do I keep thinking about you?” “Tell me something about yourself besides being impossible.” “I’m not usually this obsessed. Maybe you’re special.” “I want to see you again. Preferably without you escaping this time.”

And slowly, the chase became fun. You started texting back quicker, laughing at his ridiculous messages, enjoying the thrill of being pursued, the tension of not knowing what he’d do next.

Finally, you texted: “Okay, fine. I’ll meet you. But I warn you—I don’t go easy.”

“Good,” he replied instantly. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

When you arrived that night, it was raining lightly, and the street lights reflected in puddles like scattered diamonds. Nikita was leaning against a lamppost, dark hair slightly damp, eyes scanning for you. As soon as he saw you, that crooked grin appeared, slow and knowing.

“You actually came,” he said, voice low, teasing.

“I told you I would,” you said, smirking despite your nerves. “But you’re lucky I did.”

“Lucky?” he said, stepping closer, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face. “I think I’m the lucky one. You’re… exhausting, but in the best way possible.”

“Exhausting?” you echoed. “You’re… not so bad yourself.”

“Not bad?” He smirked. “Try dangerously irresistible.”

You laughed, heart hammering. “You’re… ridiculous.”

“And you’re wild,” he said softly, voice dropping low. “Perfectly, maddeningly wild. And I want all of it.”

You swallowed hard, pulse racing. “Even… the chaotic, messy parts?”

“Especially the messy parts,” he whispered, stepping closer. His hand brushed your waist, thumb tracing the curve gently. “The chaos, the laughter, the smudged makeup, the late-night energy—it’s all you. And I don’t want it any other way.”

Your breath caught. “You… you really mean that?”

“Completely,” he said, leaning even closer, lips near your ear. “I’ve been chasing you since the moment I saw you, and I’m not stopping.”

And then, he kissed you. Slow, deliberate, messy, perfectly imperfect—warm, teasing, real. Your hands tangled in his jacket, his hands on your waist, the rain dripping over both of you, and for the first time, you didn’t want to pull away.

When you finally stepped back, laughing softly, he pressed his forehead to yours, smudged makeup and all. “You’re something else,” he murmured.

“I know,” you teased. “And you love it.”

“Always,” he whispered, dark grin returning. “And I’m not letting go this time.”

The city stretched before you, lights reflecting in puddles, chaos still buzzing around—but somehow, none of it mattered. The thrill wasn’t the club, the chase, or the chaos. It was him. And for the first time, you didn’t want to run.

[broadstpookies]

Nikita Grebenkin — Locker Room Glances

You were leaning against the lockers, scarf tangled around your neck, watching Nikita sling his bag over his shoulder.

“You always wait around after practice?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged, trying to act casual. “Maybe I like the view.”

He smirked, shoulders relaxing. “Good. Because I was hoping you’d stick around.”

[broadstpookies]

Luke Hughes - Brag

This was inspired by the song Brag by The Home Team

You’d been his secret for months. Not because he didn’t want to tell anyone, but because Luke Hughes was… complicated. High-profile, always busy, always aware of who was watching. And somehow, you fit into his life perfectly, quietly, like you’d always belonged there—but only when no one else was looking.

Tonight, though, felt different.

He showed up at your door just as the city lights began to flicker on, the streets glowing with a soft, golden hum. His hair was tousled, sleeves rolled up, eyes dark and intense. There was a look in them that made your stomach twist—a mixture of nerves, determination, and something unspoken.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” you murmured, stepping aside. Your heart was thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it.

He closed the door behind him, lingering near the threshold. Hands in his pockets, jaw tight, he just… looked at you. And in that look, you could feel the weight of every moment he had kept you hidden, every touch and whisper you’d shared in private, every night spent curled together while the world outside remained oblivious.

“I… I don’t want to keep doing this,” he said finally. His voice was steady, but soft, almost vulnerable. “Keeping you a secret.”

Your chest tightened. “Luke…”

“No,” he interrupted gently, stepping closer, closing the distance between you. “I mean it. I’ve been trying to be careful, trying to protect us—but it’s driving me crazy. I don’t want anyone else’s opinions or judgments to stop me from… from showing everyone how much you mean to me.”

Your fingers reached up instinctively, brushing against his hand. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” you whispered.

He exhaled, a small laugh breaking through the tension, shaking his head. “I was hoping you’d never get tired of waiting.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, warm and grounding. “I’ve been wanting this—wanting you—more than I thought was possible, but I kept thinking I needed to wait for the right time. The right moment. But there’s no right moment. There’s only now.”

You shivered, your chest tightening as his words wrapped around you. “Then… now it is,” you said softly, leaning into him.

Luke’s lips curved into a slow smile, dark and tender, before he pressed his forehead to yours. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Now.”

And then he kissed you.

Not a quick, testing kiss. Not a secretive one. But slow, deliberate, full of all the feelings he’d been holding back: longing, admiration, guilt, and desire. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the intensity in his touch, the careful way he wanted you close but still respected your space, like every motion was a promise.

When he finally pulled back, just enough for a breath, his eyes were soft but smoldering. “I’ve been selfish,” he admitted, voice rough. “Keeping you to myself. Hiding you. Making you feel like this… like it had to stay in the shadows. And I’m sorry. But I can’t anymore. I don’t want to anymore.”

You reached up, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to apologize,” you whispered. “I understand why you did it. But… I don’t want to be hidden anymore either.”

His grin was slow, teasing, and utterly devastating. “Good,” he said, stepping closer until the space between you disappeared. “Because from now on… no secrets. No shadows. Only us.”

Your hands found his shoulders, gripping lightly as your bodies aligned. “Then… don’t hold back,” you whispered.

Luke leaned in again, lips tracing yours with soft insistence, slow and languid, a teasing, intimate exploration that left your knees weak. He pulled you close, fingers threading through your hair, holding you like he meant it. And in that quiet apartment, with the city buzzing faintly outside the window, it was just the two of you—no walls, no secrets, no distance.

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours. “I want everyone to see you,” he murmured. “I want the world to know you’re mine, because you are. And I… I don’t care who knows it. I want to hold your hand in the street, kiss you in public, make no apologies for how I feel. I want it all.”

Your lips curved into a soft, tired smile, heart racing. “Then… let’s start now,” you said. “No more hiding.”

He chuckled, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “No more hiding,” he agreed, lips finding yours again in a tender, lingering kiss. “Only us. And I plan on making every second count.”

You wrapped your arms around him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. The city outside continued its quiet hum, but inside, the world had shrunk to the two of you. You were no longer a secret. He was no longer holding back. And in that simple, perfect moment, everything felt… right.

Luke pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “You’re mine,” he murmured, almost like a vow. “And I’m done hiding it.”

“And I’m yours,” you whispered back, smiling, knowing that this was only the beginning.

[broadstpookies]

Nikita Grebenkin - Rain and Ice

Rain hammered against the windows, and the arena was quiet except for the hum of the lights. Nikita draped a towel over your shoulders after you laughed at him sliding across the ice.

“You know,” he said, grinning, “I think I like practicing just to see you smile like that.”

You leaned into the warmth, heart fluttering. “You’re lucky I don’t make you pay for it.”

He chuckled, eyes sparkling. “Lucky? Or just charming enough to get away with it?”

[broadstpookies]

Tyler Seguin - The Thrill You’re After

The city had that soft, electric glow that made everything feel a little surreal. Neon signs reflected in puddles from a brief rain, the hum of traffic mingling with distant laughter from a late-night bar. You leaned against the wall of your apartment building, arms crossed, trying not to think about him too much. But you knew exactly what you were thinking about. Tyler Seguin. His smirk, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, that slow, teasing confidence that made your pulse do things you weren’t proud of.

When his car pulled up, low and rumbling, your stomach did a little flip. He didn’t honk, didn’t wave—he just stepped out, hands in his pockets, giving you a look that made your knees weak.

“Hey,” he said, casual but heavy with that kind of energy that made the air feel thicker.

“Hey,” you replied, heart hammering in a way that made you sound too breathless. “You’re… early.”

“Not early,” he said, grinning. “Right on time. You ready?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Ready for…?”

“The thrill,” he said, voice low, teasing, a little dangerous. “The risk. That’s what tonight’s about.”

You laughed, brushing your hands through your hair. “You say that like we’re about to do something illegal.”

“Depends,” he said, quirking an eyebrow. “Does it feel illegal to make me grin like this?” He held up a finger, tapping it against his chest like a challenge. “Because honestly? That’s your fault. You’re too good at it.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “I think you’re just easy to tease.”

He shrugged, unapologetic, and held the door open for you like a gentleman, though the grin tugging at his lips suggested he had more mischief planned.

By the time you were driving through the city streets, Tyler had taken the wheel, but the energy between you was almost tangible. The car was small, private, and suddenly everything he did felt magnified. When he laughed at a song on the radio, his head tilted back, eyes closed, you felt something flutter in your chest that had nothing to do with the music.

“You know,” he said, glancing at you, voice low and teasing, “you should try not to care about me so much.”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it,” he said, smirking. “I’ve noticed the way you look at me. It’s… dangerous.” His eyes flicked to yours, dark and unreadable for just a moment, before the grin returned. “For you. Not me.”

“Dangerous?” you echoed, letting your fingers brush against the edge of his arm. “I think that’s on you.”

He laughed, deep and full, and you felt it in your chest. “Maybe. But honestly, I like it.”

By the time you arrived at a quiet riverside park, the world outside the car felt like it had slowed down. The water reflected the city lights like a mirror, and the air smelled faintly of rain and asphalt. Tyler stepped out first, holding his hand out.

“Come on,” he said, smirk playful. “Try to keep up.”

You took his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin and the electric thrill of being this close. He led you down a narrow path along the river, hands occasionally brushing yours, each contact deliberate, teasing, yet full of intent.

“Tyler…” you said softly, slowing for a moment. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t have to what?” he asked, looking down at you, eyes dark with something you couldn’t name yet.

“Be… this intense,” you whispered.

His grin softened, becoming almost tender. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and brushed his thumb across your cheek. “I can’t help it,” he murmured. “You’re… worth it. Worth every risk, every second of this intensity.”

Your chest fluttered, and you leaned into his hand, savoring the touch. “I feel the same way,” you admitted.

That earned you a slow, knowing smile before he leaned in, brushing his lips against yours, tentative at first, testing. But the moment you responded, the kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, not urgent but heated in its own way. Every brush of his lips, every movement of his hand along your waist, was a confession.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. “I don’t want to slow down,” he murmured. “Not for the world. Not for anything. You make me want… everything. All of it. And I can’t pretend otherwise.”

You laughed softly, breathless, your hands moving to rest against his chest. “Then… don’t. I’ll follow wherever this goes.”

The next hour felt like a dream. You walked along the riverside, arms brushing, fingers occasionally tangling together, teasing touches and quiet laughter punctuating the night. Tyler kept you close, hand on your lower back as if he couldn’t bear to let you drift even a few inches away. Every glance, every brush of skin, made your pulse quicken.

“You’re… reckless,” you said finally, smiling up at him.

“Reckless?” he echoed, grin spreading. “You think I don’t know that I’m being reckless with you?”

“You are,” you admitted, heart racing. “And I like it.”

His gaze softened, intensity tempered by warmth. “Good,” he murmured, brushing his lips along your temple. “Because I’m not stopping. I don’t want to. I like… this. I like you. All of you. And I want it all—fast, reckless, thrilling… and I want you with me for it.”

You swallowed, letting the words sink in. “Then… I’m in,” you whispered. “All in.”

Tyler’s grin returned, wicked and mischievous, but there was a softness beneath it now, a promise you could feel deep in your chest. “Then buckle up,” he murmured, pulling you close again. “Because with me, the ride’s just getting started.”

The city stretched before you, alive, moving fast, but somehow, standing there with him, you felt like time had slowed just enough for you both to exist—together, reckless, and fully alive.

And in that moment, you realized: the thrill wasn’t the city, the speed, or the risk. It was him. It had always been him.