emergency contact (and other poor life decisions)▸ will smith
PAIRING ▸ will smith (wsh2) x reader
GENRES ▸ fluff, wsh soft, childhood best friends → idiots in love, emergency contact, drunk calls, late night vulnerability, one bed trope MY FAV
SUMMARY ▸ the three times will smith calls you when drunk, and the one time it actually matters.
AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ sharks gameday!!! smitty beating WASHED ALLEGATIONS, smitty beating BALD ALLEGATIONS, 21 bday with the toffoli’s, hatty watch the last game?? this is will smith hopecore and he will score tn!!! (i love him i cannot deal) also longest fic soooo far yay!
the first time will calls you when he shouldn't, it’s at 2:47 in the morning. your phone buzzes against your nightstand far too loud and far too long enough to drag you out of sleep, the screen lighting up your dark room with a caller id you know far too well: will smith (contact name willy for nickname purposes). for a moment you just stare at it, half awake and half convinced you’re still dreaming. then your phone rings again. then buzzes a text. then rings again. which means one thing, and one thing only - will has either done something incredibly stupid, or he needs a ride home.
or possibly both. both was very possible if it was concerning will.
grabbing your phone, you mentally prepare yourself for whatever will, known resident troublemaker, has gotten himself into, and dragged you into by default.
willy: Y/n. I am sloshed. (sent with Siri).
you sigh inwardly, but you can't help the smile that sneaks across your face. this boy. you were sure if you searched up the definition of twenty-one year old drunk boy will's face and golden curls would be front and center on page one.
you: will u be needing assistance ?
you: call me again maybe i'll answer this time
its not like this was entirely new to you. in fact, if you were being honest, it had become something of a pattern, or somewhat of an arrangement between you two. will gets drunk, will loses something important, will realizes he does not in fact know how to get home without assistance, and then, like clockwork, will calls you. you can recall the very first time it happened, back at bc when gabe perreault's sweet dulcet tones took over the phone and politely pleaded you to pick will up after one too many beers.
while you’re not entirely sure when you became the default solution to all of his bad decisions. you assume it comes with the best friend description, as for the last few years between will at the ntdp, late nights at bc, and throughout his rookie season, you two were solid constants in each other's lives. ever since your childhood you've been known as the "will wrangler," nickname a la grace smith.
but you suspect this dependency happened gradually. sometime between helping him move apartments last fall in san jose and the time he called you at midnight because he “accidentally bought too many groceries and they were going to expire.”
either way, the result is the same.
your phone starts ringing again.
you answer before the second ring finishes, somewhat groggy but still alert.
there’s a beat of loud music on the other end. someone yelling (asky maybe?) in the background. then, “y/n?”
his voice is unmistakably drunk. slower than usual, words slightly slurred together. signature drunk will.
you pinch the bridge of your nose as you sit up in bed. “yes. that is my name, that is who you called. where are you.”
“i told you,” he says, like this is obvious.
“you told me you’re ‘slushed’ and ‘snow shed,’” you reply flatly. “unfortunately, neither of those are locations.”
there’s a pause. “oh.” more background noise. someone laughs.
“i’m outside. it's cold. and i think someone stole my jacket. my new one! it's from zara and i was going to wear it to the game on-”
you close your eyes, cutting off the far too long rant about his new jacket. “outside where, will.”
another pause. longer this time. “…the one with the door.” you don't see his face but you know he's smiling.
this little shit. you drop your head back against the pillow. “fantastic.”
he laughs softly, like he’s pleased with himself. “you’re funny when you’re mad.”
you swing your legs out of bed with a sigh, already reaching for the hoodie hanging off your chair.
“i’m tired,” you correct. “and you woke me up at three in the morning.”
“it’s not three,” he argues. you glance at the clock. 2:53 a.m.
he hums thoughtfully, like he’s considering this information. “i did just call to hear your voice but while you're here…can you come get me.”
not a question. not really. just…will.
you pull your hair into a loose ponytail, grabbing your keys off the dresser.
“text me your location then please.”
you stop in the middle of your room. “will.”
“give the phone to someone else.”
you hear muffled shuffling on the other end. voices. someone saying “dude she sounds mad.”
then a familiar voice cuts in.
“hey,” macklin says through the phone, barely containing his laughter. “can you come get your boy.”
you sigh. “what did he do.”
macklin snorts. “nothing illegal.”
that does not reassure you.
“yet,” he adds helpfully.
you rub your forehead. “i’m on my way.”
in the background, you hear will again. “is she coming?”
macklin answers before you can. “yeah, smitty. she’s coming.”
there’s a brief pause. then will’s voice, quieter this time. “told you she would.”
twenty minutes later you’re pulling into the dimly lit parking lot of a bar that looks exactly like every other bar in san jose that caters to hockey players with too much money and not enough sense. neon lights flicker against the windows, music thumping faintly through the walls.
and, right on cue, will smith is sitting on the curb outside the entrance. he looks exactly how you expected.
legs sprawled out in front of him, elbows on his knees, blond curls completely wrecked like he’s been running his hands through them for the last hour. someone has, in fact, stolen his new zara jacket. he’s in a t-shirt with his silver chain peeking out despite the cold, staring down at his dead phone like it personally betrayed him. looking like a kicked puppy.
macklin and a couple of the other guys are standing nearby. macklin spots your car first.
“oh thank god,” he mutters, nudging will with his foot. “your ride’s here.”
will looks up slowly. his face lights up. actually lights up. like someone flipped a switch.
“y/n!” he says, standing up far too quickly for someone in his current state. he wobbles a little. or a lot. macklin grabs his arm before he faceplants.
you roll down the window, smirking. “hello, william. your uber has arrived.”
macklin snorts. “he would not shut up about it.”
will ignores him completely, already making his way toward the passenger side of your car like a very tall, very drunk golden retriever.
you glance back at macklin. “he owe you guys money or something?”
“nah,” macklin says. “just his dignity.”
you laugh, fair, and quickly say your goodbyes.
will struggles, yet eventually climbs into the passenger seat, immediately slumping down like gravity has suddenly increased inside the car.
the second the door shuts, he exhales dramatically. “oh my god.”
you start the car. “what, you drama queen.”
you pull out of the parking lot. “from what.”
he gestures vaguely out the window toward the bar. “they were being mean to me. and stole my jacket.”
you glance over. he’s staring at you now, very seriously. “macklin said i can’t fight a bouncer.”
“…you cannot fight a bouncer.”
“you absolutely could not! you barely get into fights on ice… accept that you're just a lover not a fighter.”
he considers this. “okay maybe not tonight.”
you laugh quietly, shaking your head. there’s a moment of silence before he leans his head against the window. then, slowly, he leans the other way.
until his shoulder bumps yours. and then his head. rests there. you glance down at him briefly.
he says it like that settles the matter. you sigh, but you don’t move him. instead you just keep driving, with the extreme difficulty. you sigh, but amusement settles deeper into you than actual annoyance. who would've thought - at the ripe age of twenty-one you would be playing chauffeur for your passenger princess best friend on a saturday night?
granted, there has been a number of nights where you are the one in the passenger seat, totally passed out and will to the rescue. one of those times was maybe last weekend after your girlfriends suggested getting a margarita. which turned into two. which turned into tequila shots. which turned into will holding your hair back while you became very well acquainted with the bush outside his apartment.
lets just say the arrangement between you two was more than fair.
for a minute, he’s quiet, only the quiet hum of your car and the radio playing softly filling the noise in the car.
then, like the nonstop yapper he is, will starts, “toff started it.”
you blink. “started what.”
“the one about penguins.”
“he said penguins are birds,” he mutters.
“will. penguins are birds.”
you press your lips together.
“i’m not having this conversation with you right now.”
he huffs, offended. “you never take my side!”
“because you are wrong. and usually are wrong.”
you drive for another minute before realizing the car has gone suspiciously quiet. too quiet. you glance over. will is asleep.
head still resting against your shoulder, mouth slightly open, breathing slow and even. mouthbreather.
you shake your head softly. “lightweight.”
by the time you pull into his apartment complex, he’s still out. it takes a few attempts to wake him.
his eyes crack open slowly.
getting him upstairs is a process. a slow, slightly uncoordinated dance involving a lot of leaning and one moment where he almost walks directly into the wall. god, what are they feeding these athletes?
after a while, you finally manage to get him inside his apartment. you think you deserve some sort of medal or nobel peace prize for the athletic feat you just accomplished, as will collapses onto the couch immediately. like a man who has completed a long and exhausting journey. you grab him a glass of water from the kitchen.
when you come back, he’s blinking up at the ceiling, and you're unsure any thoughts are being processed in his mind. “drink this.”
he takes the glass obediently. halfway through, he looks at you. really looks at you. and smiles. soft. a little dazed. “you’re the best.”
you roll your eyes. “oh, i know.”
he shakes his head slightly. “no, like… you are.”
you pause. something in his tone makes you glance back at him. he’s still smiling. eyes half-lidded and pupils blown.
completely, absolutely drunk.
“i’d marry you if i had to,” he mumbles.
you snort. “wow. how romantic. if you had to.”
he nods like he’s said something incredibly profound. “yeah.”
you take the empty glass from his hand and put an advil next to him. “go to sleep, will. don't forget you have practice tomorrow.”
he’s already halfway there. you turn off the lamp on the way out, closing the door quietly behind you. it’s only once you’re back in your car that the words replay in your head.
i’d marry you if i had to.
you laugh softly to yourself, starting the engine. drunk will says a lot of things.
the second time will calls you when he shouldn’t, it’s just after midnight a few weeks later. not 2:47 a.m. not drunk. just… quiet. very unlike him.
your phone buzzes once on the couch beside you while you’re halfway through an episode of something you’re not actually paying attention to. when you glance down at the screen, the name makes your stomach drop just slightly. willy.
for a moment you assume it’s another ride situation. maybe he lost something again. maybe he noticed you stole the fancy mixing bowl from his apartment the other day. maybe he locked himself out of his apartment for the third time this month.
but when you answer, there’s no music. no yelling. no background chaos from teammates. just silence.
his voice is softer than usual. tired and a little bit pained. you immediately sit up a little straighter.
“yeah, here.” you say. “what did you do.”
there’s a small huff on the other end. not quite a laugh. “hey, nothing.”
which, coming from will smith, is suspicious. “okay,” you say slowly. “so why are you calling me at midnight if you didn’t do anything.”
another pause. more silence. then- “just wanted to hear your voice…you busy?”
and just like that, you know. something’s wrong. sometimes you swear you knew will better than he knew himself.
you grab your keys before you even answer. “i’ll be there in ten.”
when you let yourself into his apartment, the first thing you notice is the TV playing game tape. paused mid-play. the second thing you notice is will.
he’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch, back leaning against it, long legs stretched out in front of him. a takeout container sits open beside him, half eaten. there’s another one on the coffee table in front of him. his hair is still wet from a shower.
he doesn’t look up right away when you walk in.
he’s staring at the screen, locked in. you follow his gaze. it’s the same clip looping over and over. him. missing coverage. goal against.
“…will.” he glances over.
his expression shifts slightly when he sees you, like he hadn’t entirely expected you to actually show up even though you always do. “hey.” it's despair and restraint all in one.
you drop your bag on the counter.
“you’ve been watching that the entire time, haven’t you.”
he shrugs, which means yes. you walk over without another word and sit down beside him on the floor.
you know will has always been in his head when he plays, inwardly critiquing every move he makes and overthinking almost everything. it was a flaw, but something you loved about him so much.
for a second neither of you say anything. the TV hums quietly. then you reach forward, grab the remote, and turn it off.
the screen goes black. will immediately protests.
“no.” your answer is resolute.
“it’s midnight,” you say, setting the remote down out of his reach. “you’re not allowed to review game tape at midnight.”
“coach literally told us to.”
“warso did not tell you to spiral on your living room floor at midnight alone.”
he exhales, leaning his head back against the couch. “i feel like shit. i played like shit.”
you nudge his shoulder lightly. “you didn’t.”
he turns his head to look at you. “did you even watch the game?”
shit. you pause, directly caught in the act. meekly adding, “…highlights?”
he groans, but you catch a smile sneaking on his face. bingo.
you grin. “listen, if you wanted emotional support you should’ve called someone who actually understands hockey.”
you bump him again. “excuse you, rude.”
he huffs quietly, but you can see some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
for a few minutes you just sit there. talking about nothing. you steal a dumpling from his takeout container. he complains about it. you ignore him. you then notice how close you are, how side to side your thighs are touching but how neither of you care enough to move.
without really thinking about it, you shift slightly closer and rest your head against his shoulder.
he goes still for half a second. like he noticed. you wonder if it was a little too much, but he doesn’t move away. instead, after a moment, he relaxes again.
and his hand, absentminded, almost unconscious, comes to rest lightly on your knee. it felt right.
neither of you comment on it. neither of you move.
you lean into his touch, greedy for more warm contact between you two. "better?"
he turns his head a little towards you, his face inches away from your own. "much."
you stay like that for a while, just sitting on the floor. the game long forgotten. you try not to overthink it.
the third time will calls you when he shouldn’t, it’s 3:11 in the morning. you almost ignore it.
your phone buzzes against the couch beside you while you’re half asleep under a blanket, some movie long forgotten still playing quietly in the background. you groan, blindly reaching for it, fully expecting one of your girlfriends sending something stupid in your group chat.
instead the screen lights up with a familiar name.
you stare at it, doing a quick fact check. 3:11 a.m. friday. sharks win last night. you smile, yeah, that checks out.
the call stops before you answer. then immediately-
willy: emergency contact
willy: are you still that
you blink. before you can respond, the phone rings again, this time a facetime. you answer, propping your phone up on a pillow next to you and grinning. “will.”
the response is immediate. “hi.”
as he comes into frame, you notice he is very drunk. not just tipsy. not even “i’ve had a few.” extremely drunk: splotchy cherub cheeks, messy hair, pupils blown and all.
in the background there’s music, someone yelling, and macklin laughing next to him as will struggles to keep the phone up.
luckily for him, you were in a good mood. “william charles…are you drunk?” you ask.
“no.” a pause, but you see him immediately giggle.
then macklin’s voice somewhere in the distance, a flash of his brown hair. “dude you’re sitting on the floor.”
you laugh. “get off the floor smitty. where are you?”
“here i'll show you." the camera was flipped to the back to show the bar but all you could really see was will's legs getting up from the floor after your scolding.
more shuffling. then the sound of the phone changing hands. macklin appears again, with ekky next to him.
“heyyyyy y/n” they're both smiling, dazed, also obviously quite drunk.
mack starts, “can you come get him, he's starting to go up to random people here and yap about his goal earlier.” you hear a very close will shout "hey!"
“did he lose something again.”
macklin snorts. “his ability to stand.”
you grab your keys. “i’m on my way.”
macklin laughs softly, looking at ekky. “told you.”
and somewhere behind him you hear will say, very proudly, “she always comes.”
this time, when you arrive at the bar, he’s not outside. walking inside, the first thing you see is a booth in the back corner filled with hockey players who absolutely should not be trusted in public past midnight.
and right in the middle of them, will smith. sprawled across the booth like a cat who has fully claimed the furniture. his blond curls are wrecked, his silver chain glinting against the low bar lights, and he’s mid-story about something (probably retelling his goal story for the 30th time) when macklin spots you walking over.
“oh thank god,” macklin says.
will turns. his entire face changes. “y/n!” like you’re the best thing he’s seen all night. which is saying something considering the bar has neon lights and tequila. will was drunk and still looked good, how was this fair?
you stop beside the booth, crossing your arms, feigning strictness. “hello william, up to no good i see?”
he beams at you. “you came.”
“that seems to be a pattern.”
macklin leans back, grinning. “he called you three times.”
you look at will. “three.”
will shrugs. “emergency.”
“what emergency exactly?”
macklin snorts into his drink. you shake your head.
“okay. up.” will immediately obeys, the compliant man he is.
he stands up, and then immediately wraps you in a hug. a full bear hug. arms around your shoulders, face dropping against the side of your head like you’re a pillow.
you freeze, taking in will's cologne and his tight grip around your body. sometimes, you tend to forget how absolutely clingy and needy will gets when he's super drunk. exhibit a.
“hi,” he mumbles into your hair.
macklin loses it behind you. “dude.”
you shove lightly at his chest, but not enough to actually move him. “okay, hi. personal space.”
“no.” he squeezes you again, almost lifting your smaller frame off of the ground.
you blink. “…you saw me like five hours ago. i went to your game. you drove me home.”
you finally manage to pry him off of you. mostly. one of his hands stays hooked around your wrist and the other on your lower back like he forgot how arms work. the warmth of his touch makes electric shocks course through your body.
eventually, you get your thoughts in order. “we’re leaving,” you say to the group.
macklin salutes you from the booth. “godspeed.”
the car ride is worse this time. because drunk will has decided you are apparently his emotional support human.
five minutes in, he’s holding onto the sleeve of your hoodie with one hand with a grip like a baby.
ten minutes in, his knee is somehow pressed against yours.
by fifteen minutes, his head is on your shoulder again.
“hmm.” his drunk mumble sounds extremely sleepy.
you sigh. “that’s not the point.”
he hums quietly, clearly not listening. for a moment the car is quiet. then he speaks again, softly. like it’s just a thought passing through. “y/n, you know you’re my favorite person right.”
your hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “…what.”
he doesn’t even look up. still half leaning against you.
“like if i had to call someone.” he nudges your shoulder slightly with his forehead.
your stomach flips. you tell yourself immediately, he’s drunk. drunk will says things. drunk will always says things. things sober will doesn't actually mean.
still, you hate that your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. “that’s only because you make bad decisions..and i'm always there to help you.”
he shakes his head lazily. “no.”
you don’t respond to that. instead you pull into his apartment complex parking lot.
“okay,” you say. “inside.”
he groans dramatically. “you’re bossy.”
he smiles slightly. “i like it.” freak.
getting him upstairs takes longer this time, mostly because he keeps leaning against you. like gravity has decided you’re the safest place in the room.
when you finally get him inside his apartment he makes it to his bedroom and collapses, albeit very dramatically. you bring him water. he drinks half of it, then looks up at you. eyes softer than ever, a little unfocused.
you roll your eyes. “yeah, yeah.”
he shakes his head. “no. like—”
he pauses, clearly searching for words. “you just are.”
you don’t answer. you just take the empty glass from his hand.
he doesn’t answer right away, and you're unsure he's even heard you. instead, just as you turn to leave and pat yourself on the back for a job well done, his fingers catch loosely around your wrist, not enough to stop you, really. just enough to make you look back at his form on his bed..
“don’t go yet,” he says, voice low and heavy with sleep and alcohol. his words are softer now, less sloppy, like even drunk he means this part. “stay.”
you glance down at his hand around your wrist, then back at his face. his curls are flattened on one side from the pillow, cheeks still a little flushed, blue eyes half-lidded and pleading in a way that would’ve been unfair even if he weren’t will.
which, unfortunately, he is.
“will,” you say carefully, trying not to let your heart get ahead of itself. “you’re drunk.”
he blinks slowly, considering that. “yeah.”
despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. “that’s not what i meant.”
he doesn’t let go. instead, he shifts further onto his side, making space beside him with a sleepy pat to the mattress. “just for a little,” he mumbles. “please.”
you know you should say no. you absolutely, definitely should say no.
he’s drunk, and clingy, and warm, and looking at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t figured out how to ask yet. this is dangerous territory, the exact kind of thing that gets messy. the exact kind of thing that makes best friends start reading too much into half-meant words and late-night moments. something you and will never did.
“…for a little,” you repeat, mostly to yourself.
his mouth curves, small and sleepy. “yeah.”
you sigh like this is a burden, like this is an inconvenience, like your heart isn’t already halfway across the room and you made your decision the second he asked.
“fine,” you murmur. “but if you throw up on me, i’m actually never speaking to you again.”
will smiles, all soft and dopey. “you love me too much for that.”
the words hit harder than they should. you ignore that too. it seems like recently you've been doing a lot of ignoring feelings when it comes to your best friend.
kicking off your shoes and stealing one of will's old bc shirts, you slide onto the very edge of the bed on top of the comforter, fully prepared to keep as much space between you as possible.
that plan lasts all of three seconds.
because the second you’re there, will turns toward you and immediately tucks himself in close, one arm slinging loosely over your waist like it belongs there. his face presses into your shoulder, breath warm through the fabric of your shirt.
“personal space, remember?.”
“no,” he mumbles, already half asleep again. “you’re staying.”
like that explains everything. like that settles it. somehow, with him, it usually does.
you then stare up at the dark ceiling, listening to the soft sound of his breathing evening out against you. unfortunately for you, every point of contact feels way too noticeable. his hand resting warm at your side. his knee nudged between yours. the weight of him, familiar and not, all at once.
it should feel strange. it doesn’t. that’s maybe the worst part.
slowly, carefully, like you don’t want to spook either of you, your hand lifts and comes to rest in his hair. it just looked so soft and touchable.
his response is immediate, even half-asleep. he leans in closer with a quiet hum, curling into you like he’s been waiting for it.
something tight twists in your chest.
“you’re such a menace,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.
he only breathes deeper, asleep now for real. eventually, your eyes drift shut too.
the next morning, you wake up to sunlight.
for one disorienting, horrifying second, all you register is warmth and weight and a body much too close to yours. you bask in it for a moment, how wonderful it feels to wake up like this.
then memory quickly rushes back in. will. bar. macklin. emotional support. favorite person.
you blink the sleep from your eyes and glance down.
will is still asleep, sprawled halfway on top of you like at some point in the night he decided proximity was not enough and simply committed to full contact. one arm is wrapped around your middle, his face buried in the crook of your neck, hair a complete disaster against your cheek.
you should move. you don’t. instead, you lie there for a second much too long, just… looking at him.
at the slow rise and fall of his chest. the faint crease between his brows even in sleep. the way his lips are parted slightly, completely relaxed. the way he’s holding onto you like it’s instinctual.
like it’s easy, like you belong here.
your stomach drops. oh, no. no no no. absolutely not.
because suddenly all the little things from the last few months come rushing back with humiliating clarity. the midnight phone call just to hear your voice. his hand on your knee on the floor by the couch. the way he always calls you, and you to him.
the way he always looks for you first. the dumb, drunk things he says that you’ve been laughing off because that was easier than actually thinking about them.
i’d marry you if i had to.you’re my favorite person.it’s always you.
your face heats all at once. you are not doing this.
you are not becoming one of those girls who falls for her best friend because he’s clingy and affectionate and looks at her too long and says things he probably won’t even remember in the morning.
except, except you already have. that’s the problem.
the realization settles over you all at once, quiet and undeniable: you like will. not in the casual, “he’s objectively attractive and occasionally very charming when he wants to be” way. not in the easy, best-friend affection way. in the bad way. in the dangerous way.
in the way that makes your heart trip when he calls and your stomach flip when he leans on you and your whole body go warm at the idea that maybe, maybe, some part of him means it when he says it’s always you.
in the way that destroys year-long friendships.
you stare at the ceiling again, like maybe it’ll offer solutions. it does not. all it offers is morning light and the crushing weight of your own stupidity.
because of course. of course you’d fall for will smith. and of course it would happen like this, half asleep in his bed, with him clinging to you like you’re something he can’t quite let go of.
and of course, because the universe hates you, he chooses that exact moment to stir.
his grip around your waist tightens for half a second before he blinks awake slowly, head lifting just enough to look at you.
there’s a beat, and for a moment, fear courses through your body. every wrong scenario plays through your mind: he knows, he's going to see right through you, he's going to hate you.
yet, his sleepy expression doesn’t change. “morning,” he mumbles, morning voice rough and gravelly. shit, now you were even finding his sleepy voice attractive. this was so incredibly bad.
you clear your throat, praying your face doesn’t look as hot as it feels. “morning.”
he squints at you, then glances down at the way he’s basically wrapped around you. “…oh.”
you let out a breathy laugh that sounds nowhere near as normal as you want it to. “yeah. oh.”
but instead of panicking, instead of jerking away or acting weird, his mouth just pulls into the smallest, sleepiest smile. “you stayed.”
simple, dangerous. you hate how much that does to you.
“you asked,” you manage, but it's actually the only words you manage to get out.
he hums, like that makes perfect sense, then drops his head right back to your shoulder for one more second like he’s not fully ready to be awake yet.
“good,” he says into your skin.
and that, that is what really ruins you. because later, when you’re back in your own apartment replaying every second of the night before with a coffee going cold in your hand, there’s no use denying it anymore.
you have, very inconveniently, absolutely caught feelings for your best friend, and you have no idea what to do with that.
the fourth time will calls you when he shouldn’t and the one time it actually matters, you don’t answer. which, in retrospect, is maybe the entire problem.
it happens two weeks later on a random tuesday afternoon. nothing dramatic. no bar. no post-game chaos. no tequila shots or macklin yelling in the background.
just your phone buzzing on the kitchen counter while you’re halfway through answering work emails. you glance at the screen.
you hesitate for a second. not because you don’t want to answer. just because lately after your little realization…things have felt different ever since that night.
ever since waking up in his bed with his arm wrapped around you like it belonged there. ever since, for the last 14 days, you've been making excuses upon excuses up to will on why you haven't been able to hang or make it to any games.
so instead of answering immediately like you always do, you let it ring out. your phone goes quiet. you tell yourself it’s fine, that he’s probably bored. or needs help with groceries again. or wants to argue about something ridiculous like whether penguins count as birds.
then it rings again. still will. you silence it. twenty seconds later, it rings again.
you stare at it this time, three missed calls, which would normally mean something. but you sigh, grabbing your phone and typing instead.
you: if drunk, drink water and go to bed LOL
ok, cool, casual. you toss the phone back onto the counter, think about possibly going on do not disturb, and go back to your emails for about thirty seconds. then your phone rings again.
this time, macklin. your stomach drops immediately, shit maybe it was bad.
you answer on the first ring, “hello?”
“hey,” macklin says quickly.
he doesn’t sound drunk. which is worse.
you stand up before he even finishes the sentence. “no,” you say slowly. “why.”
there’s a brief pause on the other end. “he tried calling you.”
three missed calls. your chest tightens, and your mind goes to the worst.
“what happened? is will ok?”
“nothing terrible,” macklin says quickly. “just—he took a hit in practice. shoulder. trainers checked him out but he kinda freaked out after.”
“he kept saying he needed to call you.”
your heart stutters. “where is he.”
“locker room hallway,” macklin says. “he didn’t wanna go home yet.”
you’re already grabbing your keys.
the arena is mostly empty by the time you get there. practice ended an hour ago. the hallway outside the locker room is quiet except for the distant echo of equipment being packed away somewhere down the hall.
you spot him immediately.
will is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, long legs stretched out in front of him.
not drunk. not smiling like usual. just alone and quiet… staring at the wall across from him and thinking. his shoulder is wrapped in ice and athletic tape peeks out from under his t-shirt sleeve. his curls are still damp from a shower, pushed messily off his forehead.
he looks up when he hears your panicked footsteps. the second his eyes land on you, something in his expression shifts.
you stop a few feet away, crossing your arms even though your chest still feels tight. “you could’ve called literally anyone,” you say.
he watches you for a second, then shrugs lightly. “i did.”
“you.” the hallway suddenly feels very quiet, the clatter of the equipment very far away. you open your mouth, then close it again. because he’s right, he did call someone, you just didn’t answer.
“macklin told me what happened,” you say finally, stepping closer. “how bad is it.”
“it’s fine,” he says quickly. “just tweaked it.”
you glance at the ice pack on his shoulder, and you're both thinking about his injury that took him out a few months ago. you hesitate for a second before sitting down next to him against the wall.
neither of you speak for a moment. the silence is heavy.
eventually you bump your shoulder lightly against his good one.
he huffs out a small laugh, and it was good to hear his giggle again. “i panicked.”
“you get hit every game.”
“yeah but-” he pauses, then shrugs again. “i don’t know.”
you glance at him. “you don’t know?”
“ii just…” he runs a hand through his hair. “wanted to talk to you.”
your stomach flips. dangerous territory, but sober this time. you try to keep your tone light.
“that’s what teammates are for.”
he looks at you then. really looks at you.
that lands somewhere deep in your chest, and this feeling is exactly why you've been avoiding him for the last two weeks. you look away quickly.
for a moment neither of you move. the hallway is quiet except for the hum of the arena lights overhead. it feels strangely private, like the entire building has decided to give the two of you space.
will nudges your knee again. a small habit. one he’s had for years. you don’t realize how much it affects you until now.
“you know,” you say after a second, forcing some of your usual teasing back into your voice, “this is technically the fourth time.”
he glances at you. “fourth time what.”
“that you’ve called me in some kind of crisis.”
he snorts quietly. “this was not a crisis.”
“you panic-called me three times.”
“okay,” he says defensively. “maybe a little crisis.”
you tilt your head. “and i didn’t even answer the first time.”
he shrugs, like that part never mattered. “it never mattered how many times i called, you still came.”
the simplicity of it makes something in your chest tighten. you look down at your hands.
“yeah,” you say quietly. “i guess i did.”
another small silence settles between you. “seriously though,” you add, trying to sound casual and failing slightly, “you should probably update your emergency contact.”
“because apparently i’m unreliable now,” you say. “three missed calls...and mack had to call me today.”
he studies you for a second, then shakes his head. “no.”
“no.” he adjusts the ice pack on his shoulder, then looks back at you.
“i like my emergency contact.”
your heart does an unfortunate little flip. you try to roll your eyes, but the smile still comes out. “you like having someone who will pick you up from bars and stop you from fighting bouncers.”
then he says something that changes everything. “but mostly i like that it’s you.”
he makes the words so simple, so easy. like he’s just stating a fact he’s known for a while. you feel suddenly very aware of the way your shoulder is still pressed against his. the way his knee is touching yours. the way he’s looking at you like this conversation means more than either of you is pretending it does.
he tilts his head slightly. “yeah?”
your brain runs through about a hundred possible exits. jokes about how his hair looks. deflections. anything that keeps this from becoming real.
but then you remember the missed calls. and the way he looked sitting on the floor when you walked in. and the fact that every time something happens: good, bad, stupid, drunk, he calls you. always you.
so instead you say the only thing that feels honest. “why do you always call me.”
he blinks like the question surprises him. then he lets out a small breath. “you really don’t know?”
you shake your head. his mouth twitches slightly.
“y/n.” the way he says your name feels different than all the times before, softer. “it’s always been you.”
your heart stops. or at least it feels like it does.
you laugh weakly. “that’s not an answer.”
he shifts slightly so he’s facing you more fully now.
“okay,” he says. “then here’s the answer.”
he looks a little nervous now, and you’ve never seen that before. not from him, not cocky professional player will smith.
“i call you because you always pick up,” he says. “even when you pretend you’re annoyed.”
you open your mouth to argue, but he keeps going. “and because you show up. every time.”
“and because when something happens, anything, i want to tell you first.”
he shrugs lightly. “kind of figured that meant something.”
he cuts you off. “i like you.”
just like that, no dramatic buildup, no grand speech. just will smith, your best friend, sitting on the floor of the empty arena hallway, looking slightly nervous and very sincere.
you blink, “you like me.”
he smiles a little. “like i call you when i’m drunk, and when i’m freaking out, and when i’m bored, and when i probably shouldn’t. im pretty sure i like you a lot. and i have for basically only thought about you for the last 6 months.”
your brain is still catching up. “that’s… a lot of calls.”
“yeah,” he says. “good thing you’re my emergency contact.”
you laugh before you can stop yourself. “that is absolutely not what that means.”
he leans a little closer. “maybe not.”
your heart is beating so loud you’re convinced he can hear it. you stare at him for one second longer. then you sigh, and you shake your head.
“this is so inconvenient.”
“because,” you say, rubbing your forehead, “i realized i liked you like two weeks ago and was planning to ignore it forever.”
you immediately regret saying that. you wince, “…what.”
you groan. “oh my god, don't make it a whole thing.”
his grin spreads slowly, as you see his bunny teeth come out, dangerously. “wow.”
“will please do not make that face.”
“the ‘i’m winning’ face?”
“there is no winning here!”
you shove his shoulder lightly, and he laughs. then the laughter fades into something quieter. he looks at you again.
“so,” he says after a second.
the air is comfortable but charged with something new, and you're unsure on how to proceed with this new territory. you rub the back of your neck. “this is weird.”
he huffs out a quiet laugh. “a little.”
“we’ve been friends for years,” you say. “and suddenly you’re just casually dropping the ‘i’ve liked you for six months’ thing.”
“sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t look very sorry. “should i have made a powerpoint?”
you shove his shoulder lightly. “don’t push it. don't take that one good shoulder for granted”
“hey,” he says quietly. you glance back at him.
you blink. “…i’m literally already right here.”
your stomach flips, and the softness of his voice makes desire run through your body. "look who's bossy now." but you shift anyway, turning slightly so you’re facing him more fully.
the movement puts you closer than before, close enough that you can see the faint freckles across his nose, close enough that you notice the way his gaze flicks down to your lips for half a second before coming back up.
neither of you say anything. will reaches out slowly, like he’s giving you time to change your mind.
his fingers brush your wrist first, then slide down to lace loosely through your hand.
your breath catches, and he notices immediately.
his thumb brushes across the back of your hand. slow, absentminded, like he’s been doing it forever. another second passes, then you tilt your head a little.
“are you going to keep staring at me like that or…”
his eyebrow lifts. “or what.”
that does it. the corner of his mouth lifts slightly in a smirk. “thought you’d never ask.”
his hand comes up to your cheek, warm and careful, like he’s still half expecting you to pull away. you don’t. so he leans in.
the first kiss is soft, almost cautious. like both of you are still adjusting to the fact that this is real. like you weren't just two best friends who admitted their feelings to each other just seconds ago.
his lips are warm, a little hesitant at first, but when you tilt closer, when your hand slides up into the curls at the back of his neck that you love so much, something in him relaxes.
he kisses you again. deeper this time. much more certain. like he’s been holding back for months and finally decided he doesn’t have to anymore.
you let out a quiet laugh into the kiss when his other hand settles at your waist, pulling you a little closer.
he pulls back slightly, smiling. “what.”
you shake your head, a little breathless. “nothing.”
“no,” he says, forehead bumping lightly against yours. “what.”
“i just,” you say, trying to catch your breath, “cannot believe this started because you’re bad at making responsible life decisions.”
“you panic-called me three times.”
“and now you’re kissing me in a hallway.”
“seems like a good outcome.”
you laugh softly. then he kisses you again, quick and warm, like he just wanted another one. when he pulls back this time, you’re both smiling. the tension that’s been sitting between you for months finally gone.
you lean your shoulder against his again.
“next time something happens,” you say, nudging his knee lightly, “you should probably just text.”
“calling worked out pretty well for me.”
you roll your eyes, but your fingers slide back into his without thinking.
later that night, your phone buzzes on will's kitchen counter while you’re standing a few feet away. you glance down at it.
you look up at him from across the room. he’s already watching you from the couch, mischievous grin creeping across his face.
he shrugs. “just checking if you’d answer.”
you roll your eyes, but you do. and somehow, that’s always been the point.
a/n: sharks win later I CAN FEEL IT
