Out of Frame
summary: Hired to photograph the Kraken, (y/n) finds her biggest challenge isn’t the job; it’s Vince Dunn.
warnings: SFW! | fluff | enemies to lovers | not properly edited | implied sex | language | families used to be neighbors
pairing: vince dunn x reader
a/n: this is my first fic posted on tumblr… ive been writing fics since maybe 2013…
You’ve finally landed your dream job: photographing for the Seattle Kraken. The catch? The one player you can’t stand, Vince Dunn, happens to be right in front of your lens. You’ve known him for years, your families were neighbors, and he’s always been the same: cocky, smug, and determined to get under your skin.
Your first big assignment is an early morning practice shoot, the rink still quiet except for the scrape of skates and echo of pucks against the boards. You’re bundled in a sweatshirt, camera raised, determined to prove yourself. But Vince? He’s skating wide, turning his back, blocking his face with his stick, going out of his way to make every shot unusable.
Finally, you lower your camera, glare cutting through the foggy chill of the rink.
“Are you seriously doing this on purpose?” you demand.
He skates to a stop right in front of you, grin tugging at his mouth.
“What’s the matter, princess? Afraid I’ll break your little camera?”
You stared at him. No matter how hard you tried, everything, everything Vince did, got under your skin.
“You know,” you said, tightening your grip on the camera strap, “some of us are actually trying to work here.”
He leaned casually on his stick, the picture of arrogance. “Work? Doesn’t seem that hard to point and click. Maybe you’re just too focused on me.”
Your jaw tightened. Of course he’d say that. Vince Dunn, in all his smug glory, acting like the universe revolved around him. It was the same way he’d been when you were kids, snatching the last soda at neighborhood cookouts, teasing you every chance he got. Only now, the stage was bigger, the stakes higher, and his smirk even more insufferable.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, lifting the camera again and deliberately angling it past him to capture another player. “Trust me, you’re the last person I want in my frame.”
The roar of the crowd was deafening, the electric blue of Climate Pledge Arena washing over the ice in a dizzying glow. You crouched low along the glass, camera in hand, the constant click click keeping rhythm with the fast pace of the game. This was your first home game shoot, and you were determined not to mess it up.
The Kraken were playing hard, bodies slamming into the boards right in front of you, sticks clashing, the puck darting across the ice like a ghost. You did what you always did, focus on the game, on capturing the grit, the speed, the emotion. Except your lens kept drifting back to him.
From the moment the puck dropped, he’d been different. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched, movements sharper, almost reckless. You zoomed in on him, snapping frame after frame as his frustration grew more obvious, slamming his stick against the boards after a missed shot, barking at a teammate when a pass didn’t connect, glaring at the refs after a call didn’t go his way.
It wasn’t just anger; it was unraveling.
Your chest tightened in spite of yourself. You knew that look. You’d seen it on his face before, years ago, when his temper used to flare at backyard hockey games, when losing meant more than it should. He hated losing. Hated not being in control.
The camera clicked, catching the exact moment he ripped his helmet off on the bench, running a hand through sweat-damp hair, scowling at the ice like it had betrayed him.
“Jesus, Vince,” you muttered under your breath, lowering the camera for a moment. He was coming apart right in front of you.
When the horn sounded to end the period, he skated toward the tunnel, slamming his stick against the boards on the way; it now in two pieces. His chest heaved, mouth guard hanging loose from the corner of his lips as he caught his breath. And then, his eyes found yours through the glass. Even with thousands of fans screaming around you, it felt like the world narrowed. His stare was sharp, burning, like he knew you’d been watching him the whole time.
You lifted your camera on instinct, snapping one last shot. The shutter echoed in your ears.
His glare deepened, but this time, you swore there was something else there too, something darker, something vulnerable. Then he disappeared down the tunnel, leaving you with nothing but the click of your camera and the pounding of your own heartbeat.
The arena was quieter now, the crowd’s cheers replaced by the distant hum of Zambonis and the muffled voices of staff breaking down equipment. You crouched near the tunnel, packing your lenses and stowing your camera into its padded case. Your shoulders ached, and your head buzzed with the urgency of what still needed to be done, editing, uploading, making sure the best shots reached the boss before morning.
The heavy locker room door swung open behind you, the clang echoing down the hall. You didn’t bother looking; players always filtered through after games, and the last thing you wanted was small talk. You just wanted to get back to your tiny apartment and finish your work before exhaustion took over.
A pair of footsteps drew closer, steady and heavy against the concrete floor. You ignored them, fumbling with your bag’s zipper. The player dropped their hockey bag.
“You always this nosey, or do you just have it out for me?”
The voice froze you in place. Low, gravelly from shouting on the ice all night, unmistakably Vince.
You exhaled slowly through your nose and kept your eyes on your bag. “Pretty sure it’s part of my job to take photos of the game, Vince.”
There was a beat of silence, then the shuffle of him leaning against the wall just a few feet away. You could feel his eyes on you even without turning.
“Yeah? Funny, felt like your lens was glued to me.” His tone was sharp, but underneath it was that same frayed edge you’d seen on the ice.
Finally, you glanced up. His hair was damp, curling at the edges, a plain hoodie pulled over broad shoulders and hanging loose over joggers.
“You broke your stick in half and chewed out half your line,” you shot back. “What was I supposed to do, not document the meltdown?”
His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a snarl. “Careful, princess. You’re talking like you know me.”
“I do,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Better than I want to.”
The air between you thickened, the weight of shared history pressing in, the years of neighborhood games, endless arguments, and that maddening way he always found a way to get under your skin.
Vince pushed off the wall, taking a slow step closer. His eyes flicked down to your camera bag, then back to your face. “Yeah,” he murmured, quieter now, “that’s the problem.”
You shoved the last lens into your bag, but your hands were shaking. His words scraped at you, grating against nerves already frayed. Forgetting half your stuff, you stood up so fast the chair behind you squealed against the concrete.
“What is your problem, Vince?” The words came out sharp, louder than you intended, but you didn’t care. Your chest burned with it, years of swallowed irritation finally spilling out. “Why are you such an asshole to me? Huh? I am literally just doing my job,” a breath. “and in case you forgot, that job includes photographing the entire team. Which means you. Whether you like it or not.”
He blinked, but you weren’t done. Your voice shook, not with fear, but fury.
“You need to stop acting like some whiny baby every time I so much as point my camera in your direction. I don’t have the energy for your bullshit. Grow up, Dunn.”
For a moment, he just stared at you. No smirk, no smart ass reply, nothing. The silence stretched until it made your pulse hammer harder in your throat.
Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “There she is,” he said softly, almost like he’d been waiting for you to snap. “Knew you couldn’t keep that buttoned up professional act forever.”
You clenched your fists. “You think this is a game?”
“Everything’s a game,” he shot back, finally stepping closer. His jaw was tight, eyes dark, but beneath the edge of arrogance there was something else, something rawer, something you hadn’t seen since you were kids. “And you’ve been playing it with me for years.”
He tilted his head, studying you, the faintest trace of his mouth guard still clenched in his hand. “Tell me, princess, if you hate me so much, why can’t you stop looking?”
Your breath caught, heat rushing to your face. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Am I?” His voice was low, measured, but his eyes were searching you like he already knew the answer. He took another step, closing the space until you could feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint trace of sweat and cologne clinging to his hoodie.
You hated that your pulse jumped. Hated it even more that he seemed to notice, the corner of his mouth tugging just slightly higher.
“Stop—” You forced yourself back a step, your shoulder brushing the cold cinderblock wall. “Don’t twist this. I look because it’s my job. You’re not special. You’re not—”
“Not what?” he pressed, his tone rougher now, like your words scraped something raw in him.
Your throat tightened. The words tangled, messy and unsteady, and that only made you angrier. “Not worth the attention.”
For the first time, his smirk faltered. Just a flicker, but you caught it. The guard slipped, the arrogance wavering into something sharp and unguarded, something almost wounded. His mouth guard shifted in his hand as he clenched his fist around it, jaw tightening.
“You sure about that?” he asked finally, quieter this time.
The weight of it hung between you, heavy enough that you almost dropped your bag just to break it.
You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes away, but it was too late, he’d seen the hesitation.
Vince stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like he was giving you time to push him away. His hoodie brushed your arm, his height shadowing you against the wall. Every nerve in your body lit up, screaming at you to move, to shove him back, to say something, anything, but your feet stayed rooted.
“You don’t even believe yourself,” he murmured, voice low, meant only for you. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then snapped back up, sharp and unrelenting. “You never did.”
Your pulse thundered. “Don’t,” you managed, but it came out more like a whisper than a warning.
He tilted his head, studying you like he used to when you were kids, right before he’d deliver the perfect insult to make you snap. Only this time, he didn’t tease. He leaned in, testing the space, his breath warm against your cheek.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice tight, every word strung with tension. “Really tell me, and I will.”
You froze, your hands clenched at your sides. For years you’d told yourself you hated him. Hated his smirk, his arrogance, the way he always got under your skin. And yet here he was, so close you could feel his heartbeat thrumming just as frantically as yours, and for once he wasn’t cocky. He wasn’t smug. He was waiting.
Your breath hitched, caught between defiance and something far more dangerous. You wanted to shove him back, wanted to spit out another insult, but your body betrayed you, rooted, waiting, trembling with the weight of the moment.
“Vince—” His name barely left your lips before he moved.
The space between you vanished in a single heartbeat. His mouth pressed against yours, not rough the way you expected, but firm, deliberate, a question asked in the form of a kiss. His hand braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in, the other hovering at your side like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.
Heat surged through you, messy and uninvited, flooding every nerve. Your camera bag slipped from your shoulder, thudding to the ground, but you barely registered it. All you felt was him, warm, solid, overwhelming.
When he pulled back, it was only an inch, his breath brushing your lips, his eyes burning into yours. There was no smirk this time, no cocky line ready on his tongue. Just raw, unguarded honesty that rattled you more than anything he’d ever said.
“Still think you hate me?” he asked softly, almost taunting, but laced with something more fragile underneath.
·✶·
It had gone on like this for months, this messy, undefined thing between you and Vince. You weren’t dating. But you weren’t nothing, either.
It had to stay a secret, of course. The risk of someone from the team, or worse, your boss, finding out was too high. So most of the time, he kept his distance, acting like you were just another staff member with a camera in hand. At practices or games, he’d skate past you without so much as a glance. But you’d learned to recognize the cracks in his façade. The little ways he let you know he saw you.
Some days, it was the way he’d deliberately make your job harder, skating wide, turning away, giving you that infuriating smirk through the glass, just to get a rise out of you. Other days, it was him changing out of his gear faster than anyone else so he could linger near the tunnel, waiting until you were the last one packing up before slipping a low, “Need a ride home?”
And then there were the nights. The ones where your doorbell rang and you opened it to find him standing there with a paper bag of takeout, his hair damp, hoodie slouched low, that restless look in his eyes. He’d claim he just didn’t feel like being alone, but you both knew better.
Those nights ended with the two of you curled up on your couch, the glow of the TV flickering across his face as you shared bites of noodles or pizza, pretending for a little while that things were simple. That it was normal. But the pretending never lasted long.
Because inevitably, his arm would slide around your shoulders, pulling you against him. His mouth would find yours, warm and insistent, until the movie became nothing more than background noise. And God, Vince Dunn was a good kisser.
He kissed like he had something to prove, like every press of his mouth against yours was meant to convince you he wasn’t the same boy who used to drive you crazy. His weight pressed into you as he crowded you into the cushions, his lips trailing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, leaving heat in their wake. One of his hands gripped your hip, holding you still like you might slip away if he let go, while the other tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp against his mouth.
A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he buried his face in your neck. And in those moments, there was no team, no job, no rivalry, just Vince, kissing you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.
·✶·
It was supposed to be just another practice. You were crouched low by the boards, lens trained on the players as they flew up and down the ice. Same rhythm as always; click, adjust, click. Keep your head down, get the shots, pretend you didn’t feel the burn of a certain defenseman’s gaze sliding toward you every other shift.
But today, Vince wasn’t subtle. Not even a little.
Every time he touched the puck, his head snapped up as if to make sure you were watching. He made bigger hits than necessary, jaw tight when he slammed another guy into the glass just a few feet from where you were kneeling. When he scored during a scrimmage drill, he turned, chest heaving, mouth guard dangling, and looked directly at you before skating back to the bench.
Your cheeks heated, and you ducked behind your camera like it was a shield. He was going to get you both caught.
Apparently, you weren’t the only one who noticed.
From the bench, Jared McCann leaned forward, smirking as he tapped his stick against Vince’s shin pads. “You gonna play hockey today, Dunn, or just keep trying to impress the photographer?”
Vince shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Shut the fuck up, Canner.”
Jared only laughed, low and knowing, leaning back against the boards like he’d just uncovered the best secret of the season. “What? I’m just saying… every time she moves, your head moves. Kinda obvious, man.”
You froze where you knelt, heart lurching into your throat. The click of your shutter suddenly sounded far too loud.
Vince muttered something under his breath, yanking his helmet back on with a snap, but not before you saw the flush creeping up his neck. Then he shoved off the bench and flew back into the drill with twice the aggression, skating like he had to burn the evidence off him.
The whistle finally blew, ending practice. Helmets clattered to the floor, skates scraped across cement, the usual chaos of guys peeling off sweaty gear. You stayed behind the glass, gathering your things, but you could still feel the weight of Vince’s stare every few minutes as he unlaced his skates.
Jared was the first to pounce.
He dropped down on the bench beside Vince, towel slung over his shoulder, grinning like a cat who’d just caught a mouse. “So… you gonna ask her out, or just keep pretending you don’t look like a lovesick idiot every time she’s around?”
Vince froze mid-motion, his skate half-off. “The fuck are you talking about?”
Jared leaned closer, dropping his voice but not his smirk. “C’mon, Dunn. You’re about as subtle as a fire alarm. The way you look at her? Dead giveaway. She’s got you wrapped up, man.”
Vince’s jaw clenched. He yanked off the skate, shoving it harder than necessary into his bag. “Drop it.”
But of course, that was blood in the water.
Another teammate, Eberle this time, piped up from across the room. “What’s this? Dunn finally caught feelings?” He smirked, lacing his sneakers. “About time, kid. Thought you were married to your stick.”
The laughter rippled through the locker room. Vince’s ears went red, his head snapping up. “I said drop it,” he growled, sharper now, and the edge in his tone quieted most of the room.
But Jared only chuckled. “Relax, man. Nobody’s judging you. She’s hot. Can’t blame you for—”
The look Vince shot him could’ve leveled him on the ice. His fists flexed at his sides, knuckles white. “Shut. Up.”
For a moment, the room went still. Then, as quickly as it started, the noise of the locker room picked back up, everyone deciding not to poke the bear further.
Vince shoved the rest of his gear into his bag and slung it over his shoulder, storming out before anyone else could get another word in.
But Jared just sat there, shaking his head with that same smug grin. “Definitely in deep,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.
Because as soon as Vince was out in the hall, his shoulders sagged, his mind already racing. How the hell was he supposed to keep this thing quiet if his teammates could already see right through him?
Your evening was quiet. Takeout containers were scattered on your coffee table, the TV murmuring in the background. You’d just finished editing a batch of photos when a knock rattled your apartment door, sharp, impatient, familiar.
You didn’t even have to look through the peephole.
When you opened it, Vince was standing there, hoodie tugged low, eyes still stormy from earlier. His duffel bag hung off his shoulder like he hadn’t even bothered to drop it off first.
He didn’t let you finish. He pushed inside, kicking the door shut behind him, bag thudding to the floor. His hand slid into your hair, the kiss he pressed against your mouth almost desperate, all teeth and heat.
You barely managed to gasp against him, fingers curling into his sweatshirt. “Bad practice?” you teased breathlessly.
His forehead rested against yours, his chest heaving. “They won’t shut the hell up about you.”
Your lips parted, surprise flickering across your face. “Who won’t?”
“My teammates. Jared. Ebs. All of them.” He groaned, pulling back just enough to run a hand over his face, the other gripping your hip tight like he needed the anchor. “They’re already onto me. They know I’m… fuck—” His words trailed off as he searched your eyes, raw and conflicted.
“Onto what?” you pushed, though your heart was already racing, because you knew.
“That I can’t keep my eyes off you,” he muttered finally, the words gritted out like a confession he’d been holding back for months. “That I’m… completely screwed when it comes to you.”
Before you could reply, he kissed you again, slower this time, but deeper, as if to prove it wasn’t just frustration driving him. His weight pressed you back against the couch, his lips trailing to your jaw, your neck, each kiss a little more unrestrained than the last.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered against your skin, his voice hoarse.
You sank back into the couch cushions as Vince kissed down your throat, his hoodie brushing your skin, his hand tugging your shirt just enough to make you shiver. Every inch of him was restless, like he was trying to burn off every ounce of frustration from the day against you.
“Vince,” you murmured, half warning, half plea, when his lips grazed your collarbone.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breath ragged, eyes dark and unguarded. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But don’t, because I—” He broke off, running a hand through his damp hair. “I needed this. Needed you.”
Your heart pounded, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, tugging him back down. “Then don’t stop.”
The tension between you snapped. His mouth found yours again, slower now, savoring, his thumb brushing your cheek as if he wanted to memorize the shape of you. He shifted, pressing more of his weight against you, the couch dipping beneath the two of you. The world outside, the noise of the team, the risk of being caught, the danger to your job, melted into nothing.
It was just him. Just Vince.
When you finally broke apart for air, your lips tingling, you couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, breathless and shaky. “You’re ridiculous.”
He smirked faintly, forehead resting against yours, but his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “Yeah, well… guess I’m ridiculous about you.”
Your chest tightened. Dangerous words. Dangerous feelings. But when his hand slid to intertwine with yours, fingers squeezing gently, you didn’t pull away.
For tonight, you let yourself have him.
The weeks that followed blurred into the same dangerous rhythm: work, practice, stolen nights. Only now, Vince wasn’t content with hiding behind locked doors. He was bolder.
On the ice, he stopped pretending not to notice you. If anything, he leaned into it. His glances weren’t accidental anymore; they were deliberate, sharp, the kind that pinned you even from across the rink. After every goal, after every big hit, after every penalty call, his eyes found yours. A silent claim that made your cheeks burn even as you ducked behind your camera.
Off the ice, he started pushing boundaries. At team events where you were supposed to be just another staff member blending into the background, you’d feel the brush of his hand at the small of your back when no one was looking. He’d lean close when you passed, low enough to murmur, “You missed me?” before slipping back into the crowd.
It was reckless, and it was thrilling, and you knew it couldn’t last.
The first real crack came during an away game. You’d been leaning against the tunnel wall, camera in hand, reviewing your shots during intermission. Vince skated off the ice, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat dripping down his temples. Instead of walking straight past like he should have, he slowed, just for a second. His fingers brushed yours where your hand hung at your side. It was barely a touch, quick enough to go unnoticed—except it didn’t.
“Jesus, Dunn,” Yanni Gourde called out from a few feet back, smirking like a shark. “You flirting with the camera girl now?”
Your stomach dropped. Vince shot Yanni a glare that could have killed, muttering something low and clipped before stalking toward the locker room. But the damage was done. A ripple of laughter followed, harmless on the surface, but heavy with suspicion underneath.
And it didn’t stop there.
Jared was the worst. Every time you set up near the bench, he’d nudge Vince and say something just loud enough for you to hear. “She’s watching again.” “Better give her your good side, Dunn.” Once, when Vince ripped a slapshot into the net during practice, Jared leaned over the boards with a grin. “Show-off. Trying to score twice, huh?”
Vince barked at him, told him to shut the fuck up, but the pink climbing up his neck betrayed him.
The teasing was still playful, for now. But the more Vince’s eyes lingered on you, the more he brushed just a little too close, the more dangerous it became.
And then came the night it almost all unraveled.
It was after a home game, the team hosting a casual media mixer in one of the lounges. You weren’t supposed to linger, you were staff, not a guest, but Vince had caught your wrist as you passed. “Stay,” he murmured, tugging you into the corner of the room where the light was low and the noise from the crowd masked your voices. His grin was lazy, but his eyes were serious, his hand brushing yours under the table where no one could see.
“You’re insane,” you hissed, fighting the smile tugging at your mouth. “Someone’s going to notice.”
“Let ’em,” he said, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “I don’t care.”
But before you could argue, a familiar voice cut through the din.
“Well, well, well,” Jared drawled, sidling up with a beer in hand, a smirk plastered across his face. His eyes flicked from Vince to you, lingering just a little too long. “This explains a lot.”
Vince straightened, jaw tight, but Jared only chuckled, tapping his can against Vince’s shoulder. “Relax, Dunn. I won’t tell anyone. Yet.” His grin widened as he tipped his beer back. “But man, you really are screwed.”
And with that, he walked off, leaving you and Vince staring at each other, your secret hanging by a thread.
Vince’s eyes snapped to Jared, sharp and dangerous. His hand didn’t leave yours, but the grip tightened just enough to send a warning. “What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was low, rough, carrying that edge that could make grown men flinch.
Jared froze, just a fraction, then smirked. “Relax, Dunn. Just saying… looks like someone’s got it bad.” He let the words hang, glancing between the two of you with that smug, knowing grin that made Vince’s jaw flex.
Vince leaned just slightly forward, lowering his voice to a growl that was meant only for Jared. “I said drop it. You breathe a word about this, I swear…” His gaze flicked to you, softening for only a second. “I’ll make sure it’s the last mistake you ever make.”
Jared’s smirk wavered, and he held up his hands in mock surrender, laughing nervously. “Alright, alright. No one’s saying a thing.”
Vince finally let the tension in his body ease just a little, but he didn’t let go of your hand. He leaned closer to you, his lips brushing the side of your head like a promise. “See?” he murmured, almost breathless. “Can’t even keep this quiet without someone trying to stir the pot.”
You swallowed hard, chest tight, heart hammering. “Vince—”
“I don’t care,” he interrupted, eyes flashing, hand still tight around yours. “Not what anyone else thinks. Not what my teammates say. Not my job. You and me? That’s it. That’s all that matters.”
You let out a shaky breath, fingers intertwining with his. “You’re insane.”
He smirked faintly, forehead resting against yours. “Yeah… maybe. But this? Us? Totally worth it.”
The lights of the lounge, the laughter around you, even the lingering threat of discovery, they all faded. For this moment, it was just the two of you.
And yet, deep down, you both knew the danger was only beginning.
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