hi just wanted to let you know that your writing is so good! I love the way you write all the players, esp connor bedard, your fics are literally the best 😊
connor’s feeling left out after not being picked to play for team canada in worlds and the olympics.
The living room was cozy, a single candle lit and the TV casting a soft glow across the space as Connor and I sat on the couch. With the AC blasting, it was the perfect escape from the sweltering heat outside. I smiled at a joke from the show we had on, but the lighthearted moment quickly faded when I noticed Connor constantly checking his phone. His thumb was hovering, scrolling, and tapping with a tense urgency.
“What are you doing?” I asked, leaning in slightly to look at him.
He instantly locked his phone, turning the screen away, and looked up at the TV. “Nothing,” he said, his voice flat. He was completely ignoring the fact that I could clearly tell something was wrong.
I nodded slowly and looked back at the screen, trying to give him space, but within two minutes, I noticed him staring down at his lap again, the blue light reflecting in his eyes.
“Connor, what’s on your phone that’s so important?” I asked, my voice softer this time, filled with growing concern.
He just shook his head, refusing to meet my eyes. “Nothing,” he answered again. The exact same deflection.
I let out a soft sigh. “Baby, I know there’s something wrong,” I said, turning my entire body in his direction on the cushions, letting him know I wasn't just going to let it drop.
“They didn’t pick me,” he finally whispered, his gaze dropping to his hands. He began fidgeting with his fingers, a nervous habit he only did when he was deeply overwhelmed.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, confusion hitting me. I searched his face, trying to piece together what news could have broken.
“The World Championship Team Canada roster,” he spoke, his voice much softer than usual. His bottom lip gave a tiny, involuntary jitter, and he kept his head down, staring blankly into his lap. “They didn’t pick me to play.”
“Baby, it’s okay,” I murmured instantly. I moved closer and began rubbing his back, a slow, steady motion I knew always calmed him down when his mind started racing.
He shook his head, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “They never pick me,” he whimpered. The dam finally broke, and he let his sobs out, his shoulders shaking as he reached out for me like he just needed to be held.
I immediately wrapped my arms around him, helping him pull himself closer until he was buried against me, his face hidden in my chest.
“It’s okay to be upset, my love,” I told him softly, running my fingers through his hair.
He whimpered, his voice breaking as he tried to form words. “I n-never get picked for anything.” Hot tears rolled down his face, quickly wetting my shirt, but I didn't care. I just held him tighter. “I didn’t get picked for the Olympics, and now this... so many people are better than me.” He hiccuped, his breathing becoming uneven and shallow as the weight of the rejection crashed over him.
“Connor, don’t say that. You’re such a good player,” I urged, hurting to hear him talk about himself that way.
But he just shook his head against my chest. “M-maybe I’m too short,” he whispered. He looked up at me then, biting his bottom lip, his eyes completely glassy and bloodshot. The sheer vulnerability in his expression made my chest ache with a sharp, physical pain.
“No, baby, you’re not,” I said softly, cupping his face and gently wiping a stray tear from his cheek with my thumb.
“Then w-why don’t I ever get chosen?” His grip on my waist tightened, holding onto me like an anchor.
I genuinely didn’t know what to say in that moment. The sports world could be so brutal and political, and seeing the toll it took on him broke my heart. He gasped for air, another wave of sobs leaving his throat. I began rocking us softly on the couch, continuing the steady rhythm of rubbing his back, just letting him cry it out and release all the pressure he’d been carrying.
“I always choose you,” I murmured into his hair, wanting him to feel secure at least right here with me.
He nodded against me, acknowledging it, but sniffled heavily. “It’s not the same.”
“I know,” I replied softly, nodding because I understood his ambition and his drive. “I know it’s not. But these people, they have their own specific reasons for why they build the roster the way they do, and that has to be okay. Because your stats? Your stats show otherwise. You know what you're capable of, and so does everyone else who actually watches you play.”
He remained quiet for a moment, laid out in my arms and pouting, his breathing finally starting to slow down.
“It’s going to be okay,” I reassured him, kissing the top of his head. “We can call your manager tomorrow, yeah? We'll see what she says, see if she can get any feedback or see if there's anything else in the works.”
He cleared his throat and nodded, wiping at his eyes again. “Yeah. Okay. That’s good.”
“See? No more crying, bubs,” I said softly, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose, which was flushed bright red.
“It just makes me feel like I’m not important,” he confessed, his voice incredibly raspy from the crying. “When everyone else I know is getting the call and I never do... it sucks.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you make more money and have way more brand deals than half of them anyway,” I teased gently, wanting to bring a tiny bit of light back into his eyes. I wiped the remaining tears from his cheeks with my thumbs. “I love you. Let’s get you cleaned up and stop crying so we can relax tonight, and we'll call your manager first thing, okay?”
He nodded, the tension finally leaving his shoulders, though he didn't move an inch—content to just stay completely melting into my arms.
waiting for the day i get to see connor in a canada jersey again.
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