Mat x actress reader on family skate day. Everyone is a little star struck but Mat is too smitten to care, he’s just happy she’s there.
Pairing: Mat Barzal x actress!fem!reader
Warnings: Crude humour and language, Angst, Sexual References.
AN: This was a request. Thanks so much for sending this in. Hope you enjoy!
That’s your first coherent thought as you step out onto the ice at UBS Arena, gripping the boards like they personally owe you money.
You said yes because you love him. Because he asked like it mattered. Because he’d looked at you over breakfast and said, “Come skate with me. Please,” in that soft, hopeful way that makes you stupid.
You forgot one critical detail.
You cannot skate for shit.
“Babe,” you hiss, legs shaking violently beneath you, “why is the ice moving.”
“It’s not moving,” Mat laughs, already perfectly steady beside you like he was born on frozen water. Which, honestly, he kind of was.
He reaches for your hands. You grab onto him immediately, nearly taking him down with you.
Somewhere behind you, you hear a snort.
You glance over your shoulder and immediately wish you hadn’t.
The rest of the Islanders are scattered across the ice with their families. Anders Lee is effortlessly pushing his daughter in one of those little skate trainers while his wife, Grace, chats with a couple of the other wives. Casy Cazika is doing lazy circles with his kids, looking annoyingly stable. Anthony Duclair is laughing with someone near center ice.
And now they are all looking at you.
You smile like a pageant contestant barely surviving a wardrobe malfunction.
You can feel it , the curiosity. The recognition. The oh my god that’s her.
You lean into Mat. “Why are they staring?”
“They’re absolutely staring.”
He kisses your temple like that solves it. “You’re fine.”
You take one tentative step.
Your ankle folds like it’s made of overcooked pasta.
Mat catches you mid-collapse, arms wrapping around your waist before you can eat ice in front of half the organization.
“You’ve gotta bend your knees,” he says, trying not to laugh.
“I am emotionally locking them because I’m terrified.”
He actually laughs this time, loud and unfiltered. The sound echoes around the rink and a few heads turn again, but not in a weird way. More in a Barzy’s whipped way.
You narrow your eyes at him. “If I die on this ice, you’re explaining it to my publicist.”
“You’re not going to die.”
He skates backward slowly, holding both your hands, guiding you forward inch by inch. You wobble violently.
“You’re doing great,” he says.
“I look like a baby deer that just learned about gravity.”
You blink at him. “Be serious.”
“You are clinically deranged.”
He grins at you like you’re the only person in the building. Like the NHL does not exist. Like the cameras don’t. Like Anders Lee is not literally ten feet away watching this unfold.
Someone skates by and says, “Careful, Barzy,” under their breath.
“You see?” you whisper. “They think I’m going to break you.”
He shrugs. “You’re small and mean.”
“You called the ice a moving hazard.”
You attempt another glide.
It goes okay for three seconds.
Then your foot shoots sideways and you instinctively cling to him, both arms around his neck. Your bodies collide chest to chest. You are one bad breath away from horizontal.
Mat steadies you easily, hands firm at your hips.
There’s a very distinct moment where you realize how this looks.
Hockey player boyfriend. Ice rink. You practically in his arms.
You lean in, murmur under your breath, “If you drop me, I swear to God I will never do that thing you like again.”
“You’re insane,” he mutters.
A couple of the wives skate closer. Grace smiles warmly. “You’re brave.”
“Brave is not the word I would use,” you say, clinging to Mat like a flotation device.
“You get used to it,” she says kindly.
You nod like that’s encouraging.
Mat looks down at you. “Want me to just push you?”
“That sounds aggressive.”
He rolls his eyes but his smile is soft.
Eventually you manage something that resembles forward movement without shrieking. It’s shaky. It’s chaotic. But it’s happening.
Mat skates beside you the entire time, one hand hovering at your lower back, ready. Not embarrassed. Not distracted. Just… proud.
You notice it when Beauvillier skates by and chirps something you can’t hear. Mat barely reacts. Just tightens his grip on your hand and keeps going.
He doesn’t care that you’re wobbly. Doesn’t care that you’re famous. Doesn’t care that half the team is quietly amused.
He’s just happy you’re there.
At one point you do actually fall.
It’s dramatic. A full sit-down on the ice with a sharp yelp and a very loud, “FUCK.”
The entire rink goes quiet for half a second.
Mat is on his knees in front of you immediately, hands on your arms. “You okay?”
He laughs so hard he has to brace himself on the ice.
You glare at him from your frozen seat. “Help me up, you dick.”
He pulls you up carefully, brushing ice off your leggings, hands lingering maybe a second longer than necessary.
“Worth it?” you ask, breathless.
“Yeah,” he says instantly.
Your heart does something stupid and soft.
You roll your eyes to hide it. “You’re so annoying.”
He pulls you back against him, skates you slowly in a wide circle, your back against his chest this time. You can’t really move, but you don’t have to. He guides you.
Your head tilts back to look at him. He looks so content it almost makes you emotional.
“You’re really happy I came,” you say quietly.
“Yeah,” he says. No hesitation.
There are kids skating past. Teammates laughing. The rink smells like cold air and rubber and coffee from the stands.
You’re terrible at skating.
You’re holding onto him like your life depends on it.
And he looks like he won something anyway.
“Next time,” you say, “we’re doing something I’m good at.”
He almost trips over his own skate.
And for the first time all afternoon, you’re the stable one.
areudirty
yousharknotpass
amandla
gummygunk
