⌗ pow-wow box — this one’s for everything hockey-related! come talk about your favorite tropes, thoughts on players, headcanons, delusions, anything and everything, as long as we keep it respectful and within limits. if you’re not sure what those limits are, please check out fia’s blog rules first! and all asks sent through here go to @fiakive, which is currently shadowbanned *sigh*, so you won’t get a notification, but i’m still super active there and will reply through ask!
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genre: domestic fluff, realistic family romance, slice-of-life.
warnings: mild pregnancy discomfort, very light parenting tension (resolved quickly and lovingly), zero angst.
summary: nhl forward will smith and you are raising ten-year-old twin boys, charles and theo, who both dream of going pro. will’s intensity on the ice has always been part of the package, but now that the boys are hitting the age where hockey starts to feel like work, his ‘hockey-dad mode’ is creating tiny cracks at home especially with a baby girl due any week. a quiet kitchen conversation after practice reminds everyone that love, not pressure, is what keeps a family (and a dream) alive.
fia’s note: ahh finally got to update another dad!will smith fic for you guys, i’ve genuinely missed being on here and just… yapping with everyone 😭 especially about dad!player thoughts you know, those ‘what if in another universe…’ kind of ideas that slowly turn into full-on storylines in my head at 2am, there’s just something about domestic, soft, slightly chaotic dad energy that i can’t let go of like the idea of him balancing hockey and fatherhood, being strict one minute and then the softest dad ever the next… yeah i think about that way too much. anyway!! if you ever wanna come talk, share ideas, scream about fics, or just yap in general, please don’t be shy 🫶 my anon ask box is always open and i really do love hearing from you guys it makes writing all of this feel even more special!! i missed you guys a lot, truly. thank you for sticking around and being so sweet and supportive, hope you enjoy this dad!will fic 💙
fia’s masterlist | pow-wow box
“You can’t be serious, Mom. Dad made us do bag skates again.”
Theo dropped his hockey bag on the kitchen floor with a thud, cheeks still flushed from the rink. At ten he was already the spitting image of Will. You shifted on the couch, one hand resting on the very round swell of your belly, and tried not to laugh at the sheer injustice painted across his face.
“Bag skates, huh?”
“Twice,”
Theo groaned, flopping sideways so his head landed in your lap like he was still five.
“Charles kept up, but I was dying. Dad kept yelling ‘You want the NHL? Then earn it!’ like we’re already in the draft or something.”
Charles wandered in behind him, quieter, cheeks just as red but mouth set in a determined line. He was the mirror twin same features, opposite energy. Where Theo exploded, Charles simmered. He set his own bag down more carefully and shrugged.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was so bad,” Theo muttered into your sweater.
“And Grandpa was there so Dad went full coach mode. I swear he smiled when I puked in the trash can.”
You ran your fingers through Theo’s sweaty hair, heart doing that familiar tug-of-war. Part of you wanted to defend Will, he was only trying to give them the head start he never had. The other part, the very pregnant, very tired part, ached at the thought that their favorite sport was starting to feel like a chore.
Before you could answer, the garage door rumbled open. Boots on tile, the familiar clink of keys in the bowl, and then Will’s voice, warm and a little winded, floated in.
“Boys! How we feeling after that session? Told you the second round would build character.”
Theo made a sound like a dying walrus and buried his face deeper into your side.
Will appeared in the doorway still in his Sharks hoodie, and the sight of him hit you the same way it had since the very first day you met him at a charity skate twelve years ago. Thirty now, two kids deep (three any minute), and somehow he still glowed. Fatherhood had only sharpened it, made it softer around the edges.
He clocked the scene immediately, Theo dramatically horizontal, Charles hovering like a referee waiting for a penalty call, and you trying to keep a straight face while rubbing slow circles on your belly.
“Rough one?”
Will asked, voice dropping into that gentle register he saved for home.
Theo lifted his head just enough to glare.
“You made us skate until I saw stars, Dad.”
Will’s eyebrows rose, but the smile never left. He crossed the room in three strides, dropped a kiss on your forehead, then ruffled both boys’ hair.
“Stars are good. Means you’re pushing. You said you wanted to play pro, right?”
“Yeah, but not today,” Theo mumbled.
Charles stayed quiet, but you caught the way his shoulders sagged just a fraction.
You reached up and squeezed Will’s wrist.
“Babe, can we talk after they shower and eat? I think the troops need a debrief.”
Will’s eyes met yours, the same look he gave you across the ice when he knew you were watching from the family box. He nodded once.
“Absolutely. Shower, dinner, then we’ll circle up. Sound good?”
The boys trudged upstairs, feet heavy on the steps. Will lingered, hand settling over yours on your belly. The baby girl inside gave a lazy kick right on cue.
“Hey, princess,” he whispered, leaning down so his forehead touched yours.
“Your brothers are dramatic tonight.”
“They’re ten,” you said softly.
“And their dad is kinda intense.”
He huffed a laugh, but there was a flicker of something uncertainty, maybe behind the easy charm.
“Intense is what got me here, babe.”
“I know.” You brushed a thumb across his cheek. “We’ll talk.”
Dinner was just like any others dinner, spaghetti, too much garlic bread, Charles reenacting a deke he pulled in practice while Theo stole meatballs off everyone’s plates. Will told stories from the road trip last week, hands flying like he was still on the ice. The boys laughed in all the right places, but you noticed Theo’s glances toward you, like he was waiting for backup.
After plates were cleared and teeth brushed, the twins climbed into their bunk beds, Charles on top because he liked the view out the window, Theo on bottom because he liked being closer to the door in case of ‘midnight snacks.’ Will read them one chapter of the hockey book they were on, doing the goofy voices that always cracked them up. By the time he closed the door, the house had settled into that rare, golden quiet that only happened after bedtime.
You were already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of herbal tea when Will padded in, socks sliding on the tile.
He didn’t speak at first. Just wrapped his arms around you from behind, careful of your belly, and rested his chin on your shoulder. The familiar scent of his shampoo and the faint trace of rink ice clung to him.
“Alright,” he murmured against your neck.
“Lay it on me. I can tell you’ve been thinking since Theo face-planted in your lap.”
You turned in his arms so you could see his face. Up close, the tiny worry lines between his brows were new fatherhood lines, you liked to call them.
“Theo said you went pretty hard today,” you started gently.
“Bag skates twice. He puked.”
Will winced. “He told you that part.”
“He did. And Charles didn’t say much, but I saw his face. Will… they’re ten. They love hockey. They talk about playing in the NHL the same way they talk about ice cream for breakfast. But if it stops feeling like fun—”
“I know.”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
“I keep thinking about my own dad. He never pushed, but he also never had the chance to. I was the one who had to figure it out alone. I just… I look at them and I see so much potential. They’re fast, they’re smart, they’ve got hands. If they really want this, I want them ready. Every hockey dad I know starts the grind early. I figured ten was old enough to start building the habits.”
You reached up and smoothed the worry line with your thumb.
“I get it. I really do. And at first I thought the same thing, when they turned ten and started getting wild, a little structure felt right. But babe, there’s a difference between structure and… well, making them puke and then come home looking like someone kicked their puppy.”
Will’s shoulders dropped. He pulled you closer, one hand splayed protectively over your belly where the baby girl was doing slow somersaults.
“I don’t want them to hate it,” he said quietly.
“God, that’s the last thing I want. I just… I see the path, you know? The one that’s hard and long and full of kids who quit at fifteen because no one ever taught them how to grind. I thought if I started now, they’d thank me later.”
“They will thank you,” you said, “but maybe not for the puking part.”
A small laugh escaped him, warm against your hair.
“Fair.”
You stayed like that for a minute, the kitchen clock ticking softly, the baby doing her nightly dance between you.
“I’m not saying stop coaching them,” you continued.
“You’re incredible at it. They light up when you praise them. But maybe we ease up on the ‘every practice is a tryout’ vibe. Let them goof off sometimes. Let them remember why they fell in love with the game in the first place because it’s fun, because they get to be on the ice with their dad, because they get to come home and tell their very pregnant mom all about it.”
Will was quiet for a long beat, then nodded against you.
“I hear you. Loud and clear.”
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, that same glowing, heart-stopping smile slowly returning.
“When did you get so wise?”
“Pregnancy hormones and ten years of watching you be the hottest dad on the planet,” you teased.
He grinned, the full Will Smith megawatt version that still made your stomach flip even at thirty weeks pregnant.
“Hottest, huh?”
“Objectively. The league’s official stats.”
He laughed, and kissed you, the kind of kiss that said thank you and I love you and we’ve got this all at once.
When he pulled away, his hands framed your face.
“Tomorrow I’ll take them to the rink early, just the three of us. No bag skates. We’ll do skill stuff, then I’ll let them challenge me to a shootout. Loser buys slushies. And I’ll tell them straight up that I got a little carried away. That I’m proud of them no matter what.”
“They’re gonna love that,” you whispered.
“And you,” he added, forehead to forehead again, “are gonna sit here with your feet up because my wife is growing our dream girl and she deserves a break from driving two feral hockey players everywhere.”
“Deal.”
He kissed the tip of your nose.
“I love you. More than I loved the game even on draft day.”
“I love you too. Even when you make our kids puke.”
He winced again, but this time it was playful.
“Too soon.”
You laughed, later, after Will had carried you upstairs (because “pregnant wife privileges”) and you were curled against him in bed, his hand resting on your belly, you felt the baby girl give one last strong kick.
“Think she’s gonna want to play hockey too?” Will murmured, half-asleep.
“Probably,” you whispered.
“But we’re starting her at zero bag skates until she’s at least… twelve.”
He chuckled, the vibration rumbling through his chest.
“Deal.”
In the morning the boys would wake up to a slightly less intense dad and a mom who had reminded him gently that sometimes the best way to build future pros was to let them stay kids a little longer. And Will Smith, NHL star, strict-but-learning dad, and still the most handsome man you’d ever seen held you like you were the real trophy. Just like the day you met. Just like always.
do you plan on writinh more dad will smith fics? they’re the best
actually, yes… i’ve been planning to write more dad!will. i even have a draft called ‘dubai chocolate.’ after watching will’s mom’s interview and grace’s tiktok video, it just made me want to write this idea even more haha.
warnings: none. pure sweetness, zero angst, only heart-melting care and new-relationship butterflies.
summary: on a special date night, you (a girl who rarely wears heels) step out with quinn, your relationship is brand new, but your heart is already all in. traffic delays his pickup, the restaurant is packed, and parking forces a long walk and yet quinn turns every little inconvenience into proof of how deeply he cares.
fia’s note: hey hey, sorry for going missing for so long haha, things have been pretty busy for me lately. i’m currently still (yea i know its already over!!) celebrating vietnamese new year with my family, so i finally have a bit more free time and hopefully can write more ideas for luke or jack… and of course will smith 🫶
Quinn stood there in a dark navy button-down, sleeves rolled once, hair still a little messy from wherever he’d run his hands through it on the drive. He looked mildly embarrassed, which was rare.
“Traffic was brutal,” he said right away, voice low.
“Some accident on 94. I texted but—”
“I saw.”
You smiled, stepping aside so he could come in for a second.
“It’s fine. You’re here.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding the breath the whole way over. Then his eyes dropped to your black strappy heels, maybe three inches and something softened in his expression.
“You look really good,” he said simply.
Not over-the-top. Just honest.
“Ready?”
You nodded, grabbed your bag, locked the door. He offered his arm without fanfare and you took it, already liking how solid he felt next to you.
The restaurant was just twenty-five minutes away and the lot was a war zone when you arrived. Cars double-parked, valet line snaking halfway down the block, people gesturing angrily at each other. Quinn cursed under his breath, almost polite about it and kept driving past the entrance.
“Reservation’s for eight-thirty,” he said, checking the time.
“We’re still good. Just gotta find a spot.”
He ended up parking four blocks over in a residential side street. When he killed the engine he turned to you.
“It’s a bit of a walk. You okay with that in those?”
You glanced down at the heels. Already a faint ache starting behind your left ankle, but you weren’t about to admit it five minutes in.
“Yeah, no problem.”
He studied you for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded once.
“Alright. Let’s go.”
The walk was slow. He matched your pace without comment, hand resting lightly at the small of your back when the sidewalk narrowed. Every few steps you felt his thumb brush once, like a silent check-in. You tried to keep your steps even, but by the time you reached the restaurant doors your ankles were quietly screaming.
Inside it was loud, the hostess recognized him immediately.
“Mr. Hughes, right this way.”
Your table was small, tucked against a window. No menus. Quinn had already taken care of it.
When the server came over he ordered without looking away from you.
“Steak for her, medium-rare, roasted potatoes, no sauce on the side. Same steak for me but over the spaghetti. And water for both, please.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“You remembered the no-sauce thing.”
He gave a small shrug, almost shy.
“You said it makes the potatoes taste like sadness last time.”
You laughed under your breath. “I did say that.”
Dinner passed easily. Conversation drifted from his last road trip that he’d forgotten his phone charger and survived on 8% battery for two days to the absolutely tragic sourdough starter you’d killed last week. Every time your foot shifted under the table he noticed. Nothing dramatic but just a quick glance, then his hand would find yours across the table, thumb smoothing over your knuckles like he was saying I see you.
By the time the plates were cleared your feet were done pretending. The balls of your feet ached, and every step back toward the exit was going to hurt.
You made it through the door before he stopped.
Right outside, under the overhang where the string lights were brightest, he turned to face you.
“Hold on.”
Before you could ask, he crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, and reached into the cuff of his left sock. Pulled out one tan leather crossover sandal. Then the right sock. The matching one.
Your brain stalled.
He held them up, calm as anything.
“Swap,” he said.
“I’ll go get the car and pull up. Babe, you wait here.”
You stared at the sandals. They were exactly your size.
“Quinn… those aren’t mine.”
“I know.”
He stayed crouched, looking up at you with that quiet steadiness he always had when he was being serious.
“I bought them. After you said heels mess with your ankles. Found an article about pressure points and… I don’t know. Didn’t like the idea of you hurting just because we’re going somewhere nice. So I got these. They’ve been in my bag, then in my socks tonight…Just in case.”
You blinked. Once. Twice.
“You’ve been carrying spare sandals. In your socks.”
A tiny, self-conscious smile tugged at his mouth.
“Yeah. Sounds weirder when you say it out loud.”
You let out a startled laugh that turned into something softer.
“It’s… a lot.”
“I know.” He stood up slowly, still holding the sandals.
“But I’d rather look ridiculous than watch you limp three blocks. So… please take the heels off.”
You hesitated for half a second, then balanced one hand on his shoulder. He steadied you immediately, free hand on your waist, solid and careful. You slipped the first heel off. Instant relief. Then the second.
He knelt again without a word, guided the sandals onto your feet one at a time. The leather was soft. They fit like they’d been waiting for you.
When he stood he brushed your hair back from your face, thumb grazing your cheek once.
“Better?”
You nodded, throat tight. “A lot.”
“Good.” He glanced toward the street.
“Stay under the lights. I’ll be right back.”
He jogged off before you could answer, looking back once like he needed visual confirmation you were still there. You stood there, new sandals against the pavement, old heels dangling from his fingers when he’d left. Your heart was doing something ridiculous… too fast, too full.
Six weeks.
Six weeks and he already knew which shoes hurt your ankles, how you liked your steak, that you hated sauce on roasted potatoes, and that you’d never complain about any of it out loud. When the headlights swept around the corner he pulled right up to the curb, hazards on, and hopped out before you could move.
Opened your door. Bowed just a little mock-formal, but sweet.
“Your ride, ma’am.”
You slid in. He buckled your seatbelt without asking, another small habit that always made your chest ache in the best way then got behind the wheel.
Instead of heading straight home he took the river road. His hand found yours over the center console and stayed there. After a few minutes of quiet you spoke, barely above the radio.
“I think I’m already stupid in love with you.”
He didn’t flinch. Just squeezed your hand once.
“Yeah?” Voice soft.
“Good. Because I’ve been there a while.”
You turned to look at him. He kept his eyes on the road but the corner of his mouth lifted.
“Since that night you stole my hoodie after the game,” he added.
“Told me it smelled like ‘victory and questionable life choices.’ I was done for.”
You laughed. He pulled over at a lookout, engine idling, city glittering below.
Turned to face you fully.
“I’m not trying to rush anything,” he said.
“But yeah. I’m in love with you. Have been for longer than six weeks. Just didn’t want to freak you out.”
You leaned across the console. He met you halfway, the kiss was slow. Gentle. Like he was memorizing it.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
“For the sandals. For noticing. For… all of it.”
“Always,” he answered.
He drove the rest of the way with your hand in his, thumb brushing lazy circles over your knuckles.
When he walked you to your door later he carried your heels in one hand, arm around your waist with the other. At the doorstep he kissed your forehead, then your mouth.
“Night, babe.”
“Night, Quinn.”
You watched him walk back to the car, sandals still on your feet, heart so full it hurt a little.
luke getting boo’d and his post game interview where he’s almost in tears actually hurt my heart 🥺🥺🥺, all I can picture to comfort myself is him going home to Lucy and y/n and lucy comforting him in her own way and then y/n comforting him in bed later after lucy went to bed, they’re just cuddling and y/n is giving him head and back scratched while reassuring him
y’all. the ones who boo’d my baby, apologize to him right now. i’m serious!! 💅
BACK HOME
warnings: emotional hurt/comfort, references to real nhl game events (own goals/booing), pregnancy mentions, non-explicit intimacy (cuddling, scratching, tenderness).
summary: after luke’ game against the hurricanes, two costly mistakes leading to goals and relentless booing from home fans he returns drained. pregnant you and luce, who watched the heartbreaking loss at home, wrap him in love, lucy with fierce kid comfort, and later, intimate cuddles and reassurance from you to remind him he's more than one bad night.
“mommy, why are they booing snoopy again?”
lucy’s voice was small and fierce, her curly head pressed against your swollen belly as you both watched the game on her ipad from the couch.
“he didn’t do it on purpose. that puck just... went wrong.”
your chest ached worse than the baby’s latest kicks. at almost seven months pregnant, attending the prudential center was out of the question, so you and lucy had streamed the devils-hurricanes matchup together. the first mistake came 50 seconds in, luke swiping at a rebound and accidentally knocking it past jake allen. the second, in the second period, when taylor hall poked the puck off his stick in front of the net. 2-1 canes. then the boos started. every touch after that. loud. relentless. even on the power play.
“fans get frustrated when the team’s down, baby,” you murmured, stroking her hair.
“but it’s not fair. snoopy’s giving everything.”
lucy’s eyes welled up. “snoopy’s my hero. they’re being so mean.”
the final score flashed 3-1 loss. you closed the ipad fast, sparing lucy the post-game clips already blowing up online, luke’s voice cracking in the interview, eyes red-rimmed as he took full blame.
by the time the garage door hummed, lucy was stationed at the entrance like a tiny bodyguard, arms outstretched in her oversized hughes jersey. you leaned against the wall, one hand supporting your bump.
luke stepped in, he dropped everything the moment he saw her.
“dada!”
lucy crashed into him, rare ‘dada’ instead of ‘snoopy,’ the telltale sign her heart was breaking for him. luke scooped her up, holding tight as her legs wrapped around his waist.
“hey, luce,” he whispered, voice rough.
“i got you,” she said into his neck, small hands patting his back.
“you’re still the best player ever. those people don’t know anything. i love you bigger than the whole ice.”
luke’s breath hitched. he squeezed her closer. “love you too, luce. bigger than the stars.”
you moved in, arms open. he shifted lucy and pulled you both into the hug, careful with your belly. you felt the tremor in his shoulders.
“rough one,” he mumbled against your hair.
“you played hard,” you said softly.
“one night doesn’t change who you are.”
he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“felt like i let everyone down. the guys. jack. the fans...”
“you didn’t let us down,” you told him firmly.
lucy cupped his face. “dada, can i sleep in your bed tonight? to keep the bad boos away?”
a watery smile tugged at his lips. “yeah, baby. i’d like that.”
bedtime lucy wedged between you, clutching luke’s shirt. you scratched his scalp gently while she babbled about how tomorrow he’d score a hat trick and everyone would cheer again.
“you’re my favorite devil,” she yawned finally.
“always.”
luke kissed her forehead. “you’re my favorite everything.”
once her breathing deepened into sleep, he carefully lifted her and carried her to her room. you heard the soft tuck-in, the whispered.
“night, luce.”
when he returned, he crawled straight into your arms, head on your chest, one hand splayed over your bump, you resumed the slow scratches first his curls, then down his neck, under his shirt across his back.
he exhaled long and shaky.
“the boos weren’t the worst part,” he admitted into the dark.
“it was knowing those mistakes put us behind. feeling like i failed the team. failed jack, playing through whatever he’s dealing with.”
“you didn’t fail anyone,”
you whispered, nails dragging lightly between his shoulder blades.
“you kept playing every shift. faced the questions after. that’s courage, luke. and jack knows you better than anyone, he’s proud of you no matter the score.”
the baby kicked, right under his palm. he huffed a soft laugh.
“little one agrees.”
“see? we’ve got your back.” you scratched lower, slow circles.
“one bad game in a long season. tomorrow you’ll review film, fix what needs fixing, and come back stronger. that’s what you always do.”
he nuzzled closer. “i don’t care about the fans right now. just... glad i get to come home to you, luce.”
“always,” you promised.
“close your eyes, babe. i’ve got you.”
his body slowly unwound under your touch, breath evening out against your skin. outside, the world could be cruel. in here, he was safe.
i honestly think it would be absolutely ridiculous 😂 like… these kids have never seen matt with a different hairstyle. to them, there’s only two versions of dad, matt rempe with a beard, and matt rempe without a beard plus the occasional bruise here and there. but a whole new hairstyle?? an almost bald head??? yeah, they were not prepared.
WILLIAM is definitely the most chill about it. he’s like, ‘wow, dad looks so cool!’ because he’s such a little supporter already, he totally picks that up from you and matt. but deep down he’s still a bit confused because this is not the dad hair he’s used to. he doesn’t hate it though, he just… needs time to adjust.. ROWAN, your only girl? oh she loses it. she cries real tears because now her dad’s hair is gone and she can’t braid it anymore or tie little pink ribbons into it. she’s dramatic, she’s heartbroken, she’s mad like full-on ‘don’t talk to me’ energy. honestly she’s giving tiny sassy queen, just like her mama 😭 and KOA… oh my god, koa is so transparent about it. the second he sees matt he just has that judging baby face like, ‘what did you do.’ he absolutely hates it at first. but then matt lets him touch his head and it’s all soft and fuzzy and tickly, and suddenly koa is like… okay wait… this is kinda fun. now he pats matt’s head every chance he gets 😂
okay if you want a full-on reaction from all of them just let me know haha. i’m so ready for that 💀💗
