a kiss that isn't meant to happen but does so anyway + Mat Barzal? He has been looking too good lately 😩
he HAS been looking so good lately🙂↕️thank you for requesting!🫶🏽
16. a kiss that isn't meant to happen but does so anyway
.
When you moved to Long Island, everyone around you told you it was a bad idea.
And maybe it was. Maybe it was one of the stupidest things you could have done. But you had spent your whole life in the same city, in the same neighbourhood you grew up in, surrounded by the same people and—well, truthfully, you were sick of it.
You wanted change. You needed change.
To everyone else in your life, you were just running away from your responsibilities. It was like your future was written for you before you were even born. It was a hallmark movie’s perfect fucking plot. Growing up in a tight-knit neighbourhood, next door to your parents’ best friends, going to school with their children that were the same age as you. You were meant to fall in love and stay in the city and live the picture-perfect life everyone seemed to have decided for you.
You fucking hated it.
You wanted your own life with your own future. You wanted a life made from your choices, both the bad and the good. You just wanted out of the box you had spent your whole life squished into.
So yeah, maybe moving away from home on a whim randomly after summer without telling anyone wasn’t the best way to go about it. But it was a decision you made after spending over two decades in the same fucking place your whole life. You had a job, a crappy apartment and a life of your own for once.
Somewhere amongst the late mornings running to your job and still navigating Long Island, you found your paths crossing with Mat Barzal. It was an unexpected but welcome friendship, a bond that was created through an accidental run-in, spilt coffee and an offer to show you around.
And it was the reason why you found yourself in another apartment in Long Island, twenty minutes away from your own, sitting on the kitchen counter as you watched the boy run between rooms like a headless chicken.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“This is what you get for not listening to me,” you called out, your legs lightly swinging as you dipped your spoon back into the bowl of yoghurt you were currently holding. “I told you to put your practices into your calendar. You always forget.”
“Yeah, yeah, you sound just like Coach,” Mat called out from the other room, swearing under his breath as he quickly grabbed the first beanie he could find and pulling it over his head. “It’s optional practice anyways. And Schaef wanted to practice some drills.”
“Aw, Big Mat and Baby Matt,” you cooed, grinning as he walked into the kitchen with a deadpan look.
“I’m an old vet now,” Mat grumbled, but there was a small smile on his face. “It’s my duty to help the kids out.”
“The joys of pushing thirty,” you teased, smacking his hand away before he could pinch your side in retaliation. “Hey, you can’t be mean when you dragged my ass here at the crack of dawn just to abandon me.”
“Abandon,” he repeated, scoffing as he easily reached behind you, one hand on the back of your head to prevent the cupboard door from hitting you as he grabbed a protein bar. “I’ll be gone, like, three hours max.”
“And I’ll be here all alone for those three hours,” you sighed wistfully, enjoying the way his nose scrunched up in faux annoyance.
“Whatever, hope you die of boredom,” he muttered, letting out a cackle when you smacked his chest lightly. “I should really get going.”
“Then go,” you said, the hand on his chest pushing him back a step but his hand covered yours, keeping it in place.
“No well wishes? No good luck? Wow,” Mat pouted. “You're the mean one this morning.”
“It’s practice,” you rolled your eyes.
“I could spontaneously combust in the middle of the ice,” Mat sighed dramatically, turning his head to the side. “But I see how it is. I bring you to my home, I let you eat my food—”
“Your weird high protein yoghurt barely counts as food,” you interjected.
“—and I barely even get a goodbye,” Mat finished, his hand still covering yours on his chest.
“Oh, c’mere,” you grumbled as you tugged him closer, leaning in with the intention of pressing a smacking kiss onto his cheek to appease his theatrics.
You were not expecting him to turn his head. And you were not expecting to find your lips pressed against his, for a few short moments that neither one of you seemed to move as the realisation slowly washed over you both.
You jerked your head back, eyes wide and cheeks burning. “Mat, I—”
“Yeah, I think that counts as a proper goodbye,” he murmured, nodding slightly as he quickly dropped your hand on his chest, moving to cup the back of your head once again and leaning in to kiss you once more.
You were almost embarrassed by the noise you let out as you sunk into the kiss.
“Much better,” Mat murmured, looking far too pleased and smug at the slightly dazed look on your face. “Still gonna be here after practice?”
“Mhmm,” you nodded, your eyes locked on his lips.
“I’ll bring lunch,” he promised, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before he finally stepped away, rushing to get out the door before he really was late to practice. “Enjoy your yoghurt, baby.”
author's note: here's the final part! thank you so much for showing nate and honey all the love!
summary: you and nate were fwb when one night leads to a lifelong consequence (aka you fucked around and found out)
pairing: nathan mackinnon x reader
warnings: accidental pregnancy, labor and delivery
week 41
you'd been a labor and delivery nurse since you graduated college five years ago, so realistically you knew many first time moms went past their due dates. so, in an effort to avoid disappointment, you'd mentally prepared yourself for being pregnant longer than forty weeks.
nate had not.
“i just don't see why she's taking so long,” he'd huffed one morning before his flight to chicago.
“because she's a baby and doesn't care about our schedules. a lot of first babies go past their due date, this isn't new.” you reached out and squeezed his arm. “it’ll be fine, nate. your mom and dad are here,” they were sleeping upstairs, “if anything happens, we’ll call you.”
he looked you up and down, scanned your face for any sign of pain. “you’ll call me as soon as something happens, i don't care what it is, okay? you call and i’ll be on the first flight back, i promise.”
“nothing’s gonna happen,” you said. “i’ll either be home or at work—”
“can’t you take your maternity leave now? you're past the 40 weeks mark,” he interjected.
“at this point, i’m doing light work,” you replied.
“light work as a nurse is still harder than a desk job, honey.”
you brushed him off. “i’ll relax until then, don't worry.”
but he was placing his hands on your hips and a kiss to the top of your head. “i'm always gonna worry when it comes to the two of you.”
you smiled and patted his chest with one hand. “you're sweet, but we’ll be okay. what’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“you go into labor while i'm on a roadie? that seems like a pretty big deal to me.”
“you heard dr. morgan, my cervix isn't that effaced and i’m like a centimeter dilated. nothing is going to happen while you're gone.”
and truth be told, it didn't.
your back started to ache a little more and you hardly ever left the house. graham and kathy helped out where they could, whether that was preparing meals to get you through the first few weeks postpartum or adding the final touches to the nursery.
everything was mostly ready for baby girl’s arrival. both cars had the car seats installed. the bassinet was set up in nate’s room which you'd all but moved into.
you just had to get through your next three shifts and hope and pray baby girl would come before you had to clock in.
but you should've known you were never that lucky.
nate got home from his roadie in the early hours of the 12th. he showered and immediately slipped into bed behind you, contorting his body around yours and the pregnancy pillow that was the sole reason you could sleep longer than forty-five minute increments.
he woke you up with breakfast in bed and sat behind you to massage your lower back when you complained.
“i’m ready for her to be here,” he mumbled into your hair, his fingers still working out the tension in your back.
“you and me both.” you winced as another cramp rippled through your back.
nate, noticing your pain, applied pressure. “don't go into work today, just stay home, call out.”
“it’s just one shift. if it’s bad tonight, i’ll call out tomorrow.” your ears waited for the grumbled reply you'd come to anticipate from nate, but he was silent, his hands just adding pressure to ease your discomfort.
hours later, he was helping you get dressed, giving you a look every time you so much as flinched. “you shouldn't be driving, let alone going to work.”
you gritted your teeth. “it’ll be fine, nate. my water’s still intact, and if something happens, which it won't,” you added when his face went pale, “i’m already at the hospital.”
kathy piped in from the kitchen. “she’s right, nate. labor takes a long time.”
nate glared at his mother, but softened his gaze when he saw the look his father was giving him. “i don't like the idea of you driving twenty minutes while you're potentially in labor.”
you squeezed his forearm gently and smiled to put him at ease. “i’ll call you if i need you, i promise.”
you made it to work without crashing, which you weren't worried about, but nate texted you once you pulled into the parking garage as if he'd been tracking your location (which he probably was) to make sure you got to work safe.
nate: call me if you need something
you liked the message and continued with your day.
sophie’s eyes widened when she saw you waddle to your desk. “girl, you shouldn't be here.”
“funny,” you sighed as you sat down. “you sound like nate.”
you didn't think it was possible for her eyes to get any wider, but they did. “nate? did you finally tell me the name of your baby daddy?”
you rolled your eyes. “that’s all the information you're getting out of me, soph.”
“let’s get this straight, i can know the gender of your baby before i know the first name of the guy you're having a baby with?”
when you thought about it, it kinda sounded ridiculous. not like she would know which nate you were talking about. nathan was a popular name. but you weren't going to back down now. “yep,” you said. “anything else?”
the charge nurse for your shift, meredith, did a double take when she saw you. “i thought i read the schedule wrong when it said you were coming in tonight,” she said. “i was waiting for you to call out and say you were having a baby.”
you rubbed your very large bump. “can’t say i am that lucky.”
“today’s what 41 weeks?” sophie asked.
“tomorrow will officially be 41 weeks,” you corrected. “but who’s counting?”
the tightness you felt in your back and your stomach only got worse as the night progressed. by midnight, you were incredibly uncomfortable regardless if you were standing or sitting. it wasn't until sophie grabbed you a yoga ball to sit on while you charted that you felt a little relief.
you were in the middle of a chart when your phone vibrated, a call from nate. “you realize it’s 2 am, you should be asleep,” you chastised, placing the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you continued to work.
“i’d be able to sleep if you were home, in bed, with me, where you should be when you're 41 weeks pregnant.”
“mhm, nice try, nate.”
at the sound of his name, sophie perked up from her desk next to you. she immediately scooted her chair closer until you used her foot to push the chair (and subsequently, sophie) away.
“how’re you feeling? everything okay? do you need me to come get you?”
you were about to respond, but a cramp rippled through your stomach. you inhaled and exhaled slowly, like a leaky tire.
“are you okay? are you contracting right now? do i need to come get you?” his voice picked up in near panic.
“no no,” you said, once the pain had passed. “i’m fine, probably just a tiny contraction.”
wrong thing to say.
you could hear the rustling of what you assumed were the bedsheets. “nate, stay home. if it gets worse, i’ll come back, okay?”
“no, if it gets worse, you call me and i’ll come pick you up.”
“that doesn't make sense, you'd rather me wait twenty to thirty minutes for you to come get me and then drive home than for me to cross that distance myself? nate, it’d save time—”
“and this way would save my mind, if it gets bad, call me.”
“nate—”
“look, i’m already compromising by not coming down there right now to take you home until your water breaks, honey. i’m being reasonable. you are trying to prove a point. there’s a difference.”
you rolled your eyes. “you're such a worrier.”
“i don't play about people i care about, that includes you and baby girl.”
there was no stopping the smile on your face. “i’ll talk to you later, nate, i gotta get back to work and you need to get some sleep.”
he reluctantly accepted your response and bid you goodbye, asserting that if you needed anything, to call him regardless.
around 5 am, things turned up a notch. between your own contractions, you were assisting another mother’s labor, gritting your teeth when the pain flared up a little. after a bad enough contraction that had tears forming in the corners of your eyes at your desk, meredith told you to clock out and go home.
before you could protest, saying you could get through the last two hours, she cut you off. “go home. you're in pain, you're probably going to give birth in the next few days max. go home and relax before your baby comes, okay? i’ll make sure the right people know.”
you thanked her and said goodbye to sophie. it took you twice as long to get to your car as it normally would seeing as you had to walk slower when your contractions came. that's what they were, you were sure of it, but your water hadn't broken yet, so you weren't too concerned.
the drive was bordering on sketchy at best, you probably should've called nate to pick you up. the pain was getting worse, but you could still function. other than some intense cramping, you really had nothing to worry about, you were almost home, pulling into the neighborhood, everything was fine—
and then your water broke driving down your street.
your fists gripped the wheel, your jaw clenched and teeth grinded against each other when a cramp, stronger than the others, rippled through your stomach right as you pulled into the garage.
nate was already standing at the garage door by the time you slid out of the car.
“you okay?” his hands rubbed your arms till they settled on your cheeks “you're home early. they let you go?”
you nodded as the contraction faded. “my water broke in the car.”
nate’s eyes widened, immediately looking at the driver’s seat which was (disgustingly) covered in amniotic fluid.
tears sprung to your eyes which gained his attention once more. “hey hey hey, what's wrong?” he asked. “we can take my car, okay? it’s already packed, dad helped me install the car seat—”
“i need to get my car detailed now,” you whined.
to his credit, nathan didn't laugh at you, he just nodded. “i’ll call tracy about it, okay? i think we should go to the hospital.”
but you were moving past him and into the house, doing your best to smile at kathy and graham in the kitchen, while making your way to the stairs.
nate followed. “where the hell are you going? we need to go to the hospital.”
you waved him off and gripped the handrail to begin your ascent. “my contractions aren't five minutes apart yet, and i want to take a shower.”
you heard him sigh behind you and felt his hands on your hips, spotting you as you climbed the stairs.
you walked into nate’s ensuite that you'd practically commandeered since his parents came back after christmas. as you were undressing, nate started the shower and grabbed a set of comfortable clothes for you to wear post shower. one glance at the pile of neatly folded clothes on the counter nearly made you cry. it was an oversized mackinnon shirt that he'd picked up from the pro shop (well, he asked an intern to, but it was the thought that counted) because you couldn't really fit in his shirts comfortably anymore. under the shirt was your new favorite pair of sweatpants (a pair of nate’s that you'd stolen and untied the drawstrings). he'd even gone as far to pull out a pair of granny panties (you were too pregnant to be embarrassed) and wool socks.
it wasn't the clothes that made you emotional, but rather the thoughtfulness behind it. you almost cried.
almost.
you wanted to shower more than you wanted to reflect.
the shower was rather short. getting dressed between contractions actually took longer than the shower itself. after a few minutes, nate stepped in and helped you put your pants and socks on.
“you still good?” he asked as he rolled the socks onto your swollen feet.
you nodded and exhaled through another contraction.
“how're you feeling?”
“feels like the worst period of my life,” you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut.
“you wanna head to the hospital now? there's no shame in going, the car’s packed, everything is ready the second you say yes.”
“i—” you hesitated too long for nate’s comfort so he grabbed his phone from his pocket and dialled who you assumed was the obgyn office. his thumb rubbed circles into your knee as he waited for someone from the front desk to pick up.
“hi yes, this is nathan mackinnon, i’m calling because my partner’s water broke and we’re not sure when to go to the hospital.” his eyes locked on yours, his hand now squeezing your knee gently. “her contractions aren't quite five minutes apart, but they're nearly a minute long each time.” he hummed as the other person spoke on the line. “okay, sounds good, thank you.”
“what’d they say?”
“give it another hour," he frowned, especially when you winced again. “if your contractions are 5 minutes apart—”
“one minute long for an hour, then we can go in.”
“or if the fluid you're currently...leaking,” he grimaced, “turns a weird color.”
you nodded and held your arms up for him to help you off the side of the bathtub and to the bedroom.
“where do you wanna go? do you want to stay up here? go downstairs? it’s your choice. you probably need to eat though.”
“take me downstairs.”
nate set up the yoga ball in the living room with the great british bake off playing on the tv. you snacked on the food nate made (cut up fruit and greek yogurt with honey) while bouncing on the ball. kathy and graham went to do some grocery shopping and to give you and nate some peace and quiet without their hovering.
the next hour grew to be more brutal with each pass of the second hand. your fingernails dug into the arms of the couch as you did your best to breathe through the discomfort and pain. you weren't aware of much around you, but nate was timing things on his phone like a damn track coach.
after one particularly horrible contraction, nate stood. “that’s enough, let’s go.”
“what?” you asked, brain foggy through the pain.
“you've hit the markers, and i’m not wasting anymore time while you're in pain. we’re going to the hospital.”
looking back, you couldn't quite remember the journey there, just that you were clinging to nate’s bicep with each contraction, your forehead pressed into his shoulder, while his hand gently stroked your knee.
by the time you rolled up to the hospital, you were in agony. nate couldn't get the paperwork done fast enough before you started asking for an epidural. if you weren't in so much pain, you'd know you had to go to triage first, where you'd be checked and then they'd make the decision of whether or not to admit you, and it was then and only then that you could get the epidural. the years working in healthcare told you that.
you just didn't give a shit about any of that in the moment.
a nurse, who’s name you soon forgot when a contraction hit, checked your cervix. she stood up with a bright smile and glanced at you and nate. “so good news, you're 5cm dilated.”
you were admitted shortly thereafter.
as soon as you met your labor and delivery nurse, inez, you were asking for the epidural. she smiled at you softly. “you've got it. i’ll bring back the paperwork.” after she finished your iv and hooking you up to what felt like every machine the hospital owned (dear god, you didn't realize it was like this as a patient. it didn't feel like this many wires when you the one administering it), inez left and came back with a clipboard. she lightly explained the paperwork in front of you which you barely heard, mainly because you'd explained it hundreds of times before and also because nate was watching like a hawk.
if she said something out of line or confusing, which you doubted she would, nate would catch it.
you signed it in a hurry and inez smiled once more. “the anesthesiologist should be here soon.”
“how soon?” nate asked. “she's in a lot of pain.”
being between contractions meant you could roll your eyes at him. “she doesn't know, nate. but they’ll be here eventually.”
inez nodded. “let me know if you need anything.”
before another contraction could start, you made the decision to stand and walk around the room while you still could. without being told, nate helped put your legs on the floor and let you grab onto his forearms for support.
when your hospital gown parted like the red sea in the back and exposed your naked ass, nate cleared his throat. “do you need me to uh—cover you up?”
you waved him off. “it’s nothing you haven't seen before.”
“i know that, but what about the hospital staff—”
“they've seen a million asses in their lifetimes too, and soon enough they'll see my whole vagina so i don't really care.”
when another contraction forced itself to be recognized, you groaned and braced your hands on the end of the bed. quick as ever, nathan applied the counter pressure to your hips. after what felt like ten years (but was probably only max ninety seconds) you relaxed and leaned back into nate’s chest.
“i don't know how women do this unmedicated.” you said.
nate wrapped his hands under your belly and lifted. it nearly made you cry in relief. “you're doing so good though, honey.”
“i’ll be doing better once i get this fucking epidural.”
the anesthesiologist didn't arrive until 9 am, at which point you'd already cried three separate times. the very sight of your tears put nate on edge. needless to say, he was agitated by the time the anesthesiologist arrived to administer the epidural.
“you feeling okay?” nate asked once the two of you were alone again. his hand gently brushed hair back from your forehead.
you smiled. “i’m a brand new woman. might take a nap while i can.”
he nodded. “i think that's a good idea. i’m gonna call my parents and sarah, let them know what's going on.”
it took you a minute, but you looked out the window and saw the sun well above the horizon. your gaze went from the window to nate, back to the window, back to nate.
“what?” he asked.
“you're not at practice.”
nate blinked. “why would i be at practice? you're in labor.”
“does your coach know? or does he just think you're skipping?”
nathan picked your hand up and pressed a kiss to the pulse point on the inside of your wrist. “called him and landy while you were showering this morning.”
you eased back into the pillows now that the momentary anxiety of nate getting in trouble was solved. “did you call tracy?”
“about what?”
“getting my car detailed! there’s amniotic fluid in my front seat, nate.”
to his credit, he only smiled and nodded instead of laughing at your misguided priorities. “get some rest, honey. i’ll get it taken care of.”
you fell asleep for god knows how long, all you knew was you woke up feeling pressure in your pelvis and like you needed to take a massive shit. your eyes landed on nate who was lightly dozing on the couch next to your bed.
“nate,” you said.
his eyes opened immediately before he was back at your side again. “what's up? what do you need?”
“i need you to grab the nurse, i feel like i have to poop.”
nate blinked. “honey, i can help you go to the bathroom if you need—”
but you were shaking your head. “no it’s not actually a poop feeling, it means i need to push.”
his eyes widened before he was out of the room, calling for a nurse from the doorway. inez was in the room in a flash, her brows furrowed together. you were leaning on your left side, hands gripped the bed rails while nate was in front of you, brushing your hair back.
“she said she has an urge to poop,” he said.
inez pulled her gloves on and checked you. “well, i can feel baby’s head.” she pulled her hand away and took her gloves off. “i’m gonna call another nurse and your obgyn. we should have a baby here soon,” she smiled.
your delivery room filled up with more people, nurses and dr. morgan alike, but you could only focus on nate. his eyes were locked on you, his hand held the back of your thigh.
“you've got this, baby. you've got it.”
truth be told, you were scared, terrified even. you'd seen plenty of women do the same thing you were about to do, but it was different now that you were the one who had to push.
“alright, on the count of three, i want you to push,” dr. morgan said from her position at the end of the bed.
once you started pushing, tears sprung to your eyes, the pressure uncomfortably painful. nate’s eyes widened.
“why is she hurting? she got an epidural! what was the point of sticking a giant needle in her back if she’s still in pain?” he sounded a bit defensive and a touch panicked, like the idea of you in pain didn't sit right with him.
dr. morgan shook her head and gently said, “the epidural helps with contraction pain, not pushing pain.”
“i’m okay, nate,” you exhale after one push. “it’s part of the process.”
he didn't look convinced, but after a moment, he nodded and kissed your forehead. “you've got this, honey.” then, he added, “and i’ve got you.”
you looked up at him and gave him a shaky smile. “you've got me.”
“always.”
dr. morgan spoke up again. “alright, we’re gonna need a good strong push, i can feel her head.”
you inhaled and pushed as you exhaled, squeezing your eyes shut. nate pressed his forehead to yours, counting quietly so you could focus solely on birthing your baby girl.
“good job, mama. i need another push just like that.”
there was no telling how long you pushed before she spoke again. “head’s out, next is the shoulders. just a few more pushes, mama.”
you looked up at nate who didn't even hesitate to say something. “just a few more, honey. you can do it, you've gotten this far. you can do it.”
and when he seemed so confident, who were you to doubt him? you pushed as hard as you could until the pressure stopped and a cry filled the room.
your eyes widened when you looked at nate, he looked at you for a moment as you were maneuvered to your back so your baby could be placed on your chest.
“time of birth, 12:29 pm,” dr. morgan said with a smile. “congratulations you two, you have a very beautiful baby girl.”
dr. morgan handed you your baby. her heavy weight was comforting on your chest, and just to be sure you counted every single toe and finger. you took note of her head full of dirty blonde hair. she cried out and you were stunned by how much love you could feel for someone you'd just met. in all iterations of the word, your daughter was helpless, and you would have to show her how to exist, how to be.
you glanced at nate because he was the only one who could understand exactly how you were feeling, but when you looked at him, he was crying and speechless. he kept pressing kisses to your temple, which were more teeth than anything because he couldn't stop smiling.
“she's absolutely perfect,” he finally said. nathan reached out and traced her chunky little arm. “hi baby girl, we've been waiting for you.”
and damn if that comment didn't make you burst into tears.
after a few moments, the nurses took your baby to the other side of the room to do measurements. without your instruction, nate followed, his eyes focused and trained on your daughter. you couldn't stop the smile growing on your face.
“baby girl is 10lbs 4oz, 20 inches” one of the nurses said with a wide smile. “she’s a big girl.”
you shifted as inez and dr. morgan helped you push out the placenta. “that explains why it hurt so fucking much.” you glanced at your obgyn. “be honest, how bad did i tear?”
“nothing too bad, you'll need a few stitches. but given how big she is, i’m surprised you didn't tear more.”
you relaxed back into the pillows just as nate came back with baby girl in his arms, sitting on the edge . he couldn't stop smiling or crying, but he had enough sense to not let his tears hit your daughter in the face.
you glanced over at inez for a brief moment and subtly pointed to your phone. she nodded immediately and took a few candid photos of the three (oh my god three?!) of you before setting your phone down.
you leaned your head against nate’s shoulder, his head came to rest on top of yours. “she’s perfect,” he said. “she looks just like you.”
in your opinion, while she was very cute, she still looked a lot like many other newborns who got beat up in the birth canal. granted, she was so much cuter than any other baby you'd seen or helped deliver, but you couldn't pinpoint any one trait that would make her look more like him or you.
except for the dirty blonde hair.
that was all nate.
he shifted and handed baby girl over to you when she started getting a little fussy. you untucked her swaddle a little just enough to lay her on your bare chest, skin to skin, where she quieted almost immediately. with your pinky you stroked up and down her back, still speechless.
how could you have made someone so perfect?
“you know, i don't think she's gonna fit the newborn clothes we brought.”
inez piped in. “oh she's already in a size 1 diaper, she couldn't fit the newborn size.”
you looked at nate. “this is your fault.”
he didn't even look the least bit sorry. “worth it though.”
you tucked your chin to your chest to stare at your daughter, your daughter, whose eyes were finally opened and fixed on you. the world came to a standstill, tears sprang to your eyes.
you created her, grew her bones and veins, and organs in your own body. for the better part of last year, she’d been a physical part of you. she went where you went, nestled in the safety of your own body.
and now, for the rest of your life, you'd be walking around with your heart outside your body in the form of your little girl. you couldn't imagine loving anyone as much as you loved her. her little toes, her tiny little nose, the way her mouth kept opening and closing.
“are you hungry, sweet girl?” you whispered. you looked over to inez who was by your side in a second, maneuvering your nipple into your daughter’s mouth, helping her latch in the process. nate watched, amazed, if his slackened jaw was any indication.
“where are your parents right now?” you asked, not taking your eyes off your baby.
“still at the house, waiting for the call to visit. sarah’s trying to find a flight out.”
“when do you want your parents to show up?”
he shrugged. “figured we'd just spend some time together being the three of us before introducing more people to the fray.”
you blinked. “why?”
“because i didn't want to bombard you with my parents after giving birth.”
while part of you was touched, another part of you ached internally. he didn't know ever since you were a little girl, you dreamt of being surrounded by family, watching people you loved hold and fawn over your baby. that dream didn't last long once you were old enough to see the behaviors of your biological family.
but it didn't mean you still didn't crave it.
“let me finish breastfeeding and then you can text them to come,” you said.
“if it’s too much, honey—”
“it’s not,” you smiled. “i want them to see how perfect she is.” but he didn't look convinced. “do you want them to wait?”
“i just don't wanna rush this moment. you, her, us.” for a moment, he didn't look at you, just fiddled with his hands like they needed something to do. “just a little longer.”
“okay,” you smiled at him softly. “we can do that. just us.”
after feeding your daughter, with his giant, yet incredibly gentle, hands, nate burped her. you plucked your phone off the tray by your bed and texted his family, giving them the green light to come. you sent kathy a separate text, asking her to pack a cute outfit in the 0-3 months size for reasons she would understand when she met your daughter.
as soon as you locked your phone, you glanced over at nate and your baby girl. and out of all the words you’d used to describe nate in the past, soft wasn’t one you would’ve used until now. countless times, you'd seen the way he barrelled down the rink, like he was fighting the ice and somehow winning. you saw the fists he'd thrown, the bodies he'd checked, hands capable of such violence, yet choosing (entirely subconsciously) to be gentle in that moment. he actively chose to be careful with her.
the way his eyes never left your daughter, the way he bounced her back and forth was nothing but careful. you wanted to take a video and show the world that he wasn't some emotionless dog they claimed he was on the ice. there was no media training for the way he held her with a delicate touch. no traces of a carefully rehearsed pr interview when he stared at her like the sum of everything good he'd done had been cashed in for this one moment.
you took the video anyway, but you kept it in your phone for only your eyes to see, and later, hers for the occasions where she’d inevitably fight with her dad and doubt everything about his character, like how much he loved her.
his parents arrived with a quiet knock on the door, but their smiles were the loudest thing in the room. immediately upon seeing your little family, tears sprang into kathy’s eyes.
“oh my goodness, look at her,” she whispered. her gaze went back from your face to your daughter’s. “i brought an outfit like you said, one from the closet.” she pulled out a pretty lavender long sleeved onesie tracy gave you the day after she found out you were having a girl.
you reached for it while nate laid your daughter between your legs. carefully, you put the onesie on her, nate’s hands watching you do it from a learning standpoint with a dash of overprotective hovering.
while you dressed her, kathy and graham washed their hands in the bathroom. when they came back into the room you smiled and presented your daughter. “do you want to hold her?” you asked.
kathy’s eyes welled up immediately and nodded. gingerly, she took your little girl from you, cooing when she yawned and shifted in kathy’s arms. “she’s absolutely perfect,” she said. “do you have a name yet?”
you looked to nate, as if asking for confirmation. the two of you had agreed on a name a month ago.
“wyatt,” he said, smiling, his chest puffed out a little from pride. “wyatt addison mackinnon.”
truth be told, you and nate loved the name so much you didn't particularly care what others thought about it. but then kathy’s face collapsed into a watery smile and that was when you underestimated how much you'd actually want her approval.
“beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” graham said from his spot next to kathy, peering over her shoulder.
“mom, dad, you wanna come sit down?” nate asked. it sounded courteous, but you saw the way he was eyeing their standing positions.
kathy must've caught on too. “nathan, i birthed and raised two babies of my own, i know how to hold a baby while standing.” but wyatt shifted again and she softened. “but if it'll make you feel better.”
with careful steps under nathan’s watchful eye, his parents took a seat on the couch, obsessing over every little twitch and sound.
he took a seat next to you on the bed and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. his lips pressed to their favorite spot on the side of your head. “i’m really fucking proud of you, honey,” he said just loud enough for you to hear. “i don't think i've ever been this happy.”
and because you could, you teased, “even when you won the cup?”
“fuck the cup,” he said, then, after a moment, “the cup matters, sure. but this? wyatt? i would do anything for her, and you gave that opportunity to me, to be her dad.”
and because you couldn't help yourself, you leaned into him, you worked your arms around his waist and let yourself be held, be wanted.
graham was the next to hold her, letting wyatt grip his finger in the way she’d done with nate’s pinky shortly after she was born.
“so what's the plan?” graham asked.
you looked to nate, imploring him to answer for you seeing as you just pushed out a ten pound baby a few hours ago.
“i’m not playing tomorrow night, but i’ll play on the sixteenth. already talked to bednar and landy about it. they're both on board.”
“what about four nations? and your road games?”
your stomach sank, nate’s shoulders straightened. you'd have all of ten days with nathan and wyatt before he'd be gone on a roadie, then four nations, then another roadie, essentially gone for the entire month of february.
the thought of it made you want to throw up.
the two of you had discussed it once he knew about the schedule and four nations, but it seemed so far away. neither of you considered you'd be a month postpartum acting as a single mom when you made the decision to keep the pregnancy.
you wouldn't, couldn't, regret her now, not when she was the most perfect thing you'd ever laid your eyes on. but the thought of nate being gone for all of february made your head spin.
kathy, as if sensing the growing tension and the prolonged silence from you, cleared her throat. “we’ll help any way we can. now, i think mama wants her baby back,” she winked at you.
your arms stretched out for wyatt, your heart rate settled a little more when she was finally in your arms again.
that night, when his parents left, nate held wyatt, tracing her cheek gently. the conversation from earlier had been weighing on your mind. it felt like there was an anvil in your stomach.
“you're thinking too loud,” nate said absentmindedly. “what's going on?”
you shifted in bed. “what’re we gonna do, nate? you're gonna be gone the entire month of february.”
he looked up, blue eyes meeting yours. “we’ll figure it out, i’m not gonna leave you alone.” nate with one hand, reached out and squeezed your thigh. “we’ve got this.”
postpartum week 1
it took nate thirty minutes to get out of the door even after he was dressed and ready to go. he kept picking up his keys and putting them back down when you so much as winced from shifting in bed. if it wasn't your small noises of discomfort, it was wyatt. he'd make it as far as the bedroom door and she would make a slight squeak that had him bounding over to the bassinet to make sure she was okay.
“you're gonna be late,” you said.
“i don't like this,” he replied. “it’s too soon.”
you shrugged even as the very motion felt like it was pulling apart your psyche and heart at the same time. you didn't want him to go either, but there really wasn't much of a choice. “it is what it is, nate. you gotta go.”
his eyes pleaded with you. “tell me to stay,” he said, moving towards the bed and the bassinet. “tell me to stay and i will. i’ll stay.”
admittedly, the words almost left your lips, you almost uttered them. please don't go, please don't go. please don't—
“go, nate,” you smiled and hoped it was convincing. “we’ll be here when you get back and we’ll probably both be awake.”
his jaw clenched, you made a mental note to tell him to go to the dentist before he got tmj. “are you sure?”
no.
“yes, we’ll be fine. we’ll be cheering you on from here and tracy’s on her way.”
nate pointed at you, his hand barely trembling. “you’ll call me if you need something and i’ll come home, okay?”
you nodded. “we’ll be alright. promise.”
he walked back over to the bassinet and laid a gentle kiss on wyatt’s head. “be good for mama, wyatt girl. i’ll be back before you know it.”
you waited until you heard the garage door close before you burst into tears. you wanted to be selfish, to ask him to stay, but knew you couldn't. you couldn't ask that of him. what if he said no?
what if he said yes?
it was becoming a problem, the way you wanted him all the time. you wanted nathan to be the one who brought you wyatt after a diaper change. you wanted him to be the one who held your hands when you went to the bathroom, who helped you get in and out of bed.
but you were scared that if you said it, the very words would reveal something you weren't ready to say out loud.
you were breastfeeding when tracy arrived with the spare key nate gave her and cale months ago. she sucked all the oxygen out of the room when she came in through the bedroom door. her eyes immediately welled up with tears.
“she’s beautiful, honey. oh my gosh look at her. she's so chunky!”
“ten pounds and some ounces,” you said, too tired to remember the exact weight.
she sat on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on your knee. “and how're you feeling? do you need anything?” she gave a cursory glance at your nursing cart which was still full of snacks and drinks. “when’s the last time you ate something?”
if you weren't freshly postpartum, as in a few days postpartum, you'd do the math. instead, you shrugged. “not sure.”
tracy immediately handed you a granola bar. “as soon as you're finished, i’ll burp miss girl while you eat.”
true to her word, tracy burped wyatt while you snacked on the granola bar and took sips out of your owala. neither of you bothered turning on the game, you'd seen so many in your lifetime, there was no need.
she continued to hold wyatt, cooing softly at your daughter as your eyes grew heavy. “rest up, i've got her.”
you wanted to protest, but didn't think you were able to anymore. “you'll wake me up if she needs me?”
tracy nodded. “as soon as she cries for you, i’ll wake you up.”
you relaxed back into the pillows and tried to get as comfortable as possible. you could trust tracy, you told yourself. you'd trusted her with everything else, you could trust her with your daughter.
you were asleep in a matter of minutes.
it wasn't crying or even tracy that woke you up, but rather the full sensation in your breasts that did. when your eyes opened, you saw tracy in the recliner on the other side of the bedroom with wyatt in her arms. you couldn't make out what she was saying to your daughter, but given that her kindle was in the other hand, you could only guess.
“are you reading smut to my newborn?” you asked, voice coming out like a knife on stone.
tracy looked at you and smiled. “no,” she said. “just teaching wyatt all about the wonders of literature.”
“i would hardly call what you read on kindle unlimited ‘literature.’”
tracy snickered. “you must be feeling better if you're being sarcastic.”
which was true, after a nap, you felt like a new human being, less antsy.
you did your best to sit up and unbutton your top by yourself. you were proud when you mostly made it into an upright position. tracy handed wyatt over and watched as you took her out of her swaddle before she latched.
“how long has she been awake?” you asked, not taking your eyes off your baby.
“about ten minutes, i think.”
“i thought you were going to wake me up when she cried.” you weren’t upset, just confused.
“i was,” tracy explained. “but she didn't cry at all, it’s like she knew her mama needed some rest. she's an easy baby.”
“she's only three days old, i wouldn't call her easy, she might be colicky in two weeks.” you glanced at your best friend and noticed she still had her kindle in her hand. “what're you reading?” you asked.
“oh,” she flushed. “just some billionaire romance i found.”
“what's it about?”
while tracy was explaining the plot (or lack thereof), you didn't hear the garage door opening of the footsteps coming up the stairs. you didn't notice anything until the bedroom door opened and he walked in.
“nate,” you smiled, feeling lighter already. “hey. how was the game?”
he had a cut on his nose that immediately made you frown. “we lost,” he said. “but i don't even care. how are you? how’s our girl?” he began taking off his coat and moved into the closet inside the bathroom, out of sight.
“we’ve been fine, trace let me get a nap in,” you called loud enough for him to hear but now loud enough to startle your baby.
“wyatt is an absolute angel,” tracy chimed in.
nate came back out wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. on cue, wyatt finished her feeding and nate swooped in just in time to take her. and took wyatt to burp her, not even flinching when she puked a little on his clean shirt. he just smiled and shook his head.
“of course she is, she takes after her mom.” he said it so matter of factly that it took a minute to register what he'd said.
maybe the butterflies you felt were a postpartum symptom, maybe it was your uterus retracting.
you'd have to look it up later.
postpartum week 3
there was an embarrassing amount of tears once nate left the house to go on his first roadie of february. earlier that morning, he'd skipped morning skate to stay in the house with wyatt. you'd cried as soon as he left.
and that had been about a week ago.
you were a wreck and it wasn't even wyatt’s fault.
for a newborn, she was easy. rarely crying, just cooing when she wasn’t hungry or her diaper wasn’t full. of course, she’d had some major blowouts, all babies did, but you could deal with rinsing your child off and tossing her clothes in the laundry pile.
except it was the laundry pile that was contributing to your declining mental health.
you were exhausted all the time. wyatt woke up multiple times in the middle of the night for feeds and seeing as nate was on the other side of the motherfucking continent, you were left to do all the feedings and diaper changes.
tracy would come over every day for as long as she feasibly could, giving you a break from your daughter.
god even the thought of needing a break from her made you break down into another set of tears.
you were failing, you were sure of it.
she was as content as a baby could be, but the house was a disaster, your clothes were dirty, and if it wasn't for the massive amount of onesies and outfits you got from your baby shower, wyatt would be rocking just a diaper.
“you're doing great, honey, really. this is hard, but you're killing it.”
“feels like it’s killing me,” you said into the couch pillow.
tracy ran a hand over the back of your head and all you could think about is how you wished it was nate’s instead. “but you're still here, wyatt is still here. she’s happy and healthy.”
you nodded even if you didn't believe it.
she picked your head up until your eyes met hers. “what's going on in that brain of yours?”
your bottom lip wobbled a little. “i just didn't think i'd be a single mom this soon.”
her face sagged in a sad way, something that could only be replicated by someone who loved you. “you're not a single mom—”
rage filled you with little to no explanation but it had a loud and dramatic arrival. you sat up abruptly and scoffed. “i'm not? look around tracy, do you see anyone?”
her eyes widened, taken aback by your outburst. but you couldn't stop.
“he isn't here, he hasn't been here in two weeks and i won't see him until the end of this month. he can't parent over the phone, tracy. and where does that leave me?” you dragged your hands down your face and exhaled. you rubbed at your eyes to keep the tears at bay. “i started looking at apartments yesterday.”
your eyes were covered so you couldn't see the way tracy’s face dropped, but you heard the shake in her voice. “what?”
“yeah,” you sighed. “i know it’s fast, but the sooner i can get used to the idea of doing this alone, the better.”
“honey...”
“nate would still see wyatt, obviously,” you cut in. “i wouldn't keep her from him, he's still a great dad. i just think being here is confusing.”
“what’s confusing about it?”
you shrugged, picking up laundry from the floor to put in the hamper, while your back was turned, tracy began furiously typing on her phone. “makes me think we’re one big happy family when nate and i were hardly friends when we first started sleeping together.”
“but you're friends now,” she said.
you swallowed and nodded. “yeah, friends.”
but you knew as well as she did it wasn't quite that simple. friends was an understatement of whatever you and nate were.
you'd slept in the same bed since christmas eve where he'd been ready to snatch a scooter from your two year old niece. in the weeks he'd been gone, you'd come to miss the way you woke up with his arm strewn across your waist. you'd missed his froggy morning voice, husky and dry from hours of not using it.
he'd handled you with such care during and after your pregnancy. hands that had been cut open and bled from the impact of skin meeting reinforced plastic helmets ghosted over your back, your hips, guiding you gently. fingers that had most definitely been broken at some point, carefully tied your shoes when you couldn't see your feet anymore.
nate treated you like you were delicate, not in a ticking time bomb way, like he was scared one wrong move would set you off, but in a way one would handle an heirloom, something valuable.
that was it.
you felt valuable to him, beyond just friendship.
and yet, you chalked it up to just being the mother of his child.
it couldn't be anything more than that anyway.
postpartum week ??
a part of you felt like a prisoner, though a prisoner who didn't know she’d been locked up. had you known that from the get go, you would've started marking tallies on the walls to signify how long you'd been in the house with nothing but your baby and tracy to keep you company.
or, another marker, how long it’d been since you'd seen nate in person and not through the screen of your phone.
to his credit, he'd facetimed every chance he could, talking to wyatt like he did when you were still pregnant. he asked how you were doing and listened attentively when you told him how you showered for the first time in days.
“are you okay?” he'd asked one night.
you shrugged and hummed, which is all you seemed to do now. “yeah, we went to the doctor a few days ago, as you know, everything was great. she's still in the 85th percentile for weight.”
he laughed, a deep rich sound echoed through the receiver. and despite it being 9 pm, you could've sworn a little sunshine bled into the room. “my big girl,” he smiled.
you moved the phone to show wyatt snoozing away in her bassinet, something she’d gotten really good at doing. she loved a contact nap, but at night you tried to put her in the bassinet so you weren't always being touched.
“she's been super sweet,” you said. “but when you come back, you're changing all her diapers. i’m done cleaning up blowouts.”
nate smiled and nodded. “deal, i’ll do whatever. i’ve missed you both so much.”
both.
the word rang in your head like a resounding gong.
you cleared your throat to get rid of the tension there. “how’s four nations going?”
he shrugged. “i'd say we’re doing pretty good. sid keeps asking to see more pictures of wyatt.”
“i sent you more this morning, those weren't enough?” the photos were of wyatt laying on her playmat doing tummy time with tracy while the latter read her a book by eric carle. another one was wyatt in the bouncer seat with a paci in her mouth watching you put clothes in the washing machine.
“i can't show him all the photos you send,” he said. “some of them have to be mine and mine alone.”
“right...you realize he's your best friend and not the social media admin?”
“yeah but he doesn't have to see every picture i see. like those photos of the three of us at the hospital? no one sees those but us and our scrapbook.”
you choked out a laugh. “our scrapbook?”
“it’s something i’m working on. the best photos go in there, including the ones on wyatt’s birthday.”
“well, those photos certainly aren't getting posted anywhere else,” you said. “i think my tits were out in one.”
nate rolled his eyes. “they were not out completely. it was...tasteful exposure.”
you blinked. “tasteful exposure? that's what we’re calling it?”
“you were doing skin to skin, it’s tasteful and practical.”
and because you couldn't help yourself, you smiled.
you didn't mention the apartment hunting, or the five tabs open on your laptop looking at different furniture stores. you didn't bring up your new pinterest board dedicated to creating a cohesive aesthetic of your new place.
nathan stayed on facetime until he yawned for the fifth time in the span of three minutes. “you need to go to bed,” you said. “you have a game tomorrow morning.”
“i wanna see her when she wakes up,” he said. “as cute as she is asleep, i wanna see her awake.”
“and you can do that tomorrow, when you've got a full night’s rest and the sun is up.”
for once, he didn't argue, maybe the exhaustion was hitting him harder than you thought. “as soon as you both wake up, call me. i’ll leave my phone on the bench during morning skate, i’ll give it to the equipment guy or whatever. but i want to see you both tomorrow morning before the game.”
“i’m not gonna interrupt your skate—”
“you should. if i don't have it down now, there's no point. besides, you two are more important.”
not important enough for you to be here instead of there, you thought bitterly. it was an unrealistic expectation, but the hormones and late nights didn't give a shit about logic anymore, if they ever did at all.
after another yawn from nate, you said, “goodnight, we’ll talk in the morning.”
seeing as he was fighting a losing battle, he nodded. “i’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
when you called at 6 am, it wasn’t nate who answered, but sidney crosby instead. you were too tired to care about how you looked after wyatt woke you up every two hours last night. you had the phone propped up on a box of cereal while you poured oatmeal into your bowl so your face and wyatt’s were shown without you having to hold the phone.
“hey wyatt!” sidney smiled. “how’s my best girl doing?”
wyatt, only being a month old, said nothing.
“she woke up every two hours last night,” you explained. “but she’s pretty content for a girl waiting to eat again.”
“are you exclusively breast feeding or are you pumping as well?” he asked. then, a second later. “is that too personal to ask?”
you laughed. “not too personal. i’m doing both, tracy feeds her sometimes so i can shower or eat something.”
he nodded along. “did you get my package in the mail yet?”
and because you couldn't help it, you smiled. “you mean the baby crosby onesie? she wore it yesterday and so far it’s the only outfit she hasn’t shit all over, so you might be good luck, crosby.”
“what about the stuffed penguin?”
“given that black and white are the only colors she can see other than red, it’s a pretty big hit.”
his smile widened. “just call me the baby whisperer.” wyatt shifted and smacked her lips a little. “are you hungry, little mama?” he asked. “god she's so cute, she looks just like you.”
“she's definitely a cute baby, in my humble opinion,” you agreed.
“is her hair getting darker?” he leaned in to see. “looks like it is.”
you nodded, not at all surprised by how observant the pittsburgh captain was. “it used to be dirty blonde, but it’s slowly but surely turning brown. she’ll probably be a brunette when she gets older.”
sidney opened his mouth to reply when the phone was snatched out of his hand. nate’s face filled your screen. “you held my family hostage on facetime and didn't think to come get me?” he grumbled, shoving sidney away. “what the hell did you two talk about anyway?” and despite his words, his tone wasn't bitter, there was a lightness to it even if his resting bitch face filled your screen.
“just seeing how my goddaughter liked her new onesie. apparently, it’s the only thing she hasn’t pooped all over.”
nate looked at the phone, a touch betrayed. “my own daughter, a penguins fan?”
you shrugged while adjusting wyatt in your grasp, trying to get a few bites to eat before she’d eventually demand to be fed. “i guess she’s a huge fan of sidney crosby. gets that from her dad, i think.” you blinked and leaned closer to the screen, still propped up on the box of honey nut cheerios. “aren't you two supposed to be practicing?”
“i was practicing until i saw the captain here yapping away on my phone.”
sidney rolled his eyes. “i’ll talk to you later,” he said, waving at you and wyatt. “send me some pictures of my goddaughter when you get a chance!” he called before skating off.
nate eyed you and wyatt. “how did you get sid’s number?” he asked warily.
you shrugged. “he sent it in the mail with the crosby outfit and the stuffed penguin she's obsessed with.” you stepped out of view of the camera while you unclipped part of your nursing bra so you could feed wyatt, whose lips kept smacking, a sign she was about to start crying in demand for food. she latched pretty quickly.
when you appeared on the screen again, nate was quick to hunch over the phone. “you okay?” you asked, supporting wyatt with one arm and grabbing your bowl of oatmeal with the other. the two of you headed to the couch where you used a pillow to support wyatt’s body while she ate so you could use both hands to eat your breakfast and hold the phone.
“just want to respect your privacy,” he said.
you looked down. “wyatt’s doing a pretty good job of covering up anything unsavory, nate.”
he stands up a little straighter at that. “what do you have planned for today?”
you shrugged. “we’re running low on groceries, might attempt a grocery run while wyatt girl and tracy stay home.”
he nodded. “i think that sounds like a great idea. when’s the last time you left the house?”
“a few days ago for her first vaccines.”
nate’s face dropped. “i missed those?”
“i told you we went to the doctor.”
“i didn't realize it was that appointment.”
“yeah, well you've been a little busy,” you mumbled, unable to hide the bitterness.
nate leaned back, shocked at your comment. “i’m sorry that my schedule worked out this way, honey, but it’s not my fault they selected me for four nations.”
you clenched your jaw before shoving a spoonful of oatmeal in your mouth. “no you're right, i’m just being dramatic.”
“not what i said—”
“she cried at the doctor’s office, if that's what you want to know. she doesn't like needles.” you swallowed at the memory of wyatt getting poked with a needle and nearly screaming her head off. it’s the loudest you'd ever heard her cry. and despite believing in modern medicine, you wanted to scoop your daughter up and never go back to the doctor’s office ever again.
his face sagged, heavy with the weight of his own absence. “i’m sorry, honey.”
“when you come back, you're sitting in there with her when she gets her vaccines. i’m not doing that again.”
he nodded readily. “of course, yeah, i can do that. god i’m so ready to be home.”
“ten more days,” you said, hoping your voice sounded lighter than it felt.
“ten more days,” he said. “we can make it that long.”
postpartum week 6
you woke up with an unfamiliar weight slung over your waist. that sensation coupled with wyatt’s pre meal grunting woke you like a sleeper agent. you picked your head up slowly, nate’s arm tightening around your hips until the tension released.
“i’ll get her,” he said, sitting up faster than you could ever imagine yourself doing and walking to your side of the bed to pick up your baby girl. “good morning, wyatt girl. did you sleep okay?”
you watched in confusion as he scooped her up and laid her on the bed to get her out of the swaddle before he changed her diaper. you didn't remember him coming home last night, nor did you remember waking up past 3 am like usual. “did you feed her last night?” you asked.
he nodded, though his eyes were fixed on wyatt. “got home and saw she was grunting and smacking her lips, so i got some breast milk from your stash and fed her.” he glanced at you. “hope that’s okay. you just looked like you could sleep a little longer.”
“thank you,” you replied.
“do you want to feed her or do you want her to bottle feed?” he asked. nate held wyatt in his large arms, bouncing and smiling at her. her arms waved around at the movement.
truth be told, part of you wanted to breast feed, but he hadn't seen her in person in a month and given his body language, more than likely, he wanted to feed her again.
“you can feed her, i’ll pump.”
“do you need help with anything before i head downstairs?” he asked.
but you shook your head. “i’m gonna take a quick shower while you have her occupied and then i’ll come down.”
he nodded and left the room while you stripped down and stepped into the bathroom.
the shower was heaven sent. it wasn't that you hadn't showered in ages, tracy had come over nearly every day in the last month to watch and hang out with wyatt so you could have some me time and conversations that weren't one sided.
but it was different with nate. it always was. it was like something inside you instinctively knew your baby was safe and sound with her dad. you weren't tempted to grab her and sit her in the bouncer in your bathroom so you could have eyes on her. that primal feeling that she was safe with her father allowed you to take your time in washing your hair instead of rushing out.
as soon as you got out and dried yourself off, you changed into sweats and a nursing bra, so you could pump hands free before you pulled a zipped up hoodie on top.
nate and wyatt were laying on the floor, both of them on their backs when you came down the stairs. he was pointing to the toys that jingled on her playmat while she was swatting the air.
“having fun?” you asked.
nate looked up and smiled when he saw you. “she drank her entire bottle, gave a few hefty burps too.” he propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at your daughter. “she's gotten so big since i’ve last seen her.”
“well, that's what happens when you haven't seen her in a month,” you said before you could stop yourself. you turned to the cabinet quick enough that you didn't see a flash of hurt on nate’s face before he schooled it into something more palatable.
“what's the plan for today?” he asked.
you shrugged as you pulled out a box of cereal. “that depends on you, i’m on maternity leave.”
“when’s the last time you left the house with her?”
you blinked. “i haven't, except for doctor’s appointments.”
he blinked back. “why not?”
you blinked again. “because i was a single mother for a month? or did you forget that part?”
nate’s jaw clenched, but he didn't bite back. “wanna go to the grocery store? just the three of us?”
you shifted on your feet. “i don't know nate, there’s people there and she doesn't have enough vaccines for me to feel comfortable in an enclosed space.”
“then let’s go on a walk.”
it didn't feel right. “and take a chance on being spotted out with you and a baby?” you scoffed. “fat chance.”
“okay...” he started. “then let’s take a walk around the neighborhood. and you can't even blame it on the weather, it’s supposed to be like 65 degrees this afternoon. i checked.”
fine. “we can go after her 12 o’clock nap.”
sure enough, as soon as she woke up that afternoon, nate was dressed and ready to go. you, on the other hand, were slower moving. not because you were still in pain, but because you didn't want to go outside, not with wyatt. not when it was still cool outside.
66 degrees your ass. your daughter was used to warm baths and blankets.
but nate was already getting her ready.
“i think she needs the big coat,” you commented. “it’s cold out.”
he looked up at you from where he was changing her diaper. “got it.”
and after dragging your feet, the three of you made it to the sidewalk with wyatt in the baby wrap, snuggled close to nate’s chest.
“how far are we walking?” you asked.
he shrugged. “until she gets fussy.”
“we can't walk until she gets fussy, nate. if we do that, it’s too late.”
“then we walk until we want to turn around.”
you did your best to relax, it was clear nate and wyatt were capable, but you couldn't. for the life of you, you couldn't chill the fuck out.
and it wasn't even baby related anxiety. it was regular life shit. you still needed an apartment, one close to nate’s place, that was affordable, which given the part of denver he lived in, would be next to impossible to find. you had to get on a daycare list like yesterday and pray a spot opened up in time for you to go back to work in june. and because you're using all your pto to extend your maternity leave, you had to pray yet again to whatever higher power, you didn't get sick for a few months because you couldn't afford to miss work. you—
“—okay? honey?” you snapped out of it to look at nate and wyatt, both of whom were staring at you with matching expressions. to be fair, wyatt probably couldn't really see your face all that clearly. “you zoned out for a second.”
there’s zero chance he didn't see through your fake smile and nod, but he didn't say anything to challenge it either so...
a win’s a win, you guess.
when the three of you got back to the house, you made yourself comfortable on the couch while nate prepared a bottle for wyatt, feeding her with one hand while she rested comfortably in his other arm.
he'd be fine without you there all the time, you thought. sure, it’d be hard in the same way the entire month of february was for you, but he'd adjust. everyone always adjusted to your absence.
and it wasn't even like you'd be absent forever! you two just wouldn't live together, you'd coparent like you planned, just in separate houses. and wyatt wouldn't be traumatized, she wouldn't remember a time where the three of you were all in the same house. and if she happened upon photos of the three of you together on the couch because nate decided to take a selfie when you were looking your worst, then—
—then you'd just explain to her it was easier to be under the same roof at first, but life shifts and changes. and people come and go like suitcases on the carousel at an airport, sometimes you mix up who’s supposed to be yours and who’s supposed to be someone else’s.
but then you'd look at her and say, “wyatt girl, you were always meant to be mine.”
nate wasn't supposed to be yours, and you'd fooled yourself the last part of your pregnancy, really since christmas eve, into thinking he could be.
“i’m gonna get her ready for her nap,” he said.
you looked up and over your shoulder to see nate standing behind you at the bottom of the stairs. a quick nod was all you gave him before you grabbed your laptop, not sparing him another glance. you didn't see him linger at the bottom of the staircase, you didn't see him hesitate just for a second.
you were locked in on the zillow home page. your fingers flew across the keyboard, typing in nathan’s address and zooming out to see what would fit your budget and—
not much.
you zoomed out farther, justifying the ever growing distance by saying you could use the money you'd save on rent for gas.
there were a few in your price range, about a ten minute drive to nathan’s place. you clicked on the listing and looked through the photos, they weren't bad but it looked a little dirty.
the next listing was better, but not by much.
and so was the next one.
and the next.
and the next.
really it was nathan’s fault for getting you used to a life of luxury because apartment hunting wouldn't have been this hard had you stayed in your shitty little apartment across town—
“what're you doing?”
you jumped, nearly sending your laptop flying. in your fright, you couldn't hear the way nate’s voice sounded a little pinched, like someone who got hurt in a horror movie but can't make a sound for fear it would give them away.
you spun around and saw his hand shaking a little from where it’s sticking out, gesturing to you.
“you—you're looking at apartments?” he asked.
“y-yeah,” you finally said.
he blinked. “why?”
and because you couldn't do anything else, you shrugged like an idiot. “figured it was time.”
that seemed to snap nate out of whatever trance he was in. he was rounding the couch until he was parallel to the arm of it. “time? time for who? you're six weeks postpartum!”
“and you weren't here for most of it!” you shot back, kneeling on the cushion.
“so you leave? that’s your solution?” he ran a hand down his face. “you gonna take wyatt too?”
“well, she's breastfed so she can’t be without me—”
“—let me get this straight, you're gonna leave and take our daughter and you were gonna tell me this, when?”
“i—i don't know—”
“so i was gonna come home one day, expecting to see you and our little girl and instead of finding the two of you, i’d find, what? a note? a text that i didn't see? or one you timed perfectly when i walked through the garage door?”
you shook your head. “no i—”
“what exactly was your plan, honey? because this feels cruel, it feels mean. and that’s not who i know you to be.”
you stood up on shaky legs and crossed your arms. protection! your mind screamed. protect yourself before he gets too close and sees you.
“well,” you cleared your throat. “maybe you don't know me as well as you think.”
you couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to see the look on his face when he finally gave up. you licked your lips and braced for impact.
nate inhaled, you could feel it in your bones. you'd feared you'd grown accustomed to the sound, it was a part of you now. there was no telling how long it would take to get nathan mackinnon out of your system.
“bullshit.”
your heart stopped. your ears were ringing. you must've heard wrong because there was no way—
“huh?”
“bullshit,” he repeated. “i’m a lot of things, honey, but an idiot is not one of them. don't try to tell me what i do and do not know when i've known you, i know you.”
you shook your head and stepped back. “no you don't.”
“your favorite color is purple,” he said, not moving an inch.
“lucky guess.”
“and i know that because it’s the color of wyatt’s nursery, it’s the most popular color you wear. it’s the color of your water bottle beside your bed.” he licked his lips. “i know your favorite disney princess is sleeping beauty who you'd insist i call—”
“—auro—”
“—ra, because it’s her name, not the title of her movie. i know she’s your favorite because you watched it when you got sick when you were pregnant with wyatt. and all the faces of the princesses on your childhood scooter were faded or scratched away except for hers, like you were saving her for some reason.”
you swallowed, heat pooling behind your eyes.
nate took a step forward.
you took another step back.
he felt too close.
he was too close.
you took another step back.
“i know you love your family despite everything. maybe you wished you could hate them because it’d be easier, but you don't. you couldn't. even when they ignore you, assume the worst about you, you love them.”
you shook your head, and blinked. with that one blink, tears fell, soaking your cheeks and chin. “you don't know that—”
“you still go back for christmas eve, you would've let them give away your scooter if it meant they'd accept you.”
“no i—”
he took a step closer to you, then another, and another. he was two feet now, his voice much softer.
you had nowhere else to go.
“it was your scooter to give away, honey, not theirs.”
you shook your head. “it was just a scooter,” you whispered.
“it was never just a scooter,” he said right back. with sure feet, he closed the distance between you, with shaky hands he cupped your face.
“why?” you asked. “why do you want me to stay?”
“it’s not a matter of want, honey. it’s a matter of needing. i don't want you to go, yes, but i don't think i could let you go even if i tried.”
“i don't...i don’t ...” there were not words for you to say.
he smiled ruefully and pressed his forehead against yours. “i knew i was a goner when you put a band aid over my stitches in cale’s bathroom. i thought you were the prettiest girl i’d ever seen and i’d be lucky if you gave me the time of day.”
“that doesn't make sense,” you shook your head, but he didn't let you pull away. “you're nathan fucking mackinnon and i’m—”
“—the love of my fucking life, the mother of my child, my favorite person.” he smiled. “do you want me to keep going?”
and because you couldn't stop yourself, a little squeak of a laugh came out. “no, no i think i got it.”
“good, because i love you.”
your body couldn't help its natural reaction to his confession. your eyes squinted from the force of your smile. your cheeks hurt, but your heart was singing.
“you love me?” you said just loud enough for him to hear.
“best day of my life was meeting you in that stupid bathroom,” he said.
and it told you everything.
“better than wyatt’s birth?” your hands gripped his shirt nervously in your palms.
“there’s no wyatt without meeting you in our best friends’ guest bathroom.”
and because you couldn't help yourself, you said, “i love you too, nathan mackinnon.”
“just nate,” he said. “to you, i’ve only ever been just nate.”
january 13th, 2026
“nate,” you called as you came down the stairs. “you don't get to hog our daughter on her birthday. i’m the one who did all the hard work.”
you rounded the corner and saw your one year old in her father’s lap on the couch, a scrapbook in their laps.
“dada more,” wyatt said, lightly slapping the book with her little hand.
“more what, wyatt girl? what could you possibly want more of?”
you leaned against the doorframe and smiled to yourself. and, because you couldn't help yourself, you snapped a photo of the two of them. your old lockscreen was getting old anyway. you hadn't replaced it in two weeks.
“mama!” a shout grabbed your attention. your needy toddler held her hands out for you, so you obliged. as lovely a baby wyatt was, she’d proven to be a rambunctious toddler.
as you walked up to them, you scooped your daughter up and pressed a loud kiss to her chubby cheek. she squealed in response.
“no kiss for dada?” nate playfully scoffed.
you rolled your eyes just because you could. because this was your life.
“sorry, dada, forgot all about you.” he leaned up and met you halfway, kissing you sweetly. “what're we looking at?” you asked. when you took the seat next to nate, wyatt in your lap, your eyes widened. “it’s finished? you finished the book?”
he looked so smug. “finished last night while you were asleep watching real housewives.”
“well, let me see it!”
he pulled away when you tried to reach for it. “patience, honey. i’m about to show you.” a moment later, he grumbled, “i see where wyatt gets it.”
you shoved his shoulder and scoffed. “i heard that, jerk.” you watched and waited for him to open wyatt’s baby book, but he put it on the coffee table. “what're you doing? you said you were gonna show me.”
“later, i wanna show you this one first,” he said, sliding a scrapbook you'd never seen before out from under the couch.
your eyes widened, it was a lighter brown, like the color wyatt’s hair had turned after her blonde phase as a baby had grown out. “what is this?”
he shrugged. “thought it would be nice to have a family book too.”
he opened the cover.
he flipped the first page.
you immediately started crying.
the scrapbook first few pages were full of pictures that had to have been taken on nate’s phone over the years. there was a group photo from the night you'd met, standing on two opposite sides of the group, not knowing that in two and a half years, you'd have a kid and a future with each other. the pages blurred the further he flipped. photos of when you weren't looking, moments you didn't remember. the book, solid proof that nate had always seen you. there were photos of you at a bar with friends with his hand at your waist, back when you were just sleeping together. there were pictures at nate’s surprise birthday with his arm around your shoulders.
the pictures went on and on. after the games, the baby shower, wyatt’s birth, wyatt’s first avs game. there were so many fucking pages of photos you'd never seen before.
you were seen. there was proof you existed, proof you mattered. right in front of you, there was evidence that if you disappeared, there would be people who’d miss you, who’d need you. you were loved, by a group of people so massive you probably couldn't name them all from memory.
and you had this scrapbook, so carefully put together by the man you loved. a scrapbook full of photos but with lots of empty pages to accommodate anyone else you'd come across.
“god i love you,” you started, tears rapidly streaming down your face. “this whole thing might have been an accident, but if i had the chance to start over, i’d do it all on purpose.”
nate smiled wryly. “i wouldn't even take the chance,” he said. “why would i? this is everything i’ve ever wanted anyway.”
you stared at each other, wyatt had long since wiggled out of your lap to play with the stuffed penguin sidney gave her all too long ago. it'd seen better days, sidney had sent another, but wyatt was attached to the first one, you and nate were just waiting for the right time to switch them out and gaslight her into believing it’s the same toy she’d always loved.
“let’s go to the courthouse,” you said sporadically. “let’s just get married. like right now.”
nate laughed and shook his head. “oh you'll have to do better than that, honey. i have a plan and you're not about to ruin it.” he tossed an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple. “you’re just gonna have to be patient.”
you guffawed. “do i get a timeline?”
“nope,” he popped the p. “you're just gonna have to trust me, trust that i got you, because i know you.”
and because you couldn't stop yourself, not when you had the love of your life, the best little girl, all because the man in front of you ripped his stitches at a house party, you smiled the widest smile you ever thought you were capable of.
summary: you and nate were fwb when one night leads to a lifelong consequence (aka you fucked around and found out)
pairing: nathan mackinnon x reader
warnings: accidental pregnancy, mention of abortion
week 34
nate frowned from his position leaning against your doorframe. his arms were crossed over his chest as he watched you waddle around your room in a sports bra and spandex. “this is ridiculous.”
you tugged a shirt over your head and watched as the fabric stretched over your stomach. “what is?”
“you working on thanksgiving.”
you sighed and settled on the bed. “i work most holidays, nate. that’s nothing new. besides, you're working too.”
he scowled. “isn't being pregnant an excuse enough?”
“no. it’s not.”
“all the more reason to quit.”
before you could stop yourself, you rolled your eyes. “nate, we've talked about this, i love my job—”
“—and it’s wearing you out,” he finished. “honey, be honest. you're exhausted by the end of one shift. your ankles are swollen, your back aches. you were complaining about pelvic pain last night.”
defensive, you crossed your arms over your chest. “i’m not quitting.”
“and i’m not asking you to.”
“you sure about that? because it sounds like you are.”
nate ran a hand down his face and sighed. “i’m just concerned about you and baby girl.” he came to sit next to you on the bed. out of habit, you rested your head on his shoulder. “how long are you gonna work?”
you shrugged. “i was thinking up until my water breaks, to make the most of my maternity leave.”
it was clear he didn't necessarily like that idea, given the way his shoulder tensed under your head, but he wasn't gonna argue with you about it. “when does your shift start?”
you glanced at your phone. “not until 7, i got a few hours."
“let’s get you something to eat, then we can take a nap.”
nathan helped you down the stairs and got you settled on the couch before he started on lunch. “what are you hungry for?”
you rubbed your stomach. “pancakes.”
he made a noise in the back of his throat. “something with protein.”
“baby wants pancakes.”
“baby can get pancakes, but she’s also getting protein.” he rummaged around in the kitchen. “how do you like your eggs?”
you smirked. “fertilized.”
a choking sound echoed from the kitchen echoed through the house. when you looked over, nathan was hitting his chest like it would clear his throat. “hilarious.”
you smiled. “scrambled please.”
the sounds of pancake batter sizzling on the griddle and eggs cooking in the skillet reverberated through the room. nate hummed a tune under his breath, just loud enough for you to question if he was making noise or if you were going crazy.
ten minutes later, he was bringing you a fork and a plate full of eggs and pancakes. he doubled back to the kitchen for syrup and a glass of orange juice for you.
“thanks, nate.”
he nodded before he left to grab his own food. when he came back, he took the seat next to you.
“how is it?” he asked.
you gave him a thumbs up and smiled after swallowing your bite of pancakes. “fantastic. baby is happy.”
nate smiled a little to himself and took a bite to keep it from growing into something that took over his entire face.
when breakfast was over, he took the plates and loaded the dishwasher while you turned the tv on and scrolled through netflix for something mindless to watch. by the time nate came back to the couch, you'd settled on great british bakeoff, a show you'd sucked nate into a week ago.
“why are there so many different types of cake, jesus fucking christ,” he mumbled before you waved him off and shushed him.
“you gotta roll with it, nate. it’s a part of the experience.”
he rolled his eyes like he always did when you brushed his comments off, more so when they were about a show or movie you enjoyed. though, in the end, he didn't seem to be too bothered by it, if throwing his arm around your shoulders was any indication.
the two of you made it through two episodes before nate asked the question you knew he'd been waiting to ask since you both woke up that morning.
“have you asked tracy to stay the night tomorrow and the twenty-ninth?”
“no nate, i did not ask her to stay the night of thanksgiving. you're gonna be gone for like two days max, i’ll be alright.” you yawned and snuggled closer to his chest. “i’ll be fine, relax.” you tossed your arm over his waist and pulled yourself closer to him. a part of you almost threw your leg over his, but that felt too far.
there was no telling how quickly you fell asleep, at least not from your perspective. one moment you were watching someone make banoffee pie, the next moment you were waking up horizontal on the couch, tucked under a blanket. you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes right as nate came down the stairs with his bag slung over his shoulder and your typical work clothes in his hands.
“good, you're up.” he set the clothes on the coffee table in front of you. nate kneeled on the ground in front of you and pulled the blanket up a little to expose your feet. he pulled out your compression socks that he more than likely found in your dresser and worked both socks onto your feet.
you sat up. “nathan mackinnon, i can put my own socks on.” you scowled.
he fixed you with a serious look. “you couldn't tie your shoes yesterday and you think you can put compression socks on?”
“i could've figured it out.”
but he didn't pay you any attention, he just rolled your socks up your calves, then, turned his attention to the other clothes he placed on the coffee table. the next thing he picked up was the belly band he bought off amazon two weeks ago after you absently said the tape wasn't helping as much as you wanted.
“nate,” you groaned.
but he ignored you anyway. “it’ll help you feel better.”
“but i’m not going to work yet.”
“all the more reason to give yourself a break now.” he gestured for you to stand and begrudgingly, you did. you held your arms out and let him strap the band around your waist.
“are you satisfied now? you're gonna be late,” you remarked as he looked you over.
“worth it.” he planted a kiss on your forehead and one on your belly. “call me if you need anything, and if you can't get a hold of me, call tracy. i’ll see you tomorrow.” nathan scooped his bag up and headed towards the garage. and, because you were a sap, you followed him, leaning against the doorframe as he climbed into his car.
“see you tomorrow. don't get concussed, please.”
he smiled and nodded.
admittedly, you stood at the door and watched him peel out of the driveway longer than you'd like. it felt a little embarrassing and the butterflies in your stomach, you associated and blamed on your baby.
baby girl gave a kick to your ribs that was strong enough to warrant a wince. “okay okay,” you mumbled. “enough standing around, let’s get a snack.”
four hours later, you were clocked in and sitting at your desk, grateful nate made you wear the belly band because you were only an hour into your shift and in desperate need of some tylenol.
“girl, are you okay?” sophie asked.
you groaned into your hands. “everything hurts. you wouldn't happen to have any tylenol that's from the drug store and not from this hospital?”
sophie held a finger up and headed down the hallway, hopefully to the locker room where her things were stored. she appeared two minutes later, out of breath, and holding a bottle of tylenol.
you could've cried at the sight. you popped the medication in your mouth and took a swig out of your owala. logically, you knew the meds wouldn't start working immediately because that's not how they operate, but it was the relief of knowing they would kick in soon that had you relaxing into your chair.
“do you need anything else?” sophie asked.
you shook your head. “i should be fine.”
you were not fine. by the time you got off work, everything ached. it hurt even more when you thought about how you'd have to do it two more days in a row.
nathan was making breakfast when you walked in the door. your hands were braced on your back. your feet ached. your pelvic pain was unbearable. nate, to his credit, didn't give you the “you should go on maternity leave now” speech. the look on your face must've said you weren't in the mood.
“do you need help going up the stairs?” he asked, but you shook your head. “i’ll bring breakfast up to you.”
you hopped in the shower as soon as you could, nearly crying with relief because of the instant relaxation the hot water brought. you walked into your bedroom in a t-shirt and oversized sweatpants you'd stolen from nate (untied so they'd actually fit).
he sat on the corner of your bed, a tray of sausage, eggs, and toast with a glass of orange juice (the superior juice, in your opinion), resting on your nightstand. the second you got close to the bed, he hopped up and helped you sit down. nathan helped you get your legs in bed and under the covers before he adjusted the pillows behind you.
“thank you,” you sighed as he handed you the tray. “but you don't have to wait on me hand and foot.”
he ignored you and sat back down on the corner of the bed. “i have to leave in about an hour, but tracy said she’d stay with you—” you rolled your eyes.
“nate—”
“i’m not leaving you alone when you're this pregnant and in pain,” he continued. “i’ll be back in two days.”
“how’s your week long roadie in december gonna work if you don't even trust me to be home alone for two days?”
he patted your shin. “it’s not a trust issue, it’s an ‘i care about your wellbeing’ issue.” he cleared his throat. “which, by the way, what's your plan for christmas? what does your family usually do?”
you sighed, not even wanting to think about the trainwreck that is your family’s holiday celebrations. “i go to my parents’ house in boulder on christmas eve. we open our presents then so my sister can do christmas day with her husband’s family. what does your family usually do?”
he nodded. “my parents and sister are coming into town in time for our game against seattle, and then they’ll probably head back to cole harbour a few days after christmas.” nate cleared his throat. “my parents were contemplating coming back into town after the new year to be here to help when the baby is born, but i wanted to check with you, see what you thought before i said yes or no.”
you thought about it for a moment. “sounds good to me. are you okay with it?”
he nodded. “so we’ll go to your parents’ for christmas eve and spend christmas day here with mine?”
his statement just about gave you whiplash. “huh? you're coming to my family’s christmas eve? nate you don't have to—”
“i know, but i haven't met your family, i would like to know who raised the amazing woman in front of me.”
you blinked, absolutely speechless.
“plus, it’d make me feel better knowing you weren't driving back from boulder alone at night.”
“you're too nice to me.”
“bullshit,” he said, leaning over and brushing a kiss on your hairline. “eat up and get some rest, i’ll come back for the tray.” he began to stand, but your hand shot out and grabbed his forearm.
“could you stay? just a little longer? until you absolutely have to get up?”
his face softened, the edges lost their harsh lines. “of course.” he laid on the other side of the bed, his head resting on the other pillow while you began to eat the breakfast he made.
neither of you spoke really, but his hand would trace patterns into your thigh, and you would occasionally feed him a piece of the scrambled eggs. he protested, saying you needed it more than he did, but in the end, nathan couldn't really deny you anything if you asked.
he set the tray on the floor and helped you get settled to fall asleep. the bed shifted as he tried to leave to let you sleep, but you mumbled quietly, so quietly that you weren't sure if he heard you.
“a little longer?”
he sank back into bed and stroked your hair until you fell asleep.
you woke an unknown amount of time later as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, murmuring something about seeing you in two days, to call him if you needed something. you vaguely remember mumbling a goodbye before slipping back into a deep sleep.
the next two days passed without incident. tracy arrived shortly before you went to work and helped you get ready. both shifts were sent straight from hell, you were convinced.
your third of three shifts that week came straight from hell, you were convinced. the birthing moms were great for the most part, though you could give them some leeway if they were a little rude. but after three straight shifts, your body ached in ways you couldn't explain.
when you pulled into the garage, you were ready for nothing more than to have nate help you up the stairs, hoping secretly that he'd prepared a bath and dinner for you when he got home.
you sat in the car for a moment to work up the nerve to actually get out. you made it to the door and opened it up, noticing the house was quiet, like it always was at seven thirty in the morning.
like always, you showered, changed into leggings and a t-shirt, and got into bed, not even bothering to eat anything other than a granola bar you stole from the pantry. you passed out and woke up hours later to the smell of homemade food.
it made your mouth water.
slowly, but surely, you made you way down the stairs until you stepped into the kitchen.
“nate? you home? did you make dinner? because you might be my new favorite person—” you rounded the corner and saw him standing there with his teammates and their families. a bouquet of what looked like chrysanthemums sat in a vase on the counter surrounded by a thanksgiving dinner that had to have been made painstakingly in a home of people who loved each other.
“what—”
nate crossed the kitchen and pulled you into a hug. “happy thanksgiving, honey.”
your eyes filled with water as your arms moved on instinct to hug him back. tracy appeared a beat later, smiling wide and ready to hold you as soon as nate moved away.
“hope you're hungry, we might have made too much.” she kissed the side of your head. “do you want to sit?”
she set you up on the couch while nate brought you a plate of food.
“you didn't have to do this,” you said.
he shrugged. “i wanted to.”
the living room filled up with his teammates and their wives or girlfriends, not a seat was unoccupied. you were content to sit there with your head on nathan’s shoulder and slowly eat your food while you listened to the inside jokes bounce around the room like a ping pong ball.
tracy, unbeknownst to you had disappeared from the room, along with some of the wags and their husbands for just a moment before all of them came back in with gifts and large boxes.
your eyes widened before you looked at nate. “it’s not my birthday, what’s going on?”
tracy smiled as they laid the gifts around you and nathan. “with the holidays coming up, we weren't sure when we’d be able to get together again like this, so the girls and nate and i planned a little baby shower.”
melissa chimed in. “nate sent us your registry, but some of the other gifts are from what some of us found helpful with our pregnancies and first few weeks with the baby.”
you couldn't speak until nate nudged you. “go ahead and open them, honey.”
looking back, you didn't have much recollection of the gifts you got, you just remembered crying and thanking each person, scanning the room for their faces, grateful that they'd been kind enough to show up.
as the night went on, the crowd dwindled down until it was just you, nathan, cale, and tracy.
“thank you so much,” you said from your spot under nate’s arm. “this really means a lot...” you cut yourself off with a yawn, which seemed to spur nate into action.
“alright, let’s get you in bed,” he said, moving to get off the couch.
your eyes widened. “but—”
“i’ll come over tomorrow and we can organize your gifts,” tracy smiled, reaching to squeeze your hand. “but you need to rest.”
as nate helped you off the couch, tracy and cale walked over to hug you goodbye.
when you were finally settled in bed, nate sat on the edge, his large hands gently stroking your shin.
“thank you, nate. this was...it meant the world.”
he squeezed your shin through the blankets. “anytime.”
week 38
by the time christmas eve rolled around, you were over being pregnant. truthfully, you'd been over it since the start of hockey season, but you got through it knowing you had less than two weeks to go.
nate had been buzzing around the house to finish the last of the baby proofing while you'd been folding baby clothes on the couch. shortly after the baby shower, tracy came over and helped you paint the nursery...
until nate came home from morning skate and all but carried you out of the room, waxing on about paint fumes being bad for you and the baby. he'd been fussier over you lately, hardly ever letting you do anything remotely close to hard work. just the other day, you thought he was going to have an aneurysm when he walked into the nursery and saw you on a small step stool, putting books on their shelves.
which is how you'd been relegated to the couch, folding the baby clothes nate had pulled out of the dryer.
“do you need any help?” you called out.
“you can help me by not getting off the couch until it’s time to go to your parents’,” he called back.
you glanced down at your leggings and sweatshirt. “i don't even get the opportunity to change?” you asked, mostly to tease and challenge him.
nate came into the living room with another basket of baby clothes and sat next to you. “if you wanna change, that's your prerogative, but you're 9 months pregnant and i haven't seen you wear anything else since thanksgiving.”
“you're so bossy,” you grumbled as you folded a pair of socks and put them in their respective basket. “what else do we still need to do before the baby’s born?”
despite being an l&d nurse, you weren't nearly as obsessed with the preparation part as nate was. to put it lightly, he was particular and borderline obsessed with making sure everything was ready for your little girl.
“we still need to pack the hospital bags—”
“—nate we do not need multiple bags—”
but he continued on like you hadn't said anything. “we’ll have to set up the bassinet once we decide which room it’s going in.”
you gave him an odd look. “which room? i thought the bassinet would go in mine.”
he shrugged, but wouldn't make eye contact with you initially. “i've been thinking about how i'd want to help with midnight feedings. i don't want you doing it alone.” he cleared his throat. “so i thought, i could get an air mattress and sleep in your room—”
“or we could just share a bed, nate. your back won't survive weeks on an air mattress and i’m not going to be the reason the avs lose.”
“your room or mine?”
you thought about it for a second. “your bed and room are bigger, that's the best option.”
“are you comfortable with that? you've been sleeping in your room for a while.”
“i slept in your room before i moved in, nate,” you deadpanned. “that's how we ended up in this situation.”
the tips of his ears turned pink. he cleared his throat. “what time do we need to leave for your parents’?”
“dinner isn't until 5, so we've got about an hour and a half before we need to leave.”
he nodded. “in that case, i’m gonna shower real quick.” nate stood up and headed for the stairs but turned around and pointed at you before he walked any further. “please for the love of god, just relax and don't try the stairs.”
shortly after he got out of the shower, nate was helping you up the stairs to get dressed. not long after both of you looked put together, did you head out to the car armed with two bags full of christmas gifts.
“are you excited to see your family?” he asked.
you shrugged. “i guess, but i’m more excited about picking up some of my things from my parents’ house that i want our baby girl to have. i used to have this disney princess scooter that i rode on religiously as a kid. it was like one of the only thing of mine that my sister wasn't interested in, mainly because she had a shiny pink razor scooter, but when i got too big for it, all i could imagine was giving it to my daughter one day.” you turned and smiled at nate. “it’s seriously the cutest thing, after we open presents, i’ll have to show you.”
“i would love to see it.”
the drive wasn't too bad, though it was longer than normal because of the traffic. the sun had set by the time you arrived.
nathan was quick to hop out of the car and help you out. you'd stopped fighting him over it a few weeks ago.
nate grabbed the bags in one hand while his other hovered around your waist as you climbed the porch stairs. he reached for the doorbell but you opened the door without hesitating.
the foyer of your childhood home was decorated to the nines, just like it always was this time of year. the warm glow of the fireplace lit up the living room as you ventured further into the house. nate dropped the bags of gifts by the tree and looked around curiously. his eyes landed on the mantle that was decorated with endless photos of your niece and siblings. the clench of his jaw made your stomach twist, he'd probably only found your one photo holding your little sister, lauren.
but he didn't dwell on it, not when you were moving into the kitchen where your family was undoubtedly about to eat. the two of you appeared in the doorway of the broad kitchen and dining space. you wanted to shrink down into your shoes when they all looked up, but nate made it nearly impossible.
he didn't shrink once.
“you made it,” lauren spoke up, her eyes widening slightly.
what do you mean? you wanted to ask. it’s christmas eve.
but in the spirit of christmas civility, you said nothing. you gestured to the tree of a man beside you. “guys, this is nathan. nate this is my family. my brother stephen, my sister lauren, her husband michael, their daughter zara, and my mom and dad.” you pointed out each family member who did little more than wave.
nate smiled and waved back, but his other hand moved to your lower back. “nice to meet you all.”
you could see the moment your brother clocked who nate was. his eyes widened and mouth dropped a little but before he could say anything, zara started screaming and crying for food. her outburst spurred the entire family into motion, with your sister trying to soothe her while your brother in law moved to get plates of food for his family.
zara slammed her hands on the table over and over until food was placed in front of her. your mom, dad, and brother all silently went to get their plates.
nate leaned down to you. “go sit down, i’ll get your food.”
“i want carbs,” you said.
he cracked a smile and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then headed to the kitchen island.
you took a seat across the table from your sister and her husband, leaving a spot open for nate to sit next to you. the table filled up quickly, with your brother and parents making it back before nate could. stephen took the seat to your right, leaving nate the spot to your left.
your baby daddy slid into the chair and rested your plate in front of you gingerly. with your left hand, you squeezed his forearm as a quiet thanks.
dinner started rather quietly, with the sounds of forks and knives gently scraping against the china before your brother spoke up.
“so, nathan,” he started. “what do you think about the season so far?”
after months of living with nate, and a year and a half of knowing him, you could see the tension working its way in his body at the erasure of anonymity.
“stephen please—” you began.
“what? it’s a normal question,” he said.
“i know, but this is christmas, not an interview.”
he rolled his eyes and stabbed a potato instead of replying, mumbling something under his breath that you didn't care to acknowledge. nate, however, tensed even more, but you placed a hand on his knee in an attempt to keep him from saying something.
a sharp kick to your ribs made you hiss a little, drawing your family’s attention, but more importantly nate’s.
“you okay?” he mumbled, hand covering yours where it rested on your side.
“she just kicked a little hard,” you explained.
you glanced up in time to see your sister’s eyes darting from you to your parents. she cleared her throat and stood up. “michael and i wanted to wait until i little later, but i can’t wait anymore.” she smiled widely and placed her hands on her stomach, you felt yours sink to your toes. “we’re having another baby!”
the reaction was immediate. your parents gasped and smiled. your mother stood and rounded the table to pull lauren into a hug. “my baby’s having another baby!” she cheered through her tears. her smile was wide, wider than you'd ever seen it. your dad followed a second later, smothering the top of lauren’s head in kisses.
all while you looked on.
your stomach was full of lead, your ears were ringing. the hand on nate’s knee removed itself to pull your sweater away from your bump, as if to hide it. you could feel nathan’s eyes on the side of your face, but you refused to look at him. you couldn't make a scene, you just had to do what you always did:
let it go.
when the hype settled down, your mom and sister prattled on about gender reveals and nursery themes. she was due in june which meant her baby moon would have warm weather, of course your mother would watch zara, of course she’d be in the birthing room.
you pushed the food around on your plate, no longer hungry.
to his credit, nate seemed to follow your lead, only wrapping an arm around your shoulders and kissing the side of your head instead of making a scene as they planned and plotted for the next grandchild.
as dinner ended, your sister, brother in law, and brother went into the living room. you waddled into the bathroom while nathan waited outside of it. your parents were in charge of cleaning up the meal, a job that was usually left for you most years, but you refused this time.
you exited the bathroom and were immediately pulled into nate’s chest. his hands ran up and down your back in soothing lines.
“we don't have to stay,” he mumbled. “we can go right now, just give me the word.”
but you shook your head. “we just have to get through the gifts, then we can leave.”
nathan clenched his jaw but nodded anyway, following you into the living room.
thankfully, stephen had enough sense to vacate his usual spot in the recliner, instead taking a seat on the floor. you eased yourself into the chair while nate passed out the presents you brought. when everyone was settled, he took a seat on the floor in front of you.
the affair was chaotic if you were lauren and her family. zara kept squealing at every opened present, each one grander than the last. lauren and michael got nice luggage sets and a dyson air wrap. stephen got a ps5 and some games to go with it.
you got a fifty dollar amazon gift card.
nate looked horrified, his jaw clenched yet again, but you placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. it was fine, it was always like this, you'd tell him later.
but zara piped up and squealed again. “scooter!” she yelled, hands slamming down on the hardwood. “scooter!”
“oh that’s right princess,” your dad stood. “we did promise you a scooter.” he left the room and a moment later, came back with an awfully familiar disney princess scooter with tassels.
you wanted to vomit.
“isn't that mine?” you said loud enough to be heard as you struggled to stand.
your entire family looked spooked, like they'd forgotten you were there at all.
“mom,” you started. “isn't that scooter mine?”’
her mouth opened and closed. “zara wanted it.”
“but it’s mine.”
lauren rolled her eyes. “you're too big to ride it anymore, what's the issue? mom said zara wanted it, so they're giving it to her.”
the floor creaked behind you as nate stood. “the issue is, it’s not theirs to give,” he said. “it’s hers.”
“well you can't just take it from her, she loves it—”
“and she’ll get over it,” he replied simply.
michael decided to step in. “i think you're inserting yourself where it isn't necessary. this is a family thing—”
“and honey’s my family. this concerns me as much as it concerns you.” he stepped around and in front of you. “the scooter is honey’s, it belongs to her.”
“it’s not that big of a deal,” your father said.
“good, then it should be no problem for you to give it back.”
“that's not what we were saying. she’s a grown woman, zara is a child.”
“and honey’s having a child, a little girl who will want her mother’s disney princess scooter. i’m sure amazon or walmart have plenty of scooters for your other granddaughter, but this one belongs to honey.” nate’s tone was firm, left no room for argument.
but lauren huffed anyway. “all of this over a damn scooter? get a grip.”
“no, because i sat here all night watching the rest of you disrespect or flat out ignore her. the only thing she was excited about on the car ride here was grabbing some of her things, one of them being that damn scooter.” nate stated firmly.
his shoulders were in tense lines. “i watched as all of you celebrated a pregnancy enthusiastically but couldn't be bothered to respond to any of her texts. you've all made your priorities crystal clear to her and to me. so let me be clear, that scooter belongs to honey, not your daughter, not you, not your parents. i don't give a fuck about your daughter’s feelings, or ruining this shitty family’s christmas eve. i care about the woman having my baby, and she wants to give our baby her disney princess scooter.”
lauren gawked. “y-you can't just take the scooter away from my daughter. it’ll break her heart.”
but nate stepped closer. “she won't remember christmas at two years old, but your sister will remember it. so you can either give me the scooter, or i’ll take it anyway, your choice.”
your mom stepped to the side to look at you. “you're just going to stand there? you're not going to intervene?” she accused.
but nate stepped in her line of sight, blocking you with his body. “you're not talking to her, you're talking to me. so what's it gonna be?”
in the end, it was michael who handed the scooter over, who pried zara’s fingers off of it, who didn't even wince when she began screaming like a banshee. nathan took the scooter and walked back over to you. he scooped up the amazon gift card and placed a hand at your back, guiding you out of the living room and into the foyer.
he stopped at the closet to grab your coat and even offered to put it on for you, but you were in such a rush to leave that you would rather brave the cold for a few measly steps outside than stay in that suffocating house any longer.
nathan helped you down the porch stairs and into the car. gingerly, he placed the scooter, the scooter that probably ruined your family’s christmas, in the trunk. he climbed in the driver’s seat and peeled out of the driveway.
it took all of two minutes for you to say something.
“i’m sorry, i froze i—i just didn't know what to do.”
“you don't need to apologize for them,” his response was quick. “they were the ones in the wrong. i mean, i've never met a group of people more dedicated to making someone feel like shit.”
“you didn't have to stick up for me back there, nate.”
“like hell i did! they were walking all over you, over your feelings. i wasn't going to let them disrespect you in front of me. it’s bad enough that it’s been happening, my best guess, for years.”
he sighed and dragged a hand down his face when you came to a red light. “listen, i meant what i said, every word of it. you and baby girl are my family now, you're my top priorities. i’m not going to let anyone, and i mean anyone, disrespect you. i don't care if they're my teammates, my coach, your family, my family, as long as i’m around, people are going to treat you with the respect you deserve.”
he cleared his throat and took a hand and squeezed your knee. “if anything, i’m sorry i didn't say anything sooner, and i’m sorry if i made you uncomfortable.”
your eyes filled with tears that quickly spilled over. you gripped his hand in yours and squeezed. “you didn't do anything wrong, you did what i've never been brave enough to do.”
but nate was shaking his head as he pulled your hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “you're braver than i could ever be.”
he pulled into the driveway and helped you out and up the stairs to your room. nate left you in the doorway and headed to his own bedroom. you stood in the hallway, unsure until you feet followed him.
nathan was pulling his shirt off when you walked in. “everything okay?” he asked.
you nodded and swallowed, working up the courage he was so convinced you had. “can i sleep in here tonight? i just...i would feel better if i wasn't alone...” you trailed off.
it only took him a second to respond with a nod. “do you want a t-shirt? sweats?” he was already pulling out the most stretched out shirt he owned and untied the drawstrings of a pair of sweatpants.
you changed in the en suite bathroom and climbed into bed, immediately slotting yourself into his side, head resting on his bare chest. “thank you, nate,” you said just loud enough for him to hear. “for everything.”
he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “you don't have to thank me for anything.”
nate let you sleep in the christmas morning, he brought breakfast to bed after his side of the bed had gone cold a long time ago. he sat there with you, even when you said nothing but a quiet “thank you.”
after a moment of silence, he said, “you don't have to come downstairs if you don't want to. my family wouldn't blame you.”
you swallowed a piece of your breakfast. “do they know what happened?”
“not in detail, just that last night didn't go as planned and you might want some time to be alone.” he cleared his throat. “you don't have to stay up here if you don't want to, you're more than welcome to come down, it’s your house too, i just didn't want you to feel pressured if you needed time.”
you smiled gratefully and leaned into the kiss he planted on the top of your head. “thanks, nate.”
“anytime.”
as the day went on, you stayed in bed, occasionally crying while watching episodes of gilmore girls. you could hear the raucous laughter of the mackinnons downstairs and your heart twinged at the comparison to the night before.
nathan had come up a few times to check on you, bring you dinner, and presents that you hadn't opened. but he'd gone back down when you insisted he spend the holiday with his family.
“you're my family too,” he'd reasoned.
but when you told him you had him around all the time, he eventually acquiesced.
a knock on the door made you pause the tv and glance at the door. kathy poked her head in and smiled.
“wanted to say hi before we left. how're you feeling, sweetheart?” she walked into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“i’m fine, how're you?”
“nate told me what happened,” she continued on like you hadn't asked her anything. “he was hesitant at first, but i was concerned for you.”
“i’m fine, kathy, i promise—”
she reached out and squeezed your hand. “you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, i didn't come up here to interrogate you, i just wanted to say...” she cleared her throat, her eyes getting watery. “...i just wanted to say thank you, for making my little boy happy. i have never seen him like this, not even when he was drafted or won that damn cup.” her voice broke off for a second until she cleared it again. “and for what it’s worth, anyone would be lucky to call you their daughter. i’m grateful you're the one my son is starting a family with.”
your own vision blurred. “kathy...”
“and i know this is scary, motherhood is the greatest journey someone can go on. but just in case no one else has told you, honey, you are more than prepared for it. your baby girl is lucky to have you as her mom.”
your bottom lip trembled before your mouth opened and sobs escaped. “it doesn't feel like that. i’m scared i’m gonna mess her up.”
kathy immediately sat closer and wrapped her arms around your shoulders, her head rested on top of yours. “you're gonna screw up, it’s gonna happen. but you say sorry and do better the next time.” she pulled back and framed your face in her hands, her thumbs wiped away your tears as they came. she looked like nate in that light. “good parents always worry about being good parents, bad parents don't. the fact that you're concerned about doing right by your daughter tells me nate picked the right girl—”
“—it was an accident—”
she smiled. “i don't believe in accidents, but even if i did, i’d pick you on purpose, every single time. you and baby girl are the best things that have ever happened to my nathan.”
her words sent a fresh batch of tears down your face just as nate walked in. his posture immediately tensed when he saw your face. “what's going on? you okay, honey?” his attention fixated on his mother as he got closer to the bed. “mom, what did you say?”
you pulled away from his mother and wiped your face on your sleeves. “it’s okay, nate. we were just talking.”
nate didn't look convinced. his eyes scanned your face, looking for any sign you were lying to keep the peace.
“i swear, your mom was just being really nice and the hormones made me emotional.”
kathy patted you on the knee and stood. “i’ll leave you two be.”
nate watched her leave the room before taking her spot in bed. “you sure you're okay? she didn't upset you?”
“no,” you smiled. “she's great. your whole family is great.”
he nodded. “i forgot to give you your gift earlier.”
“you don't need to get me anything, nate—” but he was reaching under the bed and pulling out a nicely wrapped box with a bow on top.
you looked at him strangely, at the sheer size of the box before you started unwrapping it. you opened the box, inside was a scrapbook. the first page was blank.
“we haven't decided on the name, so that's why the first page has nothing on it. but i thought we could do this together, work on it as she gets older,” he admitted, cheeks tinged pink.
despite yourself, you flipped through the pages. most were blank, but some of them were started. one page was for her first birthday, her first solids, her first steps. the idea that your unborn child would have firsts nearly made you start crying again.
you flipped back to the front, eyes catching on two pages you hadn't seen before in your rush.
all about my mommy and daddy.
nate cleared his throat. “i thought we could write a letter to her and put some of our old baby photos in there.”
you smiled, it was a great idea, there was just one issue. all your childhood photos were with your parents. but before you could say anything, nate reached under the bed and pulled out a small, but familiar box. your eyes started watering immediately, your hands shook as you reached for it.
you pulled off the lid and were promptly confronted with your baby photos. you in the bathtub, you eating cheerios one morning.
your first birthday with your smiling parents right next to you and your pooh bear birthday cake.
you were loved by them at one point.
“h-how did you get these?” you whispered, hands trembling as you fumbled through the photos.
nathan rubbed the back of his neck. “i went back this morning before you woke up. your parents weren't happy to see me, but they gave me the box anyway.”
for a moment, you stopped riffling through the pictures and looked at him.
he went back to your parents’ house for photos, for proof that you were loved by your parents at one point in time.
you wanted to ask what they said, if they even said anything, but you were tired of putting emphasis on their words and actions. they'd shown who they were now, it was time you believed them.
so instead of speaking, instead of asking questions, you sat the box aside and threw your arms around nathan’s neck, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. “thank you,” you said into his shoulder.
nate’s arms wrapped around you carefully but confidently, like he knew that's where they belonged. “anytime.” and that one word said so much with so little.
Everybody Wants Something, You Just Want Me ╰┈➤ M. Barzal (part three)
summary: faced with your steamy actions with mat, you decide to distance yourself from not only him, but the looping day—skipping work, the game and any kind of interaction in favour of staying home and wallowing. but with that comes an outcome neither you or mat could’ve excepted. now, everything comes to a head, and the truth has no choice but to leak through the cracks in your life and your heart.
[word count] 14.5k
warnings: time loop au | frienemies to lovers | forced proximity | angst | smoking | mentions of alcohol and drinking | injury + hospitals | humour | cliches | mentions of sex and intercourse | kissing | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion
pairing; mat barzal x reader
authors note: wow. the end is here. thank you for all the love and support on my very first series. I had so much fun planning, brainstorming and writing every single part of this fic, and I hope the ending is everything you could’ve wanted. title from I drink wine by adele. this is the finale part.
< previous part | back to series masterlist >
MARCH flashback
the brick behind you is cold in a way that reminds you that winter is never really through until it decides so in new york. it's not biting or miserable, but just enough of a chill that it has you wishing you wore a thicker jacket instead of the fake leather one you've had since freshman year of university.
the bar you had just been inside pulses with bass and laughter, the door swinging open every few seconds to spill light and noise onto the sidewalk before slamming shut again.
you hadn't planned on stepping outside, but the group of guys cassie had insisted you'd love turned out to be a bunch of glorified frat boys who dance too close and smell like rubber. sure, most of them were nice enough, as well as their wives and girlfriends, but you just weren't feeling it. the bar, the men or the noise. especially him.
your roommate had introduced you to her new boyfriend 30 minutes after you two had gotten to the dingy bar. because he'd been late. but she don't seem displeased. all bright smile and hanging off his arm like an accessory.
you'd been taking a sip of your badly made drink when cassie slipped over to you—‘this is mat’’, she smiled, looking between you like this was the best thing to happen since sliced bread, ‘mat, this is my friend y/n. the one i'd told you about.’’
mat was polite in the natural way canadians are. shaking your hand despite your half unimpressed snarl. smiling in that effortless way that made your stomach feel warm. undeniably handsome and easy going, mat barzal quickly became someone you felt the need to distance yourself from.
so now you're out here instead, tucked into the shadow beside the brick wall, digging a cigarette out of the crumpled pack from your pocket. the neon green lighter you always somehow lose clicks once and then lights.
you inhale to feel it burn and then exhale before your have the urge to cough, watching lazily as the the smoke curls up into the dark. thankfully there's no other smokers outside, or else you'd feel self conscious, wondering if they could tell you're not really one of them.
it's been about two hours since you arrived to somebodies celebration of something at the bar, and you've gathered a few things in that time. one being that you're currently partying with an nhl team who a few weeks ago, booked their ticket to the playoffs. cassie made sure you knew that as soon as she caught one of mat's teammates making eyes at you.
the second is that the bartender sucks. you've asked for three different drinks and every single one has been wrong. even no, you can still taste the bad concoction on your tongue, and it prompts you to take another drag of your smoke.
the third is that you don't want to be here anymore, but that goes without saying. you've been miserable recently, for reasons you can't even begin to dive into. not because you don't want to, but rather because you can't. you're clueless about yourself, moody and seeking validation from people you probably shouldn't be.
that makes you think of mark, your boyfriend who's not really your boyfriend—who decided that girls who smoke are wifey material. and you being so obsessed with attention, agreed. now you're almost $500 dollars down on packs and have the worse smokers morning voice that you've ever heard for someone who barley smokes them.
you pull out your phone to see if he's texted, only to be met with an empty notification center. not even anything from cassie asking where you'd gone.
slipping your phone back in your pocket with a thick throat and some ash falling to your boot, your attention is drawn towards the door as it swings open again. the neon light shines, hard to make out a face, but an athletic body has you diverting your gaze.
you're already annoyed, and not in the mood it talk. so you drop your head, take another drag and hope they walk past. but they don't.
"hey," a voice says, warm and tentative. "uh. sorry. didn't mean to startle you."
you glance up, clearly not startled but curious.
it’s mat who stands a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he's not entirely sure what to do with them. the noise from the bar quiets as the door closes.
you take another drag. "you didn't."
"okay," he says, nodding, relieved but a little tentative. "good."
silence stretches, far from comfortable but also not too behind. after a beat of nothing but the sound of the city and a chainsmokers song vibrating through the sidewalk, you wordlessly offer him the pack of cigarettes.
mat just looks at it, hands still in his pockets, making no moves. you shake it questionably, cigarettes rattling inside, and that finally has him blinking.
"no thanks. I don't smoke."
you shrug, pocket them again and don't ask questions.
"you know," he adds, glancing at the cigarette between your lips, "those are pretty bad for you."
you scoff. "wow. no kidding."
he winces. "sorry. that came out very...after school special."
you eye him over the cloud of smoke. "you here to confiscate them or something?"
"no," he huffs quickly. "no. I just—" he pauses, thinking. "statistically speaking, though, smoking increases your risk of—"
you hold up a hand, cutting him and his ridiculous scolding off. you're not sure what possessed a guy that you just met tonight, who you have no interest in getting to know—never mind be-friending—to lecture you about bad habits, but you're not going to let it slide.
"please don't quote statistics at me while I'm actively making bad choices."
that surprises a laugh out of him—quick and unguarded. it takes you a moment to register to sound, not expecting him to take it that way.
"fair," mat concedes. "for what it's worth, I only know that because my dad used to try to scare me straight with numbers."
you hum, tapping ash onto the pavement. you eye him, lingering on his thick thighs and broad shoulders. "did it work?"
"on him," he nods. "not so much on me."
you glance into his eyes again despite yourself. "then why do you care?"
he hesitates, just for a beat too long that has you straightening up. mat blinks then, a soft laugh falling from his lips. "sorry, cassie just wanted to see if you were out here."
you want to roll your eyes, but you don't. "is that right? she couldn't check on me herself?"
"I offered."
"how chivalrous."
a pause. mat eyes you inquisitively, and you fight the urge to shrink in on yourself, scared this stranger will see right through you. the wind picks up, but you don't shy away, unwilling to drop your guard.
"are you cold?"
you swallow, fingers numb around the cigarette. "no," you look at him, "i'd ask you the same but apparently you live on the ice for work."
"apparently."
the corner of your mouth begins to quirk despite yourself, but you don't let it fully bloom.
mat shifts, moving until he's leaning against the wall next to you. he's not close, not really, but if you moved your hand two bricks over and stretched your pinky finger out, you'd be able to brush his. you're not sure why that feels exhilarating, but it does.
"you know," mat starts, focusing on the glow at the end of the cigarette as you take another puff. "cassie talks about you a lot. said that we'd get along."
you quirk a brow in his direction, "I don't mingle with frat guys. so her radar is way off."
"I dropped out of college, so by law I think that doesn’t makes me a frat guy."
you hum, "that must be true, because a frat guy wouldn't be such a pussy as to deny a cigarette." you taunt him playfully, the end of the stick touching your tongue.
he smiles, but ignores the comment. "she figured you'd be out here smoking. that or waiting for mark to bring you some."
you snap your head in his direction, lips parted like you can't decide if you want to curse him out or sob. you're annoyed at cassie for telling him about mark and your habits, even more so at mat for coming out here to taunt you for whatever reason. probably a bet with one of his glorified frat teammates.
"what do you want?" you manage to spit after a beat. you stomp the half finished smoke out on the slick concrete, ashes dusting the sole of your fashion boot. "did she send you out here to patronize me? or was that just your own doing?"
he pushes off the wall too, suddenly tentative. "patronize you? what? no. i'm just trying to be nice."
"why?" you laugh, incredulous. "because you're dating my roommate? that isn't exactly grounds for a friendship."
his jaw tightens—not wounded, just recalculating. he can tell you're hurting, deep down, behind the wall you've built up, and he doesn't want to make that wall higher. but mat isn't sure why he's so intent on breaking it down.
"once again, i'm just trying to be nice. give you some company while nobody else bothered."
that stings. "people who say that they're nice, usually aren't." you shoot back, "and sorry, but you don't get brownie points for basic decency just because you're sleeping with cassie."
his eyes flick up, "I didn't say—"
"you didn't have to." you're still facing him, arms crossed tight. "i'm not interested in whatever this is. pity. guilt. curiosity. pick one."
before he can answer—before he can pick one—headlights sweep across the alley mouth, briefly bleaching the brick and wet pavement white. you watch as a familiar car rolls to a stop at the curb, and your belly immediately feels sick. but you don't show it.
"saved by the bell," you mutter, already turning away from mat and in the direction of mark's car. he steps out, grinning like he's late to his own party. smelling like nicotine and cheap cologne.
"hey babe," he says easily, like this is exactly where he expected to find you. he crosses the distance without hesitation, hands settling at your waist like they belong there.
you don't flinch as he leans in. the kiss is quick, practiced—mouth warm, confident, a little possessive. it's convincing in the way rehearsed things always are. when you pull back, mark keeps an arm draped around you, thumb pressing lightly at your hip.
"everything good?" he asks, looking away from you and towards mat. mark makes a noise that sounds like a laugh of surprise, "oh shit, you play for the islanders."
you immediately want to escape from under his arm and step in front of mat to block him from sight.
mat nods. he hasn't moved from his top near the wall. the beginning of a rain storm dots his hair, his jacket darkening at the seams. his expression doesn't give much away, but something tight flickers there—gone almost as soon as you notice it. he looks at mark's hand on you, then back to your face, like he's putting pieces together he never asked for.
you don't look away. if anything, you lift your chin.
he sends mark a half grin, shaking his hand like he's some kind of royalty. "yeah. hey, man," mat says, easy. "i'm here with cassie."
the rain is really starting, and mark lets go of you to slide under the lip of the roof, seeking the little shelter it provides. he immediately lights a smoke, cupping his hand around the end until it flickers to life. "cassie huh," mark notes after a beat, "she's a smoke show man. congrats."
your face falls, even though you should expect it from a guy like mark. you haven't been hooking up for long, but from what you gathered about his personality, the demeaning comment is very on brand.
mat doesn't get a chance to answer, or defend or whatever guys like him would, before he's being cut off by mark once more.
"you heading in?"
mat looks at you without even realizing he's doing it. you're soaked now, half under the roof because mark is taking up the entire dry area. your eyes find his, and you look away embarrassed.
"yeah," he replies after a beat, looking back at mark. his voice is steady. too steady. "I was just going back."
he doesn't say goodbye to you. doesn't need to. the look lingers a second longer than it should, something unfinished hanging between you, sharp and unspoken.
but before he makes it two steps, mat is looking back at you. his eyes flicker to the man beside you again, and mat's jaw ticks. "you know," the athlete starts, voice louder than the thundering rain, "you can get like a hundred different kinds of cancer and diseases from cigarettes? that and you die like 10 years earlier than the next person. It be a shame if you were doing it for a stupid reason."
he's still looking at mark, but you know mat is speaking to you. then, without sparing you another glance, he turns and disappears inside.
mark snickers, unbothered as he reaches around and squeezes your side. "wanna get out of here?"
you nod, already stepping back towards his car. you don't think about how you don't say goodbye to anyone inside, or how mark dragged you away from a party he hadn't even bothered to make an appearance at. and you definitely don't think about mat, not in the car ride back to marks place. or when mark's mouth is on your neck. or when he's inside you.
absolutely not.
WEDNESDAY — DAY 13
you lay motionless in bed for a long time. through the alarm blaring, through the sound of grumbling voices and heavy foot steps down the stairs, and even through cassie leaving for work.
the clock ticks loudly as you stare up at the ceiling. everything feels wrong. and not in the good way that might indicate it's finally thursday, but instead with feelings of doom and guilt. yeah, that kind of wrong.
you knew as you woke up this morning, you wouldn't be able to face cassie, or mat, or the reality of what happened last night. with absentminded fingers, you touch your pulse point, and can practically still feel his mouth there. you can hear his groans of pleasure breathed into your ear. he's all over your skin and inside your body.
you remember what he said to you, just before everything changed for good—"you know," he starts softly, voice barely louder than the rush of water, "I don't think there's anybody else in the world who I'd rather be stuck in this with."
in the moment, mat's admission had only added fuel to the fire ablaze between you. but now, in the stormy morning light of your bedroom, it only feels like an admission of guilt. because he shouldn't be saying that about you, not really. and you? you shouldn't be feeling this way for your friends boyfriend, whether there technically exes or not.
right now—in this universe. this timeline. this moment—cassie is his girlfriend. no drunk kiss or heat of the moment sex will change that. if it was supposed to, you wouldn't be here on another wednesday.
you don't realize that you started crying until a tear soaks into your hairline. you sit up and wipe it away with the back of your hand harshly, blinking away the rest of them. you feel pathetic, and achy in a way you never believed you could.
because the startling realization is that you've never felt the way you feel about mat for anybody else.
a soft rap sounds on the other side of your door, and immediately you know it's him. he waited around for you. it shouldn't hurt, but it does.
"y/n?" his tone is worried. of course. "are you okay?"
you open the threshold before you can think about it, which in hindsight may not be smart. but you don't open it fully, not wanting to invite him inside where you could do something stupid like kiss him again. and judging by the smile on his face when his eyes fall upon you, you know mat would let you.
staying half hidden, you swallow. "i'm fine."
his smile slowly disappears at your tone. "hey...what's wrong?"
"nothing. i'm just not feeling well." you don't look at him while you say it. you barley hear your own voice.
"you're not? I can drive us to mine and I can nurse you back to health. I make a mean chicken noodle soup." he pushes into your room, completely unaware of the hesitance in your stature. that only makes it worse.
"no, mat."
he blinks, caught off guard but he recovers quickly. "okay we can stay here and lay in bed and watch movies." the suggestion is so sweet you begin to tear up, but mat doesn't catch it at first because he's too busy fluffing your pillows for a movie lay-in that should never exist. and it won't.
"mat." you shake your head, tone sharper this time.
he looks at you and frowns, the softness in his expression immediately tightening into concern. he reaches for you, cupping your elbow so you're unable to turn away. "y/n. hey, hey why are you crying? you're worrying me."
you scrub at your face, frustrated at the tears that keep on flowing. frustrated at yourself. at the universe. at him for reasons you shouldn't be. "I just want to be alone."
mat pulls his hand back, eyebrows drawn together. "did I do something to upset you?"
you sniffle. "no."
"no?" his voice drops. "then why do I feel like suddenly i'm the last person in the world who you'd ever want to be around right now?"
his words hurt you, even though they're valid. "I just think I need space," you mumble as your shoulders sag.
"from me?" he leans down, trying to catch your gaze. you don't let him. "at least look me in the eye and be honest with me?" a pause, then—"are you upset about last night?"
obviously.
you finally look at him. "aren't you?"
he lets out a short, incredulous laugh. "why would I be? i've been—" mat cuts himself off, chest heaving as he catches himself. a pause, and he runs his fingers through his messy hair. "why would I be?"
"because it was wrong," you breathe, wiping at your nose while it starts to feel runny. "you've got a girlfriend."
"a girlfriend who has broken up with me everyday for a month straight."
that does little to comfort you. you still feel the scum of the earth. especially when you look at him now, and all you can think about is kissing him again. that's why you need to stop this, before the damage is un-mendable.
"still."
his jaw tightens, and before he can stop himself, mat says something that makes the floor feel unstable beneath your feet. "I don't even love her."
your lip wobbles. "don't say that."
"it's the truth," he insists. "I don't want to try and win her back. I haven't once wanted that since this all started."
"it doesn't matter what you want, or what I want," you snap back, "it's about what the universe wants."
mat scoffs, frustration and confusion seeping through the cracks of this entire loop. "well clearly the universe doesn't want that either, or else this would've been fixed by now."
a beat passes were neither of have the words to touch on that. his words, although they sting your already bruised heart, are nothing but true. if the universe truly wanted cassie and mat to reconcile, something would've worked by now. without wanting to admit it, you're back at square one, and you have been for awhile.
stuck in a loop with no idea why, or how to break it.
you wrap your arms around yourself like armour, looking towards the floor as panic bubbles up your chest. you swallow it down before he notices. "you should go."
mat stares at you for a long beat, hurt flashing across his face before it hardens. he doesn't want to go. he doesn't want to leave you—what he wants is to comfort you, and kiss you and figure it out, once and for all, what the world is asking of you both. but he doesn't say that out loud.
he can't. because he's hurt at your coldness and the allude that your kiss and sex last night was a mistake.
"yeah. i'll give you some space to do more pointless research and come up with stupid theories about how to leave, that we both know won't work."
you flinch, ugly crying now. "you don't have to be an asshole, i'm trying."
he steps towards the door, hand on the knob while his voice comes out low and sharp. "am I being an asshole or do you just not like the truth?"
the door is pulled open and mat is walking away faster than you can process. his scent lingers in your room like his kiss does on your lips.
you stand there, staring into the empty hallway, heart thudding like it can't catch a step. his last words linger in your head, latching themselves like a leech. he's mad at you, and the person you know you are inside, can't have that—even though you wanted this.
"no," you breathe, already moving.
mat is in the living room when you come barreling down the stairs, his coat half on and keys in his hand. he looks surprised to see you, like he didn't expect you to chase him.
"don't," you say too fast, "don't leave like that."
"you told me to go, y/n."
"I told you I needed space too, but here I am."
"well, like you said," mat starts, something painful flickering across his face as he puts his coat fully on. "it doesn't matter what we want, so we might as well stop trying. go have your space."
you ignore his words, chin begin to dimple as your lip wobbles for the hundredth time this morning. briefly, you wonder what would happen if cassie walked in right now and saw you and her boyfriend in a clear stand off. one that lingers with something besides hate.
what would happen? would the universe snap you back? or maybe the universe wouldn't, because it wants cassie to remember how her friend and boyfriend fell for one another right under her very nose.
"do you think doing this with you is easy for me?" you say.
mat exhales through his nose, pacing once across the rug. "I didn't think it's easy. none of this is easy. but I just thought—" he stops, scrubs a hand over his face. "I thought maybe you felt it too."
your throat tightens at his vulnerability. "feeling it is the problem, mat."
he looks at you then. really looks. "so you do feel it."
you hesitate, and that's enough of an answer.
he nods once, like something clicks into place and breaks at the same time. "then why are you acting like I imagined last night?"
"i'm not," you snap. "i'm acting like I remember who you're attached to when the day doesn't reset."
he winces. "you think I don't remember that?"
"you don't have to live with her," you shoot back. "I do."
silence. heavy. he hadn't thought of that—not fully.
"I didn't ask you to fix this," he says finally. "I just asked you not to shut me out like it meant nothing."
you shake your head, eyes burning. "i’m doing it because it means too much."
mat takes a step closer, then stops himself, like he can’t stand to be that close to you without touching you. "then stop pretending you're protecting everyone else. you're protecting yourself."
that lands harder than you want it to. "yeah," you say, brittle. "because every time this day ends, i'm the one who has to wake up and remember that none of it mattered outside of my head."
hi voice softens despite himself. "It matters to me."
"not enough to survive a reset," you say.
"that's not fair."
"none of this is," you shoot back. then you laugh, short and humourless. "this—whatever this stupid fucking attraction is—can't be the reason it never breaks. this isn't our story, mat. we have to stop acting like it is."
he reels back, truly hurt. "stupid attraction. right."
you wipe your cheek when a stray tear falls. "we have to be honest with ourselves, and I think last night is only doing more damage than good. It was—"
"a mistake?" he cuts you off sharply.
no.
"what—"
mat cuts you off again, like he can't help himself from completely burying this. from ignoring the fact that you're only calling for his help, beneath the jabs and words you could never mean. "well, you're right, y/n. it was a mistake."
you freeze. "don’t say that—"
"i'm leaving now, you got your wish." he opens the door, and a boom of thunder makes you jump. "do me a favour and just...forget about last night. us. the loop. I'll figure it out on my own."
rain blows inside, soaking your bare legs as you move towards him. "please." you don't know what you're pleading for, but it falls on deaf ears as mat turns away, slamming the door and leaving your apartment for good.
—
you don't leave your apartment for the remainder of the day. by the time you'd usually be entering the cafe with mat, you'd become so hungry and sad that you door dashed one of there muffins and coffees—only to end up crying all over the muffin until the top became soggy, and spilling the drink before you could even take the first sip.
you sulk on the couch all day, trying to take your mind off mat while doing so. you watch old movies, but the male lead in the rom com you chose only reminds you of him.
you think about doing crafts, only when you pull out your old tote from the end cupboard—blowing the dust off the lid because you haven't touched it since last year—you see that the only diamond art you have left is a picture of a vintage photo booth. and obviously, that has you thinking about last night with mat, pressed tightly together while getting your pictures taken.
it feels like a sick joke, and you look skyward, grilling the diamond art in your fist. "what does this mean?!"
obviously, the universe doesn't answer you.
by the time you've had three breakdowns and considered on multiple occasions burning the plant he replaced for you as some kind of sacrifice to the world for your freedom, you hear cassie come home from work. not wanting to see her, or anybody for that matter, you lock yourself in your bedroom before she can come upstairs.
you're pacing the floor, stepping over laundry, gnawing the skin around your thumb anxiously when she raps a knuckle on your closed door. you freeze.
"hey, wanna come to the game tonight. I don't feel like going, but I will if you want to."
you clear your throat, an excuse tumbling out. "I would but I'm not feeling great."
you can practically hear her roll her eyes. "you're boring. i'll probably still go if syd and meg are down."
you sit on your mattress, "okay. have fun."
cassie doesn't say anything else, and you can hear the floorboards creak as she leaves the vicinity of your bedroom door. soon after, the shower turns on. once you know she can't hear you over the running water and the rap music she insists of blasting, you cry again.
you fall asleep before the shower turns off.
—
the first thing you register when you blink yourself awake is that it's dark outside now. you squint through the darkness, locate the clock above your vanity and see that it's just after 8.
your cheeks feels tight and scratchy from tear tracks that have been drying and becoming wet over and over again. you wipe at them, but it does nothing but make them feel warm and sore.
it's dark throughout the apartment, and that tells you cassie decided to go to mat's game after all. she didn't leave you any lights on, which makes you annoyed. but then you're immediately reminded that you fucked her boyfriend, and you push your annoyance way down.
with a sigh, you turn the tv on. the islanders game is the first thing that greets you, and a pit of dread sits in your stomach. you can't help but wonder what's going to happen if you're not there to get hit with a puck. will it be cassie instead, covered in her own blood and wearing the vintage crewneck home? will it be someone random? will something bad happen to you at home instead?
will nothing happen? will you be zapped back to the morning for another day of this dreadful time loop?
before you work yourself up too much, you toss the remote on the couch and turn heel into the kitchen. you leave the game on, maybe because you're curious. or maybe because you want to see him.
your stomach gurgles, and you decide to keep testing your limits. you take out a container of your moms homemade tomato soup from the fridge and toss it in the microwave to warm up.
"maybe this is my destiny." you say to the closed microwave door, watching through the dim light as the container spins around and heats. you’ve gone crazy.
you eat it slowly and carefully, not wanting to spill it or burn your mouth—because obviously you warmed it up too much and it's un-arguably boiling. and in the almost silence of your apartment with nothing to really distract you, your mind drifts back to mat.
it’s scary that how something that was supposed to be temporary—just survival, just proximity—turned into a constant hum in your chest. the guilt is there, sharp and unavoidable, but it's not the loudest thing anymore. what's louder is the way mat barzal feels inevitable now, like once you noticed him you couldn't unsee him.
you tell yourself that these feelings came out of nowhere, but the more you think about it, the more the past starts rearranging itself—the way you used to snap at him, roll your eyes, keep him at arm's length like irritation was easier than curiosity. maybe you were awful to him because caring felt dangerous even then. maybe it was simpler to pretend he annoyed you than to admit how easily he unsettled you, how something about mat always pulled your attention off center.
now you're stuck with the truth you kept dodging—that this didn't start in the loop, it just stripped away your excuses—and the worst part is realizing you didn't fall for him suddenly at all. you'd been circling him for longer than you ever let yourself admit.
"shit." you curse, snapping out of your own head when you accidentally dunk the spoon to hard into the soup. it slashes up the edge and sprays your pyjama tank top.
you sigh, "great." you push away from the table and climb the stairs.
you strip once you're in front of the closet, goosebumps rising over you skin as the apartments chill washes over your skin. wasting no time, you throw on the first thing you see and then skip back down the stairs—and that's when everything changes.
"—barzal is still down on the ice, butch. I'm not sure what you could see from down there, but up here it looked like a poorly timed hit."
your eyes dart towards the tv, and it feels like the words are going in one ear and out the other. mat is laying awkwardly on the ice, a few medical staff hovering around him. you see their lips moving with questions, but you don't know if mat is answering. you can't see his face.
your breath hitches as the replay plays. it's a brutal hit from manson. not dirty or malicious, but it's all wrong. the angle, the speed, and the way mat isn't looking up when it happens. he goes flying into the boards and then is unmoving.
butch goring’s voice cuts through the sound barrier. "and that's what it was, burke. just an unfortunate hit that got barzal the worst. I've got eyes on the stretcher and yup, they're bringing it out. gosh, let's hope barzal is okay."
brendan now, voice just as solemn. "this would be an unfortunate loss for the islanders, especially with the playoffs fast approaching, just next month."
"oh my god." you breathe. you watch as they carefully load mat onto the stretcher. they've got a collar on him, but his eyes are still closed. is he passed out? is it really bad? a million thoughts run through your head, but just before you can spiral, you see him give a thumbs up to the crowd.
it's weak, and he can barley lift his hand to do so. but he does. a little bit of relief floods through you. he's conscious enough.
you text him before you can decide otherwise.
YOU
mat
YOU
tell me you're okay
YOU
that looked really scary
you know he won't answer. you watched them cut away from him on the broadcast, watched the stretcher appear at the edge of the frame, the commentators' voices dropping into that careful, rehearsed seriousness that only ever means one thing. he's on the way to the hospital. rationally, you know that.
it doesn't stop you from checking your phone every single time it vibrates against your thigh though.
thirty minutes stretch into something shapeless. commercial breaks blur together. your leg won't stop bouncing. you pick your phone up, set it down, flip it over, unlock it just to stare at the same screen. nothing from him. nothing from anyone. and the silence feels loud.
the game ends the same way it always does—another loss, another score that looks worse the longer you stare at it. too many unanswered goals to count. but this one carries something heavier with it, an extra weight you can feel even through the screen. the commentators sign off stiffly.
no post game smiles. no jokes. just that unspoken tension, like everyone knows the score stopped mattering halfway through the third.
when your phone finally buzzes with an incoming call from cassie, you answer before the second ring, your thumb slipping on the screen.
"hey," you say, already standing. "are you okay? where are you?"
there's a pause on the other end, just long enough for your chest to tighten. "i'm at the hospital," she says, breathy, like she's been walking fast. "syd dropped me off. mat had a bad hit."
"yeah." you swallow hard, pacing the length of the living room without really meaning to. the couch, the window, back again. "I saw on tv." you hesitate, the question sitting heavy on your tongue. "is he okay?"
cassie doesn't answer right away, and for half a second you're convinced the call dropped. you pull the phone away from your ear to check the screen. still connected.
then she exhales. "he's awake. he'll be fine. but he's obviously pretty banged up. they've got him on some drugs."
your knees go weak with the relief of it, sudden and overwhelming. you sit down hard on the edge of the couch, pressing your free hand to your forehead like that might steady you.
"that's...that's good," you say, and your voice wobbles despite your best effort.
"yeah," cassie replies, and there's something in her tone you can't quite place—exhaustion, irritation, resignation. maybe all three. then she adds, quieter, "he's asking for you."
the words hit you all at once. your heart stutters, skipping a beat it never quite recovers from. the room tilts. you feel too aware of everything—the hum of the fridge, the glow of the tv, the way your fingers are clenched so tightly around your phone they ache. it all feels sharp and distant at the same time, like you're watching yourself from somewhere else.
your mouth opens. but nothing comes out.
she doesn't wait for you to find it. "that's why I called," she continues, and now there's no mistaking the edge in her voice. "because it's driving me up the wall and—" she cuts herself off, sighs. "I guess you're someone he wants right now."
"should I come?" you ask, the question tumbling out before you can overthink it.
she lets out a soft, humorless snort. "did I not just pretty much say that?"
—
the hospital smells like antiseptic, stale coffee, amd the kind of clean that never quite masks the exhaustion packed into the walls. classic fluorescent lights hum overhead as the automatic doors slide open, and for a second you just stand there, phone still clutched in your hand, unsure where to put yourself.
you give your name at the desk, and thankfully, your voice comes out steadier than you feel. the nurse glances at her screen, then up at you, expression softening just a fraction.
"trauma bay three," she hums, typing away. "you can go back."
and you do.
your shoes squeak faintly against the floor as you follow the hallway signs. you hate hospitals—everything feels muted, like someone turned the volume down on the world. a gurney rattles past, a monitor beeps somewhere behind a closed door.
you keep your eyes forward, afraid that if you stop moving, the knot in your chest will pull you under.
cassie is leaning against the wall when you spot her, arms crossed tight over her chest, phone in her hand like she's debating throwing it. she looks up when she hears you and then freezes, something unreadable flickering across her face.
"hey," you say, hovering a few steps away. suddenly, you're painfully aware of how out of place you feel. like you crossed a line you're not sure existed until now. even though she's the one who called you, you still feel that guilty conscience lingering.
"hey," she replies. there's a beat. then, "he's still in there."
you nod, even though you don't know what that means. still being checked? still being watched? still not quite okay?
"he wouldn't shut up about you," cassie adds, not looking at you. "they had to tell him like...three times to stay still."
that shouldn't make your chest tighten the way it does. before you can respond, the curtain shifts and a nurse steps out, clipboard tucked under her arm. "you're the friend?"
your stomach flips at the word friend, but you nod anyway. "yeah."
"he's a little out of it," she warns gently. "pain meds. concussion protocol. just...don't let him try to get up, and god knows he's been trying. quite the charmer that one."
"I won't," you promise, like it's something sacred.
your roommate lets out a breath, clearly not wanting to witness whatever is happening between you and mat. "i'll grab coffee," cassie says, already stepping back. it feels deliberate. intentional. an offering or a retreat, but you're not sure which.
you wait until you can no longer see her, and then you're pulling back the curtain—it crinkles as you do.
mat is propped up on the bed, one arm strapped into a sling, a thin line of dried blood at his hairline that makes your chest ache all over again. there's a monitor beside him, numbers rising and falling with steady, reassuring rhythm. his eyes are half lidded, unfocused, until they land on you.
and then he smiles. slow, crooked, but unmistakably his.
"there you are," he murmurs, like you were late but always expected.
your throat tightens as you step closer—careful, like sudden movement might break him. "you scared the hell out of me."
he squints at you, processing. "yeah?" a pause. "worth it."
you huff a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself. "don't say that."
"okay," he says immediately, obedient in a way that would be funny if it didn't hurt. his fingers twitch against the sheets, restless. "you came."
"I did," you nod, pulling a chair closer to the bed. you sit. "a little birdie told me that you asked for me."
his eyes close briefly, like the words settle somewhere deep. "good," he breathes. "was worried that part was a dream."
your heart stumbles. "what part?"
he opens one eye, gaze lazy but intent. "you." then his fingers find yours, feeling like luxury silk where they slide between yours.
the moment lingers after he says it. you. it hangs between you, heavier than it should be for a single word.
the monitor keeps up its steady rhythm, grounding and ordinary. mat's gaze drifts again, unfocused now, like the effort of holding eye contact is catching up to him. his lashes flutter, then settle, and for a second you think he's fallen asleep.
yet, you don't move. you're afraid that if you do, something will break—the fragile quiet, the way his fingers have found yours, the unspoken understanding that just slid into place without asking permission.
a nurse passes by outside the curtain. footsteps. murmured voices. the world reminding you it hasn't stopped.
mat shifts, a small sound escaping him, halfway between a sigh and a hum. his grip tightens just a little, instinctive, like he's anchoring himself. you glance down at your hands, at the contrast of his taped knuckles against your skin, at how natural it feels to be here.
his eyes crack open again, bleary but intent, searching your face like he's checking to make sure you're still real.
"hey," he murmurs, the word barely louder than the monitor beside him.
"hey," you answer, and you don't realize you've leaned closer until you're already there, forearms resting against the edge of the bed, like distance might be the one thing he can't handle right now.
mat looks at your face like he's committing it to memory, like he's afraid if he blinks too long you'll flicker out. his thumb drags clumsily over your knuckles, the motion slow and unfocused, more instinct than intention.
there's a long pause. you can almost see the gears turning.
"did I..." he starts, then stops, brows pulling together as he tries to corral the thought before it slips away. "did I fuck everything up by kissing you?"
your chest tightens, breath catching just a little.
"mat—"
"i'm sorry," he rushes on immediately, words spilling over each other now that the dam's cracked. "I shouldn't have done that. I mean—" he squints, frustrated with himself. "I wanted to. obviously. but I didn't mean to mess up the plan, or the loop, or the universe, or—" his mouth twists. "anything important."
mat's thumb stills, then presses into your skin like he's bracing for impact.
"and i'm sorry about earlier," he adds, quieter now, like the apology has found its real target. "about the fight. I was being an asshole and I took out my hurt feelings on you and that wasn't fair. you didn't do anything wrong. I know you're just trying to do the right thing."
your throat burns.
"don't be mad at me," he finishes, voice small in a way you've never heard before.
you squeeze his hand gently, grounding both of you. "i'm not mad at you, mat."
his shoulders drop a fraction, tension leaking out of him like air from a slow puncture. "promise?"
"I promise," you say, soft but certain.
he studies your face again, searching for any sign that you might take it back. but when he doesn't find one, he smiles—slow, crooked, and fond, like his face doesn't know how to hold anything else right now.
"good," he murmurs. "'cause I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. haven't stopped all day."
your heart stutters, the words landing harder than they should. "you're very high right now."
"still counts," he says immediately, like he's been waiting for the accusation. then his voice drops, quieter, looser, unguarded. "i'm kind of trying to do it again."
you let out a breathy laugh before you can stop yourself, torn cleanly between panic and something dangerously tender. "mat...we can't."
his brow furrows as he considers this with grave seriousness, like it's a puzzle he genuinely wants to solve. after a moment, he lifts your joined hands, careful of the IV, and presses them lightly against his chest, right over his heart.
"I know." his thumb rubs once, soft. "I just—wanted to say it out loud. in case I forget later. i'm not a lot of drugs."
you don't pull away, and you can barley smile at his loopy admission. it hits you hard now, just how much you care about this boy.
mat shifts slightly, settling deeper into the pillow, eyes drifting back to your face like it's the last thing he wants to see before sleep takes him. "you came," he repeats like it’s a new discovery, wonder threaded through the words. "I asked and you came."
"of course I did," you reply, your voice catching despite your best effort. "you got hurt."
"yeah," he agrees. then, softer, almost reverent, "and you didn’t."
your eyes burn, emotion rising faster than you can contain it. before you can answer, the curtain rustles. cassie's voice drifts in from the hallway as she finishes a phone call, close enough to remind you of everything waiting outside this small pocket of quiet.
mat's eyes flutter, heavy now. his grip loosens but doesn't let go entirely. "don't go anywhere," he mumbles, already slipping under.
"I won't," you whisper back, brushing your thumb gently over his hand, a promise you mean more than you should. then, reluctantly, you take your hand away.
when cassie steps back in with her coffee cup in hand, mat's eyes are closed, breathing even and head still turned in your direction.
and you realize—loop or no loop—you're already in too deep.
the monitor continues to hum steadily, a quiet, impersonal sound that makes the room feel smaller than it is. you stand in an attempt to create some illusion of distance, and face your friend.
cassie gestures with her chin toward the hallway. "come on," she says quietly. it's not a request.
you follow her out, the curtain whispering shut behind you. the hallway is too bright, too sterile. she leans against the wall with her arms crossed, studying the floor like she's deciding how much energy she has left to spend on this conversation.
finally, she looks at you. "what the hell is going on?”
your stomach drops. "I—" you hesitate, then stop yourself. there's no point pretending. "i'm sorry."
she exhales sharply. not angry, not calm, but somewhere uncomfortably in between. "that's not an answer."
"I know." you rub your palms against your pants, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you feel. "I didn't plan for this to happen. I swear. I don't want to feel these things."
cassie watches you closely now, assessing you. "he kept asking for you," she repeats her earlier words over the phone again. "even in the ambulance, before he got here. he was asking for you. not me. you."
you swallow. "i'm sorry."
"you didn't seem surprised when I told you that on the phone."
"I was," you reassure her quickly, not wanting her to get the wrong idea about this whole situation. "at first. I mean—this whole thing has been confusing and messy and I didn't want to cross a line that—" you trail off, shaking your head. "I didn't want to hurt you."
she laughs softly, but there's no humor in it. "did you guys have an affair?"
you shake your head. "no."
silence settles between you, thick and awkward.
then, she tilts her head curiously. "so. what is it?"
you blink. "what is...what?”
"you and him," cassie says. "this." she gestures vaguely back toward the room. "Is this just a thing that happened because emotions were high and he's drugged out of his mind? or is it something else. maybe not physical, but emotional?"
your throat tightens painfully. "I don't know how to say this without sounding like a terrible person," you admit, voice shaky. "but it's not just tonight for me. it's been building for months, and I kept telling myself it was nothing, that it would pass, that it was just proximity or stress or—" you pause, "the universe just being cruel."
she raises an eyebrow. "the universe? I didn't think you believed in all that witchy crap."
"never mind," you say quickly. "point is—I didn't go looking for these feelings. I tried to bury them, and I certainly didn't mean to fall face first into them."
she studies your face, something clicking into place. "you care about him."
it's not a question, so you don't answer. but you don't have to—your silence does it for you. the way your shoulders draw in. the way your eyes flick back toward the curtain like mat might disappear if you don't keep track of him.
cassie's expression shifts—a little hurt, yes, but also understanding. acceptance, settling in slowly like a bruise you've already been pressing on.
"okay," she says quietly. then she sighs, pushing off the wall. "i've been feeling it for a while. him pulling away. me pulling away. both of us pretending that was sustainable."
you shake your head. "I never wanted to be the reason—"
"you're not," she cuts in. "you're just the truth coming out faster than I was ready for. and probably faster than he was ready for too."
down the hallway, a vending machine buzzes and clicks to life, its contents lit up like sad little museum exhibits—pre-wrapped sandwiches, wilted salads, candy bars you know will taste like regret.
"I think i'm hungry." she notes, not waiting for you before walking towards it.
you follow a few steps behind.
neither of you are actually hungry, but it gives you something to look at that isn't the curtained door behind you—something to focus on that isn't mat sleeping a few feet away with a bandage on his head and an IV taped to his arm.
cassie squints at the machine. "turkey or mystery tuna?" she asks dryly.
you snort. "I think mystery tuna is a cry for help."
she hums in agreement, tapping the glass with her knuckle. "hospitals are cruel for this."
the machine whirs and then goes still again, like it's reconsidering its life choices. she looks back at you—really looks—while waiting for the machine to drop the takeaway lunch food. her voice softens. "he's different when he talks about you. even when he doesn't realize he's doing it."
your heart skips as you meet her gaze.
she bends to pick up her sandwich. "wanna split this with me?"
you manage a half smile despite yourself, thankful for the distraction of the events that are today. then, you nod, "yeah, okay."
you sit side by side on the hard plastic chairs outside of the hospital rooms. cassie's legs are angled toward yours, the crinkled vending machine sandwich balanced between you on her knee cap. it's slightly soggy and taste nothing like tuna, but neither of you complain.
she stares straight ahead for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes tracking nothing in particular. then she exhales, slow and deliberate, like she's bracing herself. "so what are you going to do?"
you blink, fingers tightening around the sandwich wrapper. "about what?"
cassie looks at you. "about mat. he's going to be single after this. and not because of you, trust me. i've been planning on ending it for awhile now. I was going to do it tonight."
the words land heavier than you expect, even though you already knew that—but hearing it never gets easier. because no matter what, the loop is always hell bent on cassie breaking up with mat. and you will never be able to change that.
you swallow, throat suddenly dry. "oh. right. i'm not going to do anything."
her brows knit together. "what?"
"he's going to be your ex boyfriend."
"so?"
you shake your head, the motion small but firm. "so I won't do that to you."
she lets out a short, incredulous laugh at that, more breath than sound. "you're not doing anything to me." she turns fully toward you now, shoulder brushing yours. "listen to me. if a man loved me as much as mat loves you, i'd stop at nothing to make it work. despite everything that may be preventing it."
your chest tightens, defensive instinct kicking in. "he doesn't love me, cass."
she doesn't hesitate. "yes. he does." her voice softens, but her certainty doesn't waver. "and you wanna know how I know that?"
you don't answer. you're not sure you’d be able to even if you tried.
"because he was the one who picked you that cashmere sweater for christmas," she continues. "not me. mat. and he's the one who made me check if you were still buying cigarettes or not, because he was worried about your health." she pauses, letting each word settle. "you're the one he looks for. the one he asks for. it's always been you, y/n. the 11 of however months we were together, it was never us. it was you.”
silence stretches between you, filled only by the distant beep of a monitor through the wall and the hum of the lights overhead. your grip loosens, sandwich forgotten, wrapper crinkling softly as your hands drop to your lap.
you stare at the closed curtain to mat's room, at the strip of light glowing underneath it. always been you.
cassie nudges the sandwich closer with her knee. "you should eat," she says gently, like this is the part she knows how to do.
you nod, though your little appetite is gone, heart pounding too loudly in your ears.
down the hall, a nurse walks past. life continues. machines hum. doors open and close, and sitting there on a hospital bench, sharing a vending machine sandwich at almost one in the morning, you realize there's no version of this where things will stay the same as before.
—
you visit mat once more before you leave—taking the opportunity while he's still a little floaty from the drugs to act like you’re two people who are allowed to exist within one another. that, and you know once he properly wakes up, he'll remember the fight you had earlier, and how he's mad at you for it.
after you finished of your respective half's of the soggy vending machine sandwich, cassie slipped away for another coffee, because she, and you quote, "was ready to fall into the deepest sleep of her life if she didn’t get more caffeine into me." so once she left again, you were able to slip back into his room without feeling guilty—despite smoothing things over with her about all this.
the curtain links clink together as you pull it back, and the sound has mat stirring, eyelids fluttering open, searching until they settle on you. immediately, his expression softens.
you rub at your crossed arms, stepping closer until your thighs hit the edge of the bed. "hey, i'm gunna go home now."
he whines, "take me with you. they won't let me get up to pee on my own here."
"they're just making sure you're okay, mat." before you can decide against it, you allow yourself to reach up and push the hair off his forehead. he's sleep warm, and you have the urge to crawl onto the bed and cuddle into him.
you watch his eyes flutter at the contact, and it makes your chest ache. because even though you've talked to cassie about your feelings, it doesn't mean anything. not really. yes, they're not in love and we're breaking up tonight, just as they would've any other night. and sure, cassie indicated that she wouldn't be upset if you and mat got together—hell, she practically encouraged it.
but what happens when you wake up tomorrow morning and it's another day of wednesday. another loop. this day, this hospital visit, and your conversation becomes forgotten. you and mat and whatever is happening between you becomes an affair. and you know that you can't live with that. you won't.
as long as the days loop, you won't be able to love him.
"get some sleep." you tell him gently, taking back your hand. he tried to grab it again, but you don't allow for the opportunity. sending him a gentle half smile, you walk backwards until you meet the material off the curtain, and then you turn away to leave mat in the hospital bed, with an injury caused by your selfishness.
mat wants to call you back to his bedside. he wants to get up, ass out in his hospital gown, wheel his IV and chase you down. but he can't move thinking about the final look in your eye, or that sad smile you'd given him, like you're saying goodbye without actually uttering the word.
he swallows and drops his head back into the pillows. "fuck."
he's no longer foggy with medication, at least, not enough to distort everything like before. mat could tell you thought he was still under though, so he let you believe it. he knows you needed that to say goodbye.
the monitor beats steadily, almost as steady as the pounding behind his skull. it's quiet besides that, and it makes his head hurt worse. when the curtain is pulled open again, his head snaps back up—hoping that you've come back.
if you've come back, mat can tell you the truth—that he loves you.
but instead, it's cassie. he shouldn't feel disappointed, maybe even guilty, but he doesn't. and maybe that makes him a bad person—or maybe just a truthful one.
she steps in carefully, and her eyes flick to the monitors, the IV, the bruise blooming at his temple. then they land on his face, and she softens.
"hey," cassie says quietly.
"hey," mat answers, and the word feels heavier than it should.
she pulls the curtain closed behind her and then takes a seat in chair you dragged over earlier beside the bed, sitting sideways so she's facing him fully. there's no accusation in her posture. no crossed arms, just attention. it almost makes this harder.
"how are you feeling?" she hums.
"like I got hit by a truck," he says, then exhales. "which I guess is...accurate."
that gets a small smile out of her. she reaches out, hesitates, then rests her hand lightly on the edge of the bed instead of on him. mat notices. he always notices these things—distance masquerading as consideration.
they sit in silence for a few beats. the monitor fills it up.
cassie's the one who breaks it. "you like her," she says, careful. not defensive. just stating a fact.
mat swallows. his throat feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with dehydration. "yeah."
another pause. she nods once, like she's filing that away rather than bracing against it. "okay."
that's it. not a why, no need to clarify who. just an okay, and it almost undoes him.
"cass," mat says, and his voice cracks enough that he has to stop and breathe through it. "I need to tell you something. and I need to not chicken out."
she leans back in the chair, giving him space without withdrawing. "then don't," she says gently. "i'm listening now."
for a second, mat just stares at the ceiling, like the words might magically be written there if he waits long enough. but they don't, and mat knows he has to do this himself.
he looks back at her—really looks at her. cassie's beautiful in all the ways that look good from the outside. effortless. admired. easy to explain. he's never questioned why they were together. they looked good together, physically. but inside, they are opposites. they aren’t good.
"I haven't been all here," he says finally. "with you. not for a while."
cassie's jaw tightens—not in anger, but in recognition. she nods again. "I know."
that surprises him. "you do?"
"yeah," she says. "I just didn't know why."
he lets out a humorless huff. "I don't think I did either. not until recently."
she waits. she's good at that. always has been with the exception of the last few weeks. it hits mat hard at just how overdue this talk is. he's been suffering yes, but so has cassie.
"I think..." mat starts again, then stops, rubbing a hand over his face as he collects his scrambled thoughts. not only is he concussed and still half medicated, but he also can't stop thinking about you. it’s a mess, one he is trying to clean up. "I think I got really used to being useful to you in a specific way. like—" he gestures vaguely at himself, at the bed, at the invisible version of him that exists in public. "I was your boyfriend, but also your hockey player. something you could point to. something impressive. and I liked that. I did. it felt good to be wanted for that."
cassie doesn't interrupt. her eyes don't leave his.
"but after a while, it started to feel like that was all I was," he continues. "like if I took the jersey off, there wouldn't be much left that mattered. and maybe that's on me. maybe I let myself become that because it was easier than asking for more."
her throat bobs when she swallows. "I never meant to make you feel like that."
"I know," he reassures her quickly. "I really do. this isn't me blaming you. I just—I don't think I knew how empty I felt until something... changed."
cassie's fingers curl into the fabric of her sleeve. "something meaning...y/n."
he nods once, timid but honest.
"she sees me," he says, and the certainty in his voice startles even him. "not the highlights. not the potential. me. the messy parts. the parts that don't win games or look good in photos. and I didn't go looking for that. it just—happened."
the room feels smaller. more intimate. the monitor keeps time like a metronome. cassie exhales slowly. when she speaks, her voice is steady, even if her eyes are bright. "are you in love with her?" she asks, even though she knows the answer. but she needs to hear it from his mouth—and she thinks, so does he.
mat doesn't hesitate. not this time. "yes."
cassie nods, once, twice slowly. then she looks down at her hands, then back up at him. "thank you for telling me the truth."
he stares at her. "you're not pissed?"
"no," she says softly, a little laugh following—like she can’t understand why he’d think that. how could she be mad though, when he’s finally opening up. finally being himself. "i'm a little hurt, but also a little relieved, if i'm being honest."
that catches him off guard. "relieved?"
"because i've felt you slipping away for months," she admits. "and I kept wondering what I was doing wrong. it's almost easier to know it wasn't about me failing—it was about you needing something I couldn't give."
tears sting his eyes, sudden and unwelcome. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"I know," she says, and this time she does reach out, resting her hand over his. it's warm. familiar. achingly kind. "you've always been gentle, mat. even when you don't know what you're doing."
he squeezes her hand back, just once. a thank you. a goodbye.
cassie keys out a short laugh, "we haven't been in love for a long time. in all honesty, I was planning on breaking up with you after the game."
mat snorts, "no kidding."
they both laugh again.
"what happens now?" he asks quietly once the quiet creeps back in.
she gives a small, sad smile. "now you get better. and then...we let this be what it is. I'm not going to stop something that is meant to happen."
then, she stands, smoothing out her denim jacket. she's leaving. "y/n is lucky," cassie smiles, patting the back of mat's hand. "and so are you."
mat almost smiles, "I know I am."
before she can leave the room, cassie pauses with her hand on the curtain, like she's remembering something. then she glances back at him, one brow lifting—not sharp, not accusing. almost fond.
"you kept asking for her, you know."
mat groans immediately, dropping his head back against the pillow. "oh god," he mutters. then, louder, "way to go on subtleness."
she laughs under her breath, the sound soft and a little tired, but real. "you were not smooth about it either. at one point you tried to sit up and got mad at the nurse because she 'wasn't her.'"
he winces. "please tell me I did not say that."
"you did," cassie teases, smiling now. "and then you apologized. to the nurse. and to me. and then you asked for her again."
mat presses his palms into his eyes. "unbelievable."
"honestly," she adds, "kind of impressive. i've never seen someone so committed to a single person while concussed."
he peeks at her through his fingers. "so what you're saying is head injury really brings out my romantic side."
"oh, absolutely," she says dryly. "very hallmark. very brain trauma."
that gets a laugh out of him—soft, but genuine. the tension that's been sitting in his chest all night loosens just a little.
cassie steps back into the room again, closer to the bed. "for what it's worth," she says, "i'd rather you be obvious and honest than quietly miserable."
he nods. "me too."
she gives him a small salute. "get some rest, romeo. try not to confess your love to any more medical staff."
"no promises," he says. "apparently i'm a liability."
she laughs again as she pulls the curtain open. "feel better, mat."
"hey, cass?" he says before she goes.
she turns.
"thank you. for being good about this."
she shrugs, soft smile in place. "thank you for finally being you." a pause, then a shuddering laugh, like she can't believe herself. "and seriously, after how bitchy i've been towards you both, specifically you, this is the least I can do. good luck."
then cassie's gone, and mat settles back into the pillow, the monitor still beeping, his head still aching—but for the first time, the weight in his chest feels lighter.
—
cassie comes in quietly, like she's aware the night is fragile and doesn't want to crack it in half. it's well past a reasonable hour—around three in the morning, if the clock on the microwave is correct—and your apartment feels hollow in that way it only ever does when everyone should be asleep but isn't. the lights low, and city humming outside.
you're still up, curled into the corner of the couch with your knees drawn to your chest, phone dark in your hand. you hadn't meant to wait. it just... happened. sleep never really stood a chance tonight.
cassie pauses when she sees you. her coat is still on, hair pulled back messily, exhaustion etched into the lines around her eyes. there's something different about her posture—looser, maybe. like a knot finally untied, even if the ache is still there.
"hey," she says softly.
"hey," you reply, just as quiet.
she toes her shoes off and moves farther inside the apartment, stopping under the archway. “you’re still up,” she notes, “you okay?”
you nod automatically, then stop yourself. "I mean. i'm awake so.”
that earns a faint, tired smile. "yeah." silence stretches. not uncomfortable, exactly—but charged. like there's something sitting between you that neither of you has truly dived into yet, and now that the night is empty enough, it's hard to ignore.
this is deeper than the conversation in the hospital. you know that. it’s deeper than mat, and relationships and time loops. it’s about you and her, and a friendship that built on her back-sided comments and weeks of distance and brushed off attempts at fixing things.
you shift, fingers worrying at the seam of your sleeve. your heart starts to thud a little harder, a familiar warning. you've been debating it since you arrived home, crying, missing mat but knowing he's not yours to miss. you almost let your insecurities go. almost tell yourself it's not the time.
but you've learned—across too many loops—that waiting rarely makes things easier, and this has to happen now, today, before it could all be erased.
"cass?" you say.
she hums in acknowledgment, eyes on you.
you hesitate. swallow. "did you ever say—" you stop, breath catching. try again. "did you ever say you wouldn't take relationship advice from me because I don't respect myself enough in relationships?"
the words land heavier than you expect, and cassie freezes. just for a second—but you see it. the way her shoulders still, the way her brow creases as she turns fully to face you now, attention sharpening.
"what?" she says. "when did I say that?"
your stomach dips, that familiar sick-drop sensation as you remember you're in a loop and she's not. you keep trying anyways, "you...don't remember?"
"no," she says slowly.
heat creeps up your neck, embarrassment blooming hot and fast. "okay," you say quickly. "sorry, I just thought..." you trail off without intent of finishing your thought. now what?
she studies you, confusion softening into concern. "why are you asking me that?"
you shrug, the movement awkward. "it's just... something mat said the other day, that one time you said it, and it stuck with me more than I thought it would." you don't know why you're saying all this, because cassie won't remember that conversation with mat. but the word vomit keeps coming.
her mouth tightens, regret flickering across her face. she rubs her thumb along the edge of the counter absently. "I don't remember, I'm sorry. if I did say that—or even if I made you feel that way without realizing—that wasn't fair."
the quiet presses in again, heavier now—then she adds, softer, "but since you're asking...do you want the honest answer?"
your chest tightens. you nod. "yeah."
cassie doesn't rush it. she never does when it matters. she stares at the floor for a moment, then back at you, words carefully chosen.
"I think," she says slowly, "i've watched you completely change for every boyfriend you've had since we met. you give more than you get, and you tell yourself that makes you easygoing. understanding. low-maintenance. when really, it just means you're bending yourself into shapes for people who don't always notice."
your gaze drops to your hands.
"I don't think you don't respect yourself," she continues. "I just think you forget yourself. you stay when things feel half-right because you don't want to be difficult. you make excuses for people because you're afraid of asking for too much."
your throat tightens painfully, like she's pressing on a bruise you didn't know how to name.
cassie's voice softens. "I just...I could see how much you wanted to love yourself, but you couldn't."
you blink hard. "that's...not how it sounded."
"I know," she says gently. "but i'm not great at saying things kindly when i'm hurt."
a shaky laugh slips out of you. "same."
silence settles between you—not awkward. just full. heavy in a way that feels honest.
cassie tilts her head slightly. "for what it's worth? the fact that you're even asking this tells me you're trying to do better. and the fact that mat—" she stops herself, then exhales and continues anyway. "the fact that he sees you the way he does means you're not invisible. not disposable. not wrong."
you look up then, meeting her eyes. "you're really not mad with me about him?"
she shakes her head. "no, i'm just learning to let go of the version of things I thought I had."
you nod slowly, but don't respond.
—
you get ready for bed on autopilot—brush your teeth, wash your face, change into an old shirt that's lost its shape but not its comfort. the mirror catches you a few times, but you don't linger. you're too tired for self scrutiny.
when you finally do crawl into bed, the sheets are cool against your skin. you turn onto your side, then your back, then your side again, staring at the ceiling until the dark starts to blur at the edges. sleep doesn't come. it never does when your mind is still untangling something important.
cassie's words surface again, uninvited but gentle.
you forget yourself.
you flinch at the truth of it—not because it's cruel, but because it's accurate. you think of all the times you've stayed quiet to keep the peace. all the moments you've shrunk your wants into something manageable, something easy to accommodate. you've called it patience. understanding. love.
but maybe it's been fear, too. fear of asking for too much. fear of being seen clearly and still being left.
you’ve done it with mark. with cassie. and you’re done being that miserable person. especially seeing now, with mat, you can be better. you are. you need to change your life, separate yourselves from the people who don’t do anything for you, and unfortunately that includes cassie. you love her, but it’s time for both of you to move on.
you press your palm to your chest, feeling your own heartbeat, steady and real. and then, inevitably like he’s the blood flowing through your veins, you think of mat again.
how around him, you don't feel the urge to sand yourself down. how he doesn't need you to be smaller or softer or less complicated. how he notices the things you usually give away without comment—and gives them back to you, intact. with him, respecting yourself doesn't feel like work. it feels like permission.
that's the part that scares you. because if you respect yourself around him, then there's nowhere to hide. no version of yourself you can blame later for being "too much" or "not enough." it would be you—fully, plainly, honestly. and if that version gets hurt, it would hurt deeper.
but lying here in the dark, you realize something else, too—that maybe that's exactly what you need to move forward.
not the safety of half love or quiet endurance. not the comfort of disappearing just enough to stay. maybe what you need is the risk of being seen. of choosing yourself even when your hands shake. of letting someone love you in a way that doesn't require you to give pieces of yourself away.
you exhale slowly, letting the thought settle instead of pushing it down.
respecting yourself doesn't mean you're fearless.
it just means you're finally honest. and maybe—just maybe—that's where this is supposed to begin.
sleep finally pulls you under, soft and heavy, your thoughts dissolving into something quieter.
a few moments later, your phone lights up on the nightstand. you don't stir, not really—just shift slightly, breath evening out again—but the screen glows long enough for the message to sit there, patient.
MAT BARZAL
hey. just wanted you to know i'm not upset. not at all. I get why you're scared. I am too, a little.
but i'm here. and I don't regret any of it.
sleep well, okay?
the phone dims, and your room goes dark again.
and even in your sleep, something in you softens—like your body knows what your heart hasn't fully let itself believe yet.
THURSDAY — FOR REAL
"y/n! i'm running so late for work! but don't forget that i've got book club tonight, so I won't be home until late."
you blink awake and see cassie's face looming over yours, looking a little frantic but still stupidly put together. you frown, confused.
"what?"
she groans, "I love you, but I don't have time for your sleep induced brain. don’t wait up tonight!" and then she's out of you room, perfume lingering and footsteps heavy down the stairs.
you fall back into your cat bedsheets, fully intending to fall back asleep. you lie there, eyes closed, counting your breaths, bracing for another looping wednesday to start with an alarm—wait.
your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and you flinch hard, heart jumping as you spring up. then, like you're scared of what you’ll see, you reach for your phone slowly—like sudden movement might undo whatever fragile thing is happening.
the lock screen lights up.
it’s thursday. a different day of the week. a different day of the month.
your chest tightens, and your hands shake as your scroll through the notifications. there's no repeat notifications, or familiar timestamps recycled from yesterday. your work group chat has messages you've never seen before, a few asking if you're coming in after your sick day.
your breath stutters. "no way," you whisper to the empty room.
you sit up, dizzy, the world tilting slightly like it's still deciding whether it's real. sunlight spills through the window at a new angle, catching dust in the air that wasn't there yesterday—or the yesterday before that, or the one before that. your body feels different, too. tired in a real way.
you swing your legs over the side of the bed, half expecting something to pull you back, but nothing does. the floor is solid beneath your feet, grounding and terrifying and definitely out of the loop.
the realization hits all at once, sharp and overwhelming—you're free. laughter bubbles up before you can stop it, halfway to a sob. you press a hand to your mouth, breathing hard.
then—obviously—your mind goes to mat. is he okay? is this happening for him too? are you both free?
you grab your phone again, fingers trembling as you open your messages. there's a text from last night, one you slept though. you read it twice, smiling through teary eyes as the message.
your thumb hovers. before you can talk yourself into texting him, another notification pops up.
MAT BARZAL
are you awake?
your heart slams so hard it almost hurts. you type back before fear can catch up.
YOU
I think so. is it real?
three dots appear instantly. then disappear. then reappear.
MAT BARZAL
yeah. it's really thursday.
you press your forehead to the edge of the bed, eyes squeezing shut as a shaky laugh escapes you. relief crashes through you, followed by something brighter. lighter. like standing at the edge of something wide open.
YOU
I don't know how we did it.
MAT BARZAL
but we did.
a pause.
MAT BARZAL
can I come see you?
you don't hesitate texting a response.
YOU
please.
—
mat knocks softly, like he's afraid of startling the moment. or zapping you both back into yesterday.
when you open it a half second later, the sight of him steals the air from your lungs a little. he's still banged up from yesterday—faint bruising at his temple, a careful stiffness in the way he stands, like he's negotiating with his own body. he's wearing a hoodie you recognize, one he's looped through a dozen times, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. familiar. real.
"hey," he breathes, like he can finally breathe again.
"hey," you echo.
for a second, neither of you move. it feels too easy to believe that if one of you does, the universe might get suspicious and rewind everything out of spite.
then mat exhales, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. "still thursday?"
you let out a shaky laugh. "still thursday."
that's enough. he steps inside, slow, careful, and you close the door behind him. the click of the lock sounds definitive in a way that makes your chest ache.
you sit on opposite ends of the couch at first—not because there's distance between you, but because there's too much still to say, and the air hums with it. mat's knee bounces once before he stills it with his calloused hand.
"how are you feeling?" you ask him, sneaking a glance.
he shrugs. "like I went a few rounds with the ground. but—" his eyes lift to yours. "it’s all worth it."
your stomach flips and you look away, suddenly too aware of yourself. "i'm glad you're okay."
"me too," he says quietly. then, after a beat, "I was scared to come over."
that surprises you. you look back at him. "you were?"
he nods. "yeah. because now it counts. before, everything—" he gestures vaguely, "—had a reset button. this doesn't."
your fingers curl into the fabric of the couch. "that's kind of why i'm scared too."
mat studies you, expression softening. "that's okay." a silence stretches, but it doesn't feel empty. it feels like both of you standing at the edge of something honest. "can I say something?" mat chimes.
you nod. "yeah."
he shifts closer—not touching you yet, just enough that the warmth of him reaches your side. "I think...I think the loop didn't end because we solved it. I think it ended because we stopped lying to each other. to ourselves."
your breath catches.
"I told cassie the truth last night," he continues. "about how I felt. about how empty I was with pretending I was fine. and I told her about you." he swallows. "and for the first time, I didn't feel like I was borrowing someone else's life."
you hug your knees to your chest. "I realized something too. that i've been afraid of you because around you, I don't disappear. I don't get smaller. I don't compromise pieces of myself just to stay wanted."
his voice is barely above a whisper. "is that bad?"
you shake your head slowly. "no. it's just...new."
"I need to say this now," he cuts in, voice cracking immediately. he swallows hard, takes a step closer. "before I lose my nerve too much to admit this."
your heart starts to pound, but you don't intervene.
"I loved you," he says, and then shakes his head, breath hitching. "I love you. I always have."
you stare at him, stunned.
"before the loop," mat continues quickly, words tumbling over each other now that they've started. "before I even knew why you mattered so much. you were just—there. and somehow everything felt sharper when you were. I didn't have a name for it then. I didn't think I was allowed to."
his voice breaks, and he laughs again, wet and disbelieving. "and then the loop happened, and I got stuck loving you on repeat. over and over. every version of you. every fight, every stupid joke, every time you rolled your eyes at me."
you sniffle, squeezing his hand in yours. he squeezes back three times.
"I fell in love with you in the quiet moments," mat goes on. "In the in between. In the way you say my name when you're tired. In the way you try to be brave even when you're scared. I loved you when you didn't love me back yet. when you couldn't." a pause. your lip wobbles and mat smooths it with his free hand. "and now it's over. the loop's gone. this is the first real day. and I'm terrified," he admits, voice barely holding. "because for the first time, I don't know if you'll choose me."
a tear slips down your cheek, and he wipes at that too.
"but I had to tell you," he finishes, breath uneven. "because loving you has been the truest thing in my life. and I'd do it all again—even the bad parts—if it meant getting this one chance to say it out loud."
your throat tightens. "but you had cassie."
"I know," he says gently. "and I hated myself for feeling this way. I told myself it was just intensity, or proximity, or the loop messing with my head. but with every reset, i'd find you again. every time, it was you."
tears sting your eyes. because it’s different when cassie was saying it, because then you could chalk it up to speculation. but this is straight from his mouth. "you don't know how terrifying that is to hear."
mat reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away. you don't. his fingers brush yours, tentative. "i'm not asking you to promise anything," he whispers. "I just need you to know that what I feel isn't new. it's not fragile. it's not going to disappear now that the world's moving forward."
you look down at your joined hands. yours looks tiny in his hold, and you almost want to take a picture so you can remember it forever. "I don't want to be someone you chose because everything else fell apart."
he tightens his grip just slightly, eyebrows drawn towards his nose, thumb brushing your knuckle. "I chose you before everything fell apart. I just didn't have the courage to say it."
your chest aches, full and unsteady. "i'm scared," you admit. "because if this works...it matters. and if it doesn't—"
"then we figure it out then," he finishes softly. "but it would hurt more to never try. the y/n I know isn't scared of wannabe frat guys."
you laugh weakly. "you're not supposed to be this good with words."
he smiles. "i've had a lot of time to practice."
and that does it. you turn fully toward him, closing the last inch of space. "i'm not ready to be fearless," you tell him. "but I want to be honest."
his eyes search your face. "and?"
"and I choose myself," you say. "which means choosing you too."
mat's breath shudders, a smile threatening to pull at his plump lips. "yeah?"
"yeah." you grin.
he leans in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. you don't. when your foreheads touch, it feels grounding and real.
"I love you," he says finally. no qualifiers. no jokes. just truth.
you close your eyes, letting it land. "I love you too."
when he kisses you, it's gentle—reverent, almost. like he knows this is the first one that really counts. when you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you smiling through tears.
you hum, "I want to go get that islanders sweater from the lost and found by the way. it's super comfy."
"we can do that," mat smiles and steals another kiss, just because he can. "and I want you to wear that sexy ass wig when we do. actually, I want you to wear it all the time."
you smack his chest loosely, not a whisper of real annoyance in your touch. "I've never met someone who's concussed, yet so committed to flirting."
his eyes gleam with pride and excitement. you're sure yours are doing the same. mat's thumb sweeps along your cheekbone, wiping away the trace of your tears. "that's because you've never seen me concussed. seriously, the last time it happened on the road I kept asking anders to call you,” he laughs, half scoffs, at your se faux annoyance and disbelief. “seriously!”
“you did not.”
“call him,” mat tells you, then kisses your jaw. just quick, but full of emotion. “it’s true. I’ve been hopeless for a long time.”
you both laugh into one another, the sound easy and unguarded. and for a moment, it feels absurdly normal—like this is how mornings are supposed to go. like this is what comes after laying everything on the line.
all the pucks to the face, and drunk confessions, and tears and white lies and the plant and photo booth pictures that, unbeknownst to either of you, still sit on mat's bathroom counter. everything and anything related to you and him and the time loop, suddenly feel like little puzzle pieces to the bigger picture. your big picture.
you have to kiss him for that. so you do, hard and desperate, both of you falling back into the couch like teenagers.
outside, the city keeps moving forward.
and so do you, because for the first time in weeks, you and mat barzal live your lives on a thursday.
Boy You Turn Me Inside Out, And Round And Round ╰┈➤ M.BARZAL (part one)
summary: you and mat are stuck in the same time loop for god knows how long. the only thing you can think that the universe wants of you, is for you to help mat and your roommate, cassie, stay together. so with mat, you plan and attempt to get her to no break up with mat once again. only it keeps failing. and you’re slowly running out of ideas.
[word count] 18.1k
warnings: time loop au | brief time jumps between certain scenes | bickering | swearing | mentions of blood and injuries | mentions of smoking cigarettes | angst | humour | cliches | tension | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion
pairing; mat barzal x reader
authors note: the ending of this chapter might be my favourite of every single chapter of this series. this is a long one, but vital to the build up, so I had a fun time planning this one out and bringing it to life.
< previous part | next part >
DAY 3
you wake up to the sound of an alarm.
it's the same shrill, insistent sound as yesterday—and the day beforehand—too loud, too early, cutting straight through your dreams like a blade.
for a moment, you don't open your eyes because maybe then it won't be real. the bad day, the loop and everything related. and for a split second, your heart leaps because you don't hear mat waking cassie so she can turn the alarm off. maybe, the whole stucj in a time loop with mat barzal—of all people—was just a really fucked up dream.
but then—
"alarm cassie." his gruff voice can be heard through the wall, sounding just as impatient as he does defeated. maybe mat too was hoping to wake up from a vivid dream where none of this was actually happening.
reluctantly, your eyes open, heart already racing before you're even fully conscious.
no.
squinting through the gray light leaking through the curtains, you slap your hand around the soft material of your bed sheets until your palm meets the tempered glass of your phone.
the screen lights up, and you timidly peek at screen. your stomach drops as soon as you see the date. because it's not a dream, it's a very much real loop and it's very much another wednesday.
you're out of bed before cassie can groan through the wall in response, bare feet hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thump. there's more movement in the apartment, someone mumbling, someone else—probably mat—walking down the hall.
you don't even bother fixing your hair or grabbing your phone before yanking the door open. a cold rush of air wafts over your bare legs, arms and the sliver of stomach between your tank and hem of your sleep shorts, and goosebumps cover you immediately. rushing down the stairs, two at a time, you are desperate to see if mat is awake.
you round into the kitchen with shallow breath, heart in your throat at the gloomy thought that mat has gotten out of the loop, somehow without you. and that's something you really don't won't to think about.
mat is standing exactly where you half expect him to be—lower back pressed to the counter, wearing his old team hoodie and sweatpants, his dark hair still sleep mussed. and in his hands is that thrift store peppa pig mug, pink and aggressively cheerful, staring at you with steam curling lazily up from the coffee inside.
he looks up when you skid to a stop, eyes wondering over you cautiously like he's thinking the same thing you are.
"y/n," he says calmly. "hi."
you just stare at him for a beat, chest heaving, relief and disbelief crashing together so hard it makes you dizzy.
"so," you say finally, voice pitched somewhere between hysterical and awed, "you're meaning to tell me that for over a week you've just been...stood in our kitchen with peppa like a statue? waiting for me to come down the stairs so you could test if you were still in the loop."
your playful jab, although laced with nervousness and something else he can't decipher, has mat physically relaxing. his shoulders drop and he sets the mug to the counter with a clink.
"precisely." he mutters, corner of his mouth quirking into a lazy smirk.
you mosey on through the kitchen, bare feet padding on the tiles until you stop at the coffee machine. "did you ever, I don't know, switch up the morning ritual?"
mat passes you a mug without thinking, and you take it softly, pouring yourself a full cup. no cream. two sweeteners.
"nah." he watches from the corner of his eye as you stir the sugar substitute into your coffee, then shrugs once you look at him, considering. "i'm trying to perfect it. you know, In case the universe wants that."
you blink, mug half way to your lips. "wants... what?”
"the exact conditions," he says earnestly. "same mug. same spot. same time. same everything."
"hate to break it to you," you muse, deadpan. "but clearly that's not working, barzal." you take a sip, careful to blow on the drink carefully so you don't burn your mouth. success. you make a noise through the mouthful, raising your eyebrows with an idea—"maybe you should break your routine."
you say it like it's some grand idea. like mat not performing the exact same thing every morning will magically fix whatever rip he's caused in the universe.
his mouth twists. "one day I tried to switch it up, and ended up messing with the loop."
your spine straightens. "how so?"
he hesitates, eyes flicking briefly—very deliberately—to your chest. because like every other morning in the three days you've been in the loop, you're wearing your thin sleep shirt. no bra.
"I tried to just do something obscure," he swallows, face scrunching like he can't decide if this is funny or humiliating. "made a joke about it being cold in here."
your gaze follows his and you groan. "oh my god."
"—que eyes to your nipples," mat adds as you cover the hardened peaks with your free arm.
"oh my god, perv."
"then you slapped me."
"deserved."
"yeah," he says mildly. "but when you slapped me the day restarted. I blinked and all of a sudden, I was back upstairs in cassie's bed. her alarm blaring like the day i'd already experienced never happened—really freaked me out."
you stomach flips violently. "oh my god."
"yeah." he clicks his tongue, thumb brushing over the handle of his coffee mug.
since last nights initial freak out about this whole loop thing—which consisted of you pacing the parking lot, muttering and totally panicking while mat switched between just watching you with concern, and trying to shake you back to reality. literally. hands on your arms and shaking—you've been relatively calm. considering what's happening.
I mean yeah, you also did almost pass out in mat’s arm when he reiterated that you're both stuck. and yes, you cried yourself to sleep and prayed that nothing was real. but other than that—totally calm.
but hearing that when mat tried to switch up his morning routine with a pervy comment however many days ago, resulting in a slap that clearly wasn't apart of the universes plan, sent him back to the beginning of the day is enough to have your heart rate increasing again. panic slowly clawing its way up your throat.
silence stretches between you, thick and heavy and buzzing with implication. you lean back against the counter, trying to wrap your head around the idea that one wrong move—one joke, one reaction—can snap the whole thing back to the beginning.
"so basically," you say slowly, hand over your thumping heart. "the universe has a hair trigger temper."
"or you do," mat offers, a hint of teasing to his groggy, morning voice.
you snort despite yourself, the last of your racing heart slowly forgotten as you look into the playful twinkle in his eyes. "unfair."
before either of you can say more, footsteps sound on the stairs. you and mat both freeze like you're doing something wrong.
cassie appears in the archway of the kitchen, hair sleek. "morning y/n." your roommate greets you the way she has for the past two days, then crosses the room, completely ignoring mat.
your skin prickles when mat sends you wide eyes over his girlfriends (or exes? you're still trying to work out the logic in this universe) perfect head. as if to say 'see what Ive been dealing with for over week? and from my own girlfriend nonetheless.'
too nervous to mess with the concept of a perfect morning, you don't respond in anybway. instead, you pick at the skin around your thumb while cassie adds cream to her coffee.
before she can leave without a word, mat gently runs a hand over the back of her shoulders, gathering her attention. she jumps like she forgot he was here. you watch anxiously.
"hey, you coming to my game tonight?"
cassie blinks and despite the grimace on her face, she shrugs mats hand off and nods. "sure." then, her big blue eyes find yours. "come with me, y/n?"
thinking off the screaming pain you've felt twice now because of that rogue puck, had the word no ready to fall off the tip of your tongue. your eyes dart over her head to mat, the latter of who just widens his eyes.
but once again, too worried about what will happen if you don't go to the game tonight, you swallow, eyes slowly finding cassie as you answer. "alright."
she hums, satisfied, and then walks out of the kitchen, travel mug held to her chest. your hear her zip her coat and shove her heels into her boots, and then the door is closing behind her.
it feels like the apartment exhales just as you do. "so like," you pause, looking away from the spot cassie just stood and towards mat. "how come the universe didn't, like, zap us back to the morning just then? we didn't stick to the 'script.'"
your finger air quotients have mat wanting to grin, but he stops himself by taking a mouthful of coffee. it warms his throat. "we can say whatever we want, and she'd respond with whatever she would've that first day. it's the actions that matter. at least, that's what i've noticed."
"right," you nod, the words washing over you and surprisingly, making sense. "so that’s why when past me slapped you-"
he finishes your sentence before you have the chance, "-I was sent back."
your hearts pounding again, but this time it's not just fear, it's also resolve. a beat passes, all while a hundred different thoughts run through your already frantic, full head.
finally, you tilt your chin, studying mat. "do you have practice today?"
"no," he says. "not this wednesday. only the game."
"good." you straighten, adrenaline sparking to life. "i'm calling in sick."
his brow lifts, a smile threatening to take over his mouth. "yeah?"
you nod, setting your half drunk coffee on the counter with a determined look. "yes. and we are going to get to work, barzal." you finish, eyes sharp now, already trying to remember where you last left your laptop.
finally, a slow grin spreads across his face.
—
the tiny, cozy long island coffee shop is warm in a way your apartment never quite manages—I mean, just ask your always pebbled nipples. thankfully, now your dressed and equipped with a bra.
hot steam curls up from the espresso machine behind the counter, air rich with roasted beans and sugar and something vaguely cinnamon. music, that you vaguely register to be olivia dean, hums softly through hidden speakers. it's early enough that the place is mostly empty—just a couple of students hunched over laptops and an older man reading the paper in the corner.
perfect.
"i'm gunna grab an egg and sausage bagel," mat hums low by your ear. "want anything?"
you tilt your head back and over your shoulder to find him peering down at your from behind the brim of his cap. swallowing, you nod. "same thanks."
he gives a closed mouth smile and then you part ways, mat making his way towards the register while you slide into a small booth by the window. immediately you claim territory like you're setting up camp. your oversized bag hits the chair beside you, then the table—thud, thud, thud—as notebooks spill out, three to be exact. your laptop follows, then your phone, then a handful of pens that scatter.
you've already got google open and loading when mat makes his way over, two carefully wrapped eggy bagels in one hand. his eyes scan the mess on the table and he stops short.
"jesus," he mutters, eyes wide. "are we opening a branch campus?"
"just sit."
slowly, and a little frightened, mat takes a seat across from you, booth squeaking under his muscles and weight. subconsciously, he passes you the bagel while his eyes are busy scanning the contents from your bag. and just as subconsciously, you take the bagel without looking up from the laptop.
the google articles and websites slowly start appearing, and you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. you're happy to see the internet still works in this version of the universe.
"you know," mat starts, leaning back with one of your gel pens between his fingers. he fiddles mindlessly. "when you said 'getting to work,' I didn't realize you meant...all this."
you snatch them pen from him. "research mode."
he snorts and then unwraps his bagel, taking a bite so big you want to gag. "you look like you're about to solve a murder." he teases through a mouthful.
"I am," you mutter. "the death of linear time."
he swallows. "catchy."
you roll your eyes but a smile pulls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself. you keep typing, fingers flying as keywords stack up on your screen—time loops, temporal anomalies, déjà vu psychology, narrative causality. your handwriting is frantic but legible, arrows and boxes and underlines multiplying like you're mapping a conspiracy.
you don't let mat help, because he tried to spell anomalies once and failed. he dubbed himself as moral support from there on out.
minutes blur together. coffee arrives that you don't remember ordering it, but you don't question it, figuring it was mat while you were nose deep in research. 10 more minutes pass, while mat sips his decaf coffee, thumbing the pages of one of the notebooks where your writing is organized into bullet points and short paragraphs.
he goes between that, and watching you with an expression somewhere between amused and mildly terrified. "so what's the working theory?"
"that the universe is a bitch," you reply, finally taking ahold of the mug, it's warmth seeping through and coating your fingers. "and that it wants something from us."
"scary."
you scroll your finger over the mousepad, eyes narrowing as you read. more philosophical forums and sketchy physics blogs—one particularly unhinged thread about fate and correction points.
then you slow, a passage capturing your attention. you read it again with furrowed brows, then once more.
"okay," you murmur.
mat straightens. "something good?”
you turn the laptop slightly toward him, tapping the screen so it brightens. "there's this recurring idea in time loop theory—fictional, theoretical, whatever—that loops exist to force change. that the universe keeps resetting things until something specific happens."
he frowns. "like...a lesson?"
"or a solution," you offer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as it falls from your braid. "something unresolved. something that keeps breaking the timeline."
you lean back into the cracking upholstery of the booth, staring at the ceiling, thoughts racing. you think of the main points of the looping wednesday. the puck, the weird fight between mat and cassie on the way home, and the breakup.
same day and same ending.
your eyes snap back to mat. "oh," you say softly.
he blinks. "oh...what."
you sit up straighter, heart starting to pound with certainty. "mat."
"what?"
"you're not the problem," you say slowly. "the breakup is."
he stiffens. "thanks, that's really comforting."
"no, listen," you insist, hands flying as you talk. "every loop ends the same way. the argument in her room, cassie breaks up with you, and then you leave. that's the constant."
his jaw tightens and he looks away, adjusting his cap when a couple teenagers wearing islanders jerseys walk in. they don't spot him, thank god. "so what, the universe is...rooting for me?"
"I think," you start carefully, "we're supposed to stop it."
he looks back at you, eyes searching your face. "stop...the breakup?”
you swallow. "yes."
the word hangs between you, heavy and electric. a beat, and then he lets out a disbelieving laugh. "you're telling me the fabric of space or time or whatever the internet is calling it, is invested in my relationship?"
"i'm saying," you reply, pointing your glittery pen at him, "that the universe keeps resetting until cassie stays with you."
silently, mat stares at his coffee like it might offer an explanation. "that's insane."
you nod. "absolutely."
"and you're sure?" he asks you, peering across the table at you like you're his all mighty. it's intense, and you have to look away.
you glance back at your notes, at the pattern forming whether you like it or not. "it fits too well not to be something."
at that, he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "so our master plan is...what? relationship counselling via time loop?"
"basically," you shrug. "we help you say the right things. do the right things. change the outcome."
he raises an eyebrow. "and if we mess it up?"
you smile tightly, like the thought itself could have you bursting into hysterics at any moment. "we wake up and try again."
a pause, and then—
"well," mat sighs, lifting his mug in a mock toast, "here's hoping the universe likes your version of couples therapy."
you roll your eyes—but there's something almost hopeful tugging at the corner of your mouth. because for the first time since the loop started, it feels like you might actually be getting somewhere. it feels like things are making sense.
—
the usual morning thunderstorm has stopped by now, but the city hasn't quite let go of it yet. the sidewalks shine slick and dark, reflecting the pale morning light in warped streaks. every step sends up a soft shhk from damp pavement. the air still heavy with that clean, metallic smell that the rain leaves behind.
you and mat walk side by side, your hands shoved into your coat sleeves and bag heavy on your shoulder. water drips steadily from passing fire escapes and tree branches, tapping out an irregular rhythm around you.
"okay," you say, words tumbling out as fast as your thoughts. "we need romance. like—capital R romance. something deliberate."
mat hums, noncommittal, eyes on the sidewalk ahead. he steps over a shallow puddle, then glances back at you like he's waiting for the punchline.
"you should get her flowers today."
he exhales through his nose, a little tired, but a little fond. "i've tried flowers three different times. still got broken up with."
you don't even slow down, side stepping the same puddle. "well, try a fourth."
he actually laughs at that—short and surprised—as you two fall back in line. his elbow brushes your coat as he shoves his hands in his own pockets. "you're very confident for someone who's never dated her."
"I have dated people," you argue. "and I'm telling you, repetition isn't the problem. it's about timing."
"timing," he repeats skeptically.
"yea. flowers after a loss? bad. flowers during a fight? worse. flowers before the fight?" you point at him like this is obvious. "that's strategy."
mat shakes his head, but he's smiling now, a little crooked, and a little uncertain. "you make this sound like a playoff game."
"it kind of is," you breathe. "best of...however many loops it takes."
you pass a closed bakery, the windows fogged over from the storm. you naturally slow as you peer in, and mat slows too, just enough to walk in step with you again. his shoulders are still tense, but there's something softer in the way he listens now, like he's letting himself believe this might work.
"so what," he hums, "we just throw every romantic cliché at the wall and see what sticks?"
"not clichés," you correct. "intentional gestures."
"those sound suspiciously similar."
you grin. "semantics."
he kicks at a loose pebble, sending it skittering across the wet concrete. "I just don't want to make it worse."
"we won't," you say without hesitation. "worst case scenario, the universe hits reset."
he glances at you then, searching your face. "and you're okay with that?"
you shrug, stepping around another puddle. "i've already lived today twice. might as well make it interesting."
the small florist you google mapped before you left the cafe comes into view at the end of the block, it's brick still dark from the rain, the clouds above finally starting to thin so the suns poking out, making the place glow.
"so if I'm supposed to prevent my breakup with cassie," mat starts, slowing just a little as you near the corner, "how come the universe dragged you along?"
"because," you hum like it's simple. like you've already thought of this without consulting him. "clearly you're incompetent on your own."
mat stops walking and turns to you, hand pressed dramatically to his chest. "that's just... rude."
"you'll live, barzal," you say, already tugging him forward by the sleeve. "c'mon, we have flowers to buy."
he lets himself be pulled, feet skidding slightly on the wet pavement. "save me."
you glance back over your shoulder, grinning. "sorry—" you add sweetly, "that's above the universe's pay grade currently."
you let go of his hoodie soon after, walking the rest of the way to the florists side by side. they've got beautiful displays in their front window—buckets of blooming flowers crowding the glass, petals pressed together like they're gossiping. you can already smell them.
the bell over the door jingles when mat pushes it open—a soft, chiming sound that feels too gentle for how absurd your life currently is. he keeps his palm flat on the glass to hold it while you walk in, under his arm and into the welcoming shop.
inside, it smells green and damp and sweet all at once. soil and rain and something so floral that you can't quite place it. buckets line the walls in mismatched rows, some metal, some plastic, all overflowing. a woman behind the counter is trimming stems with practiced ease, radio humming low somewhere near her feet.
mat pauses just inside the doorway, taking it all in like he's stepped into a foreign country. "I don't know anything about flowers," he admits quietly, like the walls might judge him.
you shrug out of your jacket and shake a few slushy raindrops from the sleeves, then drape it over your arm. "that's okay. cassie does."
"that's not comforting."
you drift toward the nearest bucket, fingers brushing over petals still cool from the rain. "relax, this isn't about you suddenly becoming a floral expert. it's about effort and thoughtfulness. not—" you glance back at him pointedly. he's sniffing a flower and fake gagging at the unpleasant smell.
"—messing it up." you finish.
mat walks away from the stinky plant to follow you around the shop, hands shoved deep into his pockets, gaze flicking between the options like they might bite. "you say that like I mess things up on purpose."
"you often say things at the wrong time," you correct, lifting a bundle of pale pink ranunculus and then putting them back. "and then double down instead of apologizing."
mat winces. "wow. didn't realize this was going to be an attack."
"i'm not here to be your friend, barzal," you say lightly. "i'm here to try and fix your universe."
you move deeper into the shop, stopping in front of a bucket of sunflowers—bright, unapologetic, a little ridiculous. you tilt your head, considering. "these are cheerful."
mat swallows hard and blinks, moving closer to inspect them. "she's going to be mad at me," he reminds you. "cheerful feels...wrong."
you glance at him, truly. glancing at the crease between his brows that wasn't there yesterday—or was it always there, and you just hadn't noticed until the loop made everything sharper?
his adam's apple bobs as he swallows again, and you can tell there's something he isn't saying.
"okay," you say cautiously. "then we go sincere."
you reach for something softer this time. whites and greens and some baby pink sprinkled throughout the premade bouquet. it's nothing flashy. you hold them up between you. "these say, 'I messed up, but I care.'"
mat studies them like they might start talking. "you're disturbingly good at this."
"i've lived with cassie since uni," you say. "you learn the language." you turn then, but stop short as you spot the shelves of house plants. and there, on the middle shelf is a replica of your dead plant—you're hit with a painful pang of reality.
you touch the leaf. mat watches you, carefully. he could swear that your chin wobbles.
"hey," he whispers, "you okay?"
your eyes find his and you blink. "yeah. sorry."
in an attempt to distract yourself—and an apparent observant mat—you flag down the florist, who smiles like she's seen this exact moment a thousand times. as she starts assembling the bouquet, mat keeps watch on you.
once the twine is all wrapped and flowers arranged, the florist hands the bouquet over—wrapped in delicate brown paper. mat takes it and then goes to the counter to pay.
"so," he says once you're both back on the sidewalk, shifting the flowers in his arms. "step one complete?"
"for now," you nod. "flowers are an opening move. not a fix."
he sighs. "you're just brutal."
—
you're not sure if it's because you've been severely close to having back to back concussions, but everything in the USB arena seems brighter. and louder. and just more chaotic than the last two times you've been here. even though according to the loop, isn't logistically possible. but what about this is?
lights glare off the ice, music thuds through your seat and vibrate your thighs, the crowd swells and collapses in waves you swear you remember by heart. the fans that fill the arena are pumped, not yet aware of the shitshow that's about to unleash on the ice.
you sit in your seat beside cassie, hands folded neatly in your lap, posture almost aggressively upbeat. too upbeat all considering.
you clap anytime the isles have the puck, and cheer when they take any kind of shot on net. you even do that little two finger whistle you practiced once in uni and never used again when mat body checks mackinnon into the boards.
there's no way he can hear it over the roar of the crowd, but you swear his lips tip up in a grin.
cassie turns to look at you like you've grown a second head. "since when do you like hockey?" she asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
your head snaps in her direction so fast that she visibly jumps with surprise. you've been waiting since you both sat down and pulled her phone out for cassie to notice your over the top cheer.
you grin, wide and brittle. "what? i've always been a fan."
she snorts and plays with the end of her ponytail, blonde strands shining around her nails. "you fell asleep during the playoffs last season."
you blink. you don't even remember that. "that was... strategic rest," you chime shakily. "i'm evolving."
she hums, clearly unconvinced, but lets it go, turning her attention back to the ice rather than her phone. you take the opportunity to lean in a little closer, lowering your voice like you're sharing secrets.
"so," you say casually, too casually, as both of you track mat as she skates backwards into the offensive zone. "how are you and mat, by the way?"
her shoulders tense—just a fraction, but you see it all the same. cassie shoots you a look and then swallows, eyes finding the ice again. "we're fine."
you nod, like that's a totally normal answer and not the vaguest thing she could've said. "yeah, totally. fine is good. fine is...fine."
she shoots you another look and you sink back into your seat. but clearing your throat, you choose to continue. maybe against your better judgment. "I just mean—he seems stressed lately. busy. you know. hockey."
"mhm," she hums, noncommittal.
a beat passes, and the horn sounds singling the end of the first period. cassie's mumbles something about wanting a beer but you grab her wrist, trying again to pry conversation out of her. or more accurately, pry for some research.
"you guys still doing date nights?" you blurt, earning an odd over the shoulder glance from a 8 year old boy a few rows down before he and his friends go back to trying to get the jumbo trons attention.
she squints down at your hand around her decorated wrist. "why are you interrogating me?"
"i'm not!" you protest, tugging her back down to her seat so firmly that she lets out an audible umph. "i'm just...checking in as you're friend."
she studies you for a beat, then shrugs. "we've both been busy."
"so that's a no?"
the crowd roars when one of the kids in a giant hamster ball takes a tumble mid ice, and you clap along like you don't even register you're doing it, still leaning into cassie's personal space like a nosey aunt.
she looks over her shoulder towards the concourse, clearly not interested in giving you answer.
"okay, but like," you press, lowering your voice even more, "busy busy or emotionally distant busy?"
"what?" she blinks, brows pulled tightly in confusion.
you wince internally but push on despite your better judgment. "and—and how's the, uh, you know. the...intimacy?"
her head snaps toward you. "the what?"
"your sex life," you blurt, far too loud. "with mat."
an older women a few seats down from cassie tuts her tongue at your crude question, and you can't say you blame her. the same kid boys from earlier start snickering and looking towards you both like they're planning moves. as if.
but cassie? cassie just stares at you like you've lost your damn mind. and maybe you have. "what are you doing right now?"
you give her a weak smile, "we're just having girl talk."
she shakes her head, incredulous. "you don't even like hockey but have turned into an overnight fan, and now you're asking me about my sex life in public? who are you?”
the crowd starts thickening, the second period looming. you open your mouth to recover—say something normal, something that won't get you banned from sitting next to her ever again, but cassie's up before you have the chance.
"i'm getting a beer now." she doesn't wait for your response before she's walking over your legs and up the stairs.
you sigh in defeat, slumping back in the plastic seat like it's your only hope. pouting, you watch as the isles do a brief warm up around the ice, getting ready for what, unbeknownst at the moment, will be an awful second period.
spotting mat should feel like some sort of relief, but you only feel more defeated, because your conversation with his future—or current—ex girlfriend got you absolutely nowhere. you have no idea about what's got cassie so in a twist with mat and their relationship, meaning you have no idea how to fix it.
mat slows on his skates, doing some behind the back stretch while his dark eyes find yours through the scuffed plexiglass. he jerks his chin in your direction, a silent ask about how it's going. you just give him a thumbs down.
by the time the third period rolls around, cassie is three pints deep and barley talking to you. at one point, she leaves to go to talk to sidney and kristy and their band of children, leaving you completely alone to shove stale popcorn in your mouth like it's your job.
even more unfortunate, you still get absolutely rocked by that stupid hockey puck at the exact same time as the past two times, and yup, it still fucking hurts like hell.
pain explodes across your face, white hot and immediate and familiar in ways you wish it wasn't—head snapping back as the world dissolves into noise and shouting. you gasp, hands flying up too late, blood already warm against your fingers.
cassie screams your name.
the arena falls into that stunned hush you remember all too well.
and as you're escorted out—again—you have one awful, looping thought ringing through your skull: yup. still happens even when you try and switch it up. god damn time loop.
—
Mat Barzal
you coming down to my car?
Mat Barzal
don't know if you gathered from cassie
reeming me out but i've just been broken up with
you see him before he sees you.
mat’s slumped in the driver's seat, forehead resting briefly against the steering wheel like he's counting to ten—or a hundred. he's still clad in his game suit, and it's only been about 10 minutes since the inevitable break up.
he looks up, and spots you just as you near his idling car, and something softens in his expression. relief, maybe. or just familiarity.
you pull open the passenger door, but you step in a muddy, half freezing puddle right before getting into the car, and you groan like you've just been shot as the water seeps between your toes.
mat watches you quietly as you all but throw yourself into the seat, followed by a quirked brow as you kick off your wet slippers, leaving them in a heap on the weather tech floor mat.
the warmth hits you immediately, fogging the windows, and chasing the chill out of your bones. the car smells like medical supplies and arena and his cologne—clean, understated, comforting in a way you didn't expect.
"hey," he says quietly.
"hey."
when you turn your face towards him, mat visibly grimaces. "jesus, I forgot how bad that looks." he keeps looking away and then back again, like he can't decide if he can stomach the sight of your swollen cheeks,crusty nose or blood soaked tampon style gauze hanging out your nostrils.
you give him a deadpanned stare, feeling just as full in your sinuses as you look. "thanks. real comforting."
"so," he adds eventually, forcing a breath out. "flowers didn't do it."
you wince, bringing your knees to your chest as you try and get comfortable. "yeah. I gathered."
he doesn't sound angry, just tired in a way that reminds you of just how much longer than you he's been at this.
you study mat for a second longer than necessary. the way his shoulders are pitched forward, hands loose on the wheel like he's already given up on steering anything tonight. the engine hums under you both, steady and indifferent.
and for the first time ever, you have the strange urge to figure mat barzal out.
"why does she do it?" you ask after a beat, fingers warming in that too hot, numb way when the heater blasts on them.
he blinks, like the question didn't register at first. then his jaw tightens, but he keeps his eyes on the windshield, where the fog is already creeping back in around the edges.
"does what?"
"break up with you," you ask, but there's no edge to it, just a curiosity that has mat's heart jumping. "it's the same argument every time, right? it's not like she just...throws you out without a real explanation."
his thumb rubs along the seam of the steering wheel. once. twice. "she says she's tired," he answers finally, not meeting your eyes.
you wait as the silence stretches, and the heater clicks off as it reaches temperature. "tired of what?" you press.
he exhales through his nose. "everything."
you tilt your head, unimpressed by his vagueness—since when is mat, the golden retriever in disguise, vague. "that's not an answer, barzal."
he huffs a quiet, humorless laugh at that, finally glancing over at you. "it's the one she gives."
you don't look away. you can feel your face throbbing in time with your pulse, but you let it. "okay," you continue slowly. "word for word, what does she say?"
mat's jaw works and then he swallows roughly, like he's keeping something repressed.
"she says...she can't keep doing this." his voice drops, rougher now. "that she feels like she's second best."
that gets your attention. your chest tightens, despite yourself. "second best?"
he fidgets again, running his palms down the thick of his covered thighs. he's holding something back, you can see it.
mat closes his eyes briefly. opens them. looks anywhere but at you. "yeah. i'm always halfway out the door. hockey, travel, rehab, film. that even when we're together, I'm somewhere else. thinking of something else."
you think of the coldness cassie shows him, and of the arguments in the car on your way home from the arena. the same weird feeling you get every time mat’s eyes would meet yours in the rearview—simply because you knew she'd turn into a viper and start speaking in code about you.
"does she bring me up?" you ask, quieter now.
that finally makes him look at you.
"sometimes," he admits. "not like...accusing. just—" he searches for the right word. something that sounds right. you wait with baited breath. "comparisons. she says I check in on you too much."
your stomach twists.
his mouth quirks, faint and sad. "but it's nothing. and I try to listen to her. I tell her that you're hurt and i'm trying to be nice. she doesn't believe me."
you let out a breath. "but it's just about tonight's accident, right?"
mat gulps. "yeah."
the car feels smaller suddenly. heavier.
"so is that it?" you ask. "that's the reason? she feels like you don't care about her."
he hesitates, just for a fraction too long.
"yeah," he sighs eventually. "pretty much."
you don't call him on it. but you do clock it—the way his fingers curl tighter around the wheel, tand he way his shoulders creep up like he's bracing for impact. there's more. something mat's not saying.
you lean your head back against the seat, staring at the fogged ceiling. "so every loop, it's the same reason? same speech with the same ending."
"every time," he confirms. "doesn't matter what I say. doesn’t matter about the flowers or apologies or promises. she always gets to the same place."
you swallow. "so we just have to show her that you do care, right?"
he looks at you then. really looks. "right."
outside, the slush of rain starts again, light but persistent—like the universe tapping its fingers, waiting for you both to figure it out.
DAY 4
you wake up already exhausted for the day ahead.
the alarm screams like it's personally offended by your existence. you groan into your pillow, face aching in that dull, swollen way that tells you exactly how the day is going to go.
mat is in the kitchen with the peppa pig mug again. except this time he's leaning against the counter, shoulders hunched, eyes rimmed red like he never actually made it to sleep.
"you look worse today," you tell him, squinting at the coffee maker like it betrayed you. because it has.
"I feel worse today," he says. then, after a beat—"is that progress?"
you snort into your chest, the sound more wheeze than laugh. your nose still feels like it's packed with concrete, even though it's not. you pour coffee and it burns your tongue when you forget to blow on it. see? betrayal.
cassie breezes through soon after like usual, already annoyed, already running late. she snaps at mat when he tries to show her affection, and you bow your head when he apologizes automatically.
today, you go to work.
autopilot takes over from there. and when the game comes, you sit in the same seat at the rink, and you tell yourself this is the loop you'll pay enough attention to not get hurt.
you clock the way the crowd leans forward all at once, like a single organism holding its breath. the sound of mat's stick hitting the ice like a warning. you notice the arc of the puck leaving the ice. you even think, dimly, oh—
but you still don't move fast enough.
the med room smells like antiseptic and disappointment. cotton shoved up your nose. ice pressed to your cheeks.
you text mat while you're getting cleaned up.
YOU
I told myself I was going to pay attention this time
he responds soon after.
MAT BARZAL
yeah. so did I.
MAT BARZAL
see you soon, kay?
YOU
bring ice.
DAY 5
mat tries optimism, because despair hasn't worked yet, and anything else is starting to feel like a prayer.
"you know," he says to you on the walk back from the cafe, sunlight glinting off the wet pavement like the world is freshly scrubbed and forgiving, "maybe the puck is symbolic."
"of what," you asks without slowing, voice flat, "the universe hating me?"
"character development," he offers. "humbling. maybe even rebalance."
you snort despite yourself, breath fogging in the cold air. for a second, it almost feels normal. like you’re just two people killing time between errands, instead of inmates pacing the same yard.
the cafe had gone the same way it's done previously. same barista. same yummy bagels. same moment where you both realize research can only get you so far. so today, you sat by the same window and watched the street instead of screens, counted passing dogs, talked about nothing and everything in that careful, non explosive way you've grown to look forward to.
mat had scribbled something new in the notebook. a theory. an arrow. a question mark circled too many times.
avoid rink?
change seats?
protective gear??
you'd underlined the last one twice.
you go to the isles game armed with hope and ibuprofen.
you change seats, sitting two rows higher and off to the side after begging some giggling teenage girls to switch with you and cassie—it only worked after flaunting that you knew mat barzal and you'd get them an autograph.
during the intermission, you texted him.
YOU
managed to get new seats. you owe an autograph to some teenage girls now
he replies between the 1st and 2nd.
MAT BARZAL
they'll get one if you don't get obliterated
the third period eases on, and by the time you're expecting the puck, it never comes. and for the first time in days, it feels like you can breathe again. your shoulders drop, your jaw unclenches, and you allow yourself exactly twelve seconds of hope.
"okay" you whisper to yourself. "this is good."
cassie looks over at you, confused. "did you say something?"
you open your mouth to reply, and that's when it happens. it doesn't even feel dramatic this time. there's no warning rush of sound, no slow motion dread, or the sound of mat’s stick hitting the ice. just impact—and then the world goes white at the edges, then red.
cassie screams. again. and you're starting to hate that sound more than the hushed whisper of the crowd as they watch the scene unfold.
you start laughing as medical personal escorts you out of the stands—a thin, breathless sound that startles even you. your nose is bleeding so much it's soaking through the cloth they've got pressed under it, and your eyes are watering. but you can't stop snickering.
"okay," you mutter to yourself, wiping at some blood in your chin. "note to self, changing seats doesn’t do shit."
the medic gives you a look that says get this girl through some concussion protocol and also are you kidding me?
later—after an ice pack, more tissues, and a tension filled car ride—you sit on the stoop of your apartment building with mat beside you, elbows on his knees, while cassie sleeps soundly upstairs.
he glances at you. "we're missing something."
you nod. you've been thinking the same thing. not just about the puck, or the rink, or cassie's inevitable speech—but about the way the day keeps insisting on this exact pain, this exact moment, no matter how you angle yourself.
"maybe it's not about avoiding it," you say slowly, voice all muffled with the cotton up your nostrils. "maybe it's about... letting it happen."
mat frowns. "you want me to just let this happen every night?"
"not sure if we have a choice."
DAY 6
this evening, you change tactics completely. moving around the arena like a hyper child in a way that has cassie sweating.
first you sit one seat over. close enough that cassie can still lean across you to complain about the ref, and still close enough that mat can glance up and spot you without searching. you hold your breath through the beginning of the bloodbath.
second period, you slide two seats up into an empty one. a family with matching hats eyes you like you're contagious. you smile anyway. the ice looks farther away now and hopefully will be safer.
by the third attempt, you're negotiating with a guy wearing an old tavres jersey that’s about three sizes too small, stretched thin across his stomach like it's fighting for its life. once you promise him an autograph—mat is seriously going to kill you—the guy shrugs, stands, and lets you take his seat without a second thought.
but just when you think you've maybe got an upper hand on the universe—and the puck—locating you in a new space, you're proven wrong.
the puck doesn't come straight this time. it clips the stick of makar, kisses the boards, changes its mind midair like it remembered something important, and then inevitably finds you.
it’s all impact, then shock, followed by that familiar, blinding jolt that steals your breath and your dignity in one clean hit. someone swears. someone laughs nervously. blood again—of course there's blood again.
you don't even scream this time. you just sag forward, stunned, like the universe has finally beaten the surprise out of you.
for the most part, it's the same routine in the medical room, expect this time it takes longer than normal. annoying, but any kind of change in routine, you'll take as some sort of sign that maybe something is working.
it's a loop of antiseptic and the crinkle of gauze, with tape tugged tight across your cheek, your nose, and your pride. the med staff has just stepped out to give you some privacy to change into the vintage, lost and found crewneck when mat slips in.
his hair damp with sweat, buttons unaligned on his shirt like he rushed to do it up. seeing mat in here takes you by surprise, you jump off the crinkling bed to stand straight. you’re dizzy for a moment, but you blink away the stars until his face comes back into vision.
"oh shit you're in here."
mat snickers, moving closer until he's touching your shoulders. gently, he sits you back on the bed. you hadn't realized that you were swaying.
"sit down before you pass out." he passes you the ice pack again, and you waste no time pressing it to your throbbing nose.
"where's cassie?"
his face twists and then he huffs a sharp breath before scrubbing a hand over his mouth. "in the car. told her i'd come get you and she got pissed. stormed off on me."
you watch mat as he paces once, then twice, like a trapped animal planning escape. like if he could just find the right angle, the right move, he could outmaneuver fate.
you press the ice pack harder to your face and say, lightly, "right. well, next time, i'm definitely wearing a helmet."
mat stops walking and manages a weak smile. "full goalie gear."
"hazmat suit," you counter.
he laughs, short and surprised, like it escaped him by accident.
DAY 7
research expands, because doing nothing feels worse than being wrong with confidence.
your coffee shop table is barely holding on now. cups pushed to the edge, napkins layered with pen marks, two notebooks open, and a third wedged under mat's elbow—its spine cracked like it's been interrogated one too many times.
arrows multiply. flowcharts branch and collapse. words are circled, crossed out, circled again harder. some points are underlined so many times that the paper is starting to tear.
he peers at one of the pages, squinting like it might lunge at him. "is that my...emotional availability ranked on a scale?"
"yes," you say without looking up, already drawing another arrow.
he leans closer. "why is it in red?"
"because red is alarming."
that earns a surprised snort. he drops back into his chair, shaking his head. "you're enjoying this a little too much."
you finally look up at him. his hair's a mess. there's a ghost of bruise still blooming at his temple from blocking a shot the night before, or maybe you’re just imaging things.
"don't worry," you say, deadpan. "i'd still trade it for linear time."
outside, the street keeps moving like nothing is wrong. people pass with purpose, someone laughs too loudly, a dog drags its owner toward the door like the café is a miracle instead of a pit stop in purgatory. it has you feeling envious.
you tap your pen against the notebook so you don’t snap. "okay. so. we've ruled out randomness."
"because the puck keeps assaulting you," mat says.
"because the same things keep happening," you correct. "no matter how we interfere. different inputs, same outputs."
he nods slowly. "cassie still ends things."
"cassie still ends things," you echo. "you still apologize. I still bleed. we still end up here on the same relived wednesday."
he traces one of the circles with his finger—pattern—and his voice drops. "so what does that mean?"
you don't answer right away because you're too busy looking at him instead, which feels like a mistake the second you realize you're doing it. the angle of his jaw when he's thinking, the way his neck moves when he swallows, the way he always peers at you through his thick lashes. so soft, yet determined. your brain offers the unhelpful observation that he looks good like this—focused, serious, close.
you immediately argue with yourself about it.
he's not hot. he's just...there. so familiar that it's also annoying.
your tear your eyes away before he can catch you staring, heat creeping up your neck. "it means," you start carefully, "that the day doesn't seem to care about intention. only about resolution."
mat begins to smirk, looking between you and the words on the page. "that sounds fake."
"everything about this sounds fake," you remind him, tearing the notebook from under his finger rather aggressively. "but look—" you turn the page so he can see. "when we try to force an outcome—whether it be flowers, speeches, rearranging the world—it pushes back harder."
his eyes flick to another note in the margin that reads overcorrection? written in your loopy handwriting
"and when we don't?" he licks his bottom lip, "force it I mean."
"then it still happens," you worry the inside of your cheek until it feels tender, flopping backs fishy the booth. "but...different."
he sits with that. the espresso machine hisses like it's judging you both and you keep chewing away at the skin inside your mouth like if you keep going, the answers will just appear.
in the lull of silence, you think about everything. more specifically, everything you've tried to fix this damn loop, and a small thought plagues you. maybe this isn't about the breakup itself, but the reason for the break up is the real key to the whole loop.
maybe if you can get cassie to come clean about what's been bothering her, it will fix the timeline. or at least, push you further into the right direction.
"so what," mat says finally, pulling you out of your own thoughts. "we're supposed to just let everything fall apart?"
you look down at the page again and sit back up. you lean in conspicuously and over the table, almost spilling your coffee. "maybe...we need to start from the beginning." you swallow, keeping eye contact. "maybe we're missing the right thing."
his gaze lingers on you, searching. like he's starting to suspect the answer is standing across the table from him, bleeding into napkins and pretending it's fine.
he swallows. "and what's the right thing?"
suddenly, you snap backwards and cap your pen with an echoing click. not because you're done—but because you don't trust your hand not to shake. "that's tomorrow's experiment," you note, already packing your things.
"what do you need me to do?" mat asks, eyes following your every move.
you look at him, "i'll let you know."
DAY 8
you find cassie's wide, searching eyes through the bustling walkways and filled booths of seasons 52–a cute little restaurant in long island the pair of you found in college and dubbed your place.
she raises her hand in a half hearted wave, and you give one back, moving between a waitress with two glasses of water and the host booth, squeezing between people like a maze until you're sitting down across from cassie.
"hey." you heave, breathless from the walk over from work.
she gives a tight lipped smile as she eyes your hair that’s gone frizzy from the lingering moisture in the air. "hey."
you swallow, pulling your scarf off. "thanks for meeting me during lunch."
"yeah," cassie chimes, seemingly in a good mood considering that just this morning, she'd been snippy with mat. not that it's a suprise anymore. "are you okay?" she squints at you, curious.
you nod, maybe a bit too quickly—so you try and brush off your nervous eagerness with a short laugh. "yeah, totally fine. i'm just... trying to figure something out."
her head of blonde hair bobs. if she's weirded out by your weirdness, she's not showing it. "oh, okay. what is it?"
and that's the million dollar question. what is it? what is the loop? what does your involvement mean? what does her involvement mean? what are you doing at lunch with your roommate, when you're risking the integrity of the time loop doing so, and could easily be snapped back to the morning.
after your usual morning meeting with mat yesterday, you figured that whatever is going on with mat and cassie and their failing relationship, runs deeper than whatever she's telling him—or what he's choosing to tell you. either way, you'd been determined to figure it out, and get cassie to open up, hopefully helping you with getting out of the loop by sharing some kind of life changing thing that just so happens to be the solution to all your and mat's problems. doubtful, but you'd be damned if you don't try.
she blinks across from you, waiting patiently. just because you're determined, doesn't mean you're not nervous. I mean, as you and mat both know, one wrong move could mess the entire day up.
the waitress waltzes up to your table just as your mouth parts in answer, giving you another few moments as you and cassie place your orders.
once the notebook closes and she leaves with your orders, cassie turns her attention back to you. "y/n?"
you inhale and decide to put all your eggs in her basket. fuck it, if this doesn't work, you'll just try again tomorrow. "sorry if i'm overstepping here but, i've noticed something going on with you." you pause, gauging her reaction. a reaction she doesn't give. you continue wearily, "more specifically, with you and mat."
"oh. right."
two cups of water are placed on the table and you thank the waitress before she leaves once more.
cassie sits forward, palming the glass. "I didn't realize it was that obvious."
you almost laugh, "well, to be honest I still don't know what it is that’s obvious. has something happened?" feeling a bit sneaky knowing about the breakup that hasn't yet happened in her timeline, you look away from her big eyes, taking an un-lady like gulp of water—reminding yourself to not slip up about what you already know.
much to your surprise, she doesn't shut down. no, if anything cassie's eyes widen further, like she's been waiting to talk about this. it fills you with a shred of hope, and you lean across the table.
"you know I don't like to complain," she starts.
you raise a knowing eyebrow and cassie playfully rolls her eyes.
"okay, at least not all the time."
you nod, "okay...but?"
"but," she repeats firmly, "i've just been feeling off recently."
again, you nod, sure of yourself. "because of mat."
but cassie doesn't agree, not entirely. she shakes her head, "no, not because of mat. just when i'm with mat."
"isn't that the same thing?"
"no because one would imply that he's done something like, wrong, and the other would imply that it's my problem. and I know it's all me. i'm the one snapping, but I just—" she stops herself, something thick clogging her throat. raising the glass to her lips, she takes a gentle sip.
you wait on the edge of your seat, feeling like the answer is so close that you could grasp it. "just what?" you pry softly once her glass hits the table again.
"I feel like he doesn't care about us." she sighs. "he's so great, like an amazing guy, and I don't doubt that he doesn't care about me...but I don't think he cares about our relationship."
the waitress is back, this time with your club sandwich and cassie's mouth watering greek salad. your conversation stops as your food is set down, but your heart is lodged in your throat, cassie’s words sitting heavy on your conscious.
you could understand why she'd think that. because there’s no doubt that mat keeps getting more and more impatient in this loop with her, and by the time each breakup inevitably unfolds, he is probably so defeated that it comes off like he doesn't care. but you're sure that’s not the case, or else why would this damn loop exist? they're meant to be, you're sure of it. right?
"can I be honest cassie?" you ask once you're alone again.
"please," she says after swallowing a mouthful of her salad. meanwhile, your sandwich still sits untouched because you're too nervous to move.
you take your bottom lip between your teeth, debating if you're actually about to go through with this. you decide, after what feels like an eternity of her just waiting for you to speak, that you're going to risk it.
"you need to ease up on him."
her shoulders tense. "excuse me?"
you drop a fry you'd been playing with back to your plate, and lean across the booth again, lowering your voice. "I mean, you've been riding him nonstop. everything turns into an argument. you snap at him, ice him out, act like he's guilty even when nothings happened—"
"are you taking his side?"
you shake your head, quickly. "no, i'm taking the side of not blowing up your relationship for sport."
she puts her fork down, crossing her arms over her silk blouse. "you don't see what i'm seeing." cassie insists.
"then tell me," you stress, pity being your plans like a surmising animal. "because from the outside? you're being kind of a bitch, cass. and I say that with love."
a tense beat passes and then she's sighing gently, the coat of armour that she'd put on slowly falling away. "I feel stupid." she laughs once, not hurt, but with something else. "I don't know when it happened. It's like...one day we were fine, and then suddenly everything he does annoys me. or scares me. or both."
your eyebrows pull, watching carefully.
"he doesn't look at me the same way," cassie. continues. "he's distracted all the time. like his head's somewhere else. i'll be talking and he's just—gone." she swallows. "and I know that sounds paranoid, but I can feel it."
"cass," you breathe, feeling empathetic towards your friend.
she meets your eyes, but she doesn't look upset like you thought she may. it actually looks like she's sitting on a bed of nails, one that she's been dying to escape.
"I think he has feelings for someone else." she blurts, and you feel lightheaded.
"what?"
nodding, she snorts, stabbing some salad onto her fork. "and the worst part of all of it, is that I don't think I care," she shrugs, taking a bite of feta and lettuce goodness.
your eyes widen, shocked. "you...don't?"
"no. i've been thinking about this for a while but...I think i'm going to break it off with him tonight." she tells you what you already know, and hearing it come from her mouth feels like relief. you now truly know that cassie breaking up with mat wasn't a spur of the moment choice, but in fact was something she's been thinking about.
you'll definitely be bringing this up tonight when you meet with mat. as well as him possibly liking someone else—or at least, getting to the bottom of whatever it is that has cassie thinking that.
"can I give you some advice?" you ask, a little timid.
"yeah." cassie breathes.
"be honest with him when you do it. talk to him. actually talk," you stress, "not accuse, not needle, not test him. ask the question you're scared of hearing the answer to. because being cruel won't get you clarity. it'll just give you something to regret." finally, you pick up your food and take a bite, chew a few times before forcing it down so you don't look weird.
she groans playfully. "I hate that you're right."
you snort, tomato juice dripping off your sandwich. "I'm not usually, so let's hope I am here." she doesn’t know how deep those words really run.
for a beat, cassie just studies you, eyebrows drawn like you've just said something ridiculous. "no, y/n, I think you are always right. sometimes it just takes awhile for you to remember that."
you don't answer, unsure what to say, but your heart swells. because for the first time in what feels like forever, you're seeing the real cassie. she pokes around her salad some more, like she's articulating the perfect next bite, and you almost want to laugh.
then, her spine straightens and she looks back across at you, seeming almost, giddy? "and since we're being honest—"
you raise a brow, "should I be scared?"
a pause, then—"maybe?"
you pick up a fry and dip it in the metal tin of chipotle sauce, but you don't eat it. "that doesn't help."
cassie grins. "okay, tell me if i'm wrong here."
"about what?"
"I think you're the girl."
you pause, "the girl?"
"the girl who mat has feelings for."
you freeze in your chair, french fry hanging from your fingers like your last salty string of hope. your lips part a few times, trying to find words that make sense, but they don't come yet. how do you tell you're all too giddy roommate that her boyfriend doesn't like you like that, and that you're only seemingly friendly today because you've been stuck in the same day together longer than she realizes.
eventually, your tongue catches up to your brain. "what?! no absolutely not. that's not—he's your boyfriend. and I don't like him like that at all, I promise cassie."
she snickers, stealing a fry off your plate. "I didn't say you did."
"you—what?"
she chews the food through a smile, "I said I think he likes you. not that you liked him back. i'm not mad, y/n. even if you did."
"I don't."
she nods, "okay."
"we're just friends"
that makes cassie tilt her head, "since when?"
and that truly renders you speechless, because in this world that cassie lives in, you and mat barzal aren't friends. she can remember when you called him a professional frat bro, and a golden retriever who has no concept of friend vs foe.
the same guy who's been caller that is the same one you've just called your friend.
it has cassie giving you a small smile, like she knows something you don't—and it desperately makes you want to tell her that again, you and mat aren't anything. you doubt she'd believe you now though, not after the friend slip up.
"I don't think he even realizes it," she shrugs, staving the last few olives in her bowl. "or maybe he does and he's trying not to. but there's a difference in how he is with you."
your eyebrows draw together, feeling cautious and curious all at once. "different how?"
"gentler. he listens more, he explains himself instead of brushing you off. he fucking lights up when you walk into a room...like bugging you is the highlight of his day. it's been like that since I introduced you back in march."
shaking your head, your heart skips. "that doesn't mean anything."
her pouty lips purse, "no. it's doesn't." then, she's gently grabbing the waiters attention for the bill, but her eyes fall back to you just as quick as they left. cassie doesn't look angry, which she shouldn't be, because there is nothing happening between you and mat besides lessons on the history of linear time lines. but somehow, her lack of emotion only makes you feel guilty.
"liking someone isn't a crime." she says. "acting on it is. I don't think it's about you. I think it's about us growing apart. when someone's needs aren't met, their attention wanders. that's human."
you drop your voice, "cassie, I would never—"
"I know," she cuts in, sweet as pie and so cassie you feel emotional about everything. "that's why i'm bringing it up. but I also think that you like him more than you think you do."
the waitress comes by with your bills then, not giving you an opportunity to answer that bomb. but you're not sure if you have one anyways.
there's a few things you've learned from this conversation with cassie. one being that you're pretty positive that she hasn't had feelings towards her boyfriend for awhile know, hence the thoughts of a breakup for a few weeks now at least.
the second is that there's something mat has been keeping from you, whether it's something about the break up he's withholding or some other girl he likes, you will definitely be mentioning it later, because that could be a vital part of the loop.
the third is that mat barzal might just be your friend now…which is a lot.
and the last, and most unsettling, is that if you don't figure out the loop by tonight using what cassie disclosed, this lunch will have been for nothing, and you'll be brought back to square one.
—
you ended up not going back to work after lunch, opting to call in sick for the rest of the day in favour of heading home to do some more, new research and sketch out an awful diagram version of timelines.
hair up in a disgusting frizzy bun, you've swapped out your work attire for something more comfortable, because you can't remember since the loop started the last time you just wore comfies. it feels like heaven.
you've got a red marker between your teeth and another one in your hand, highlighting pages upon pages of a same day delivery amazon textbook about time change and universes, when a knock raps against your bedroom door.
you freeze. "cassie?" you call out, words muffled because of the marker. you frown and then let it fall to the carpet. it thumps and rolls under your bed.
"nope." the all too familiar voice of mat teases.
pushing off the carpet, you make the short distance to the door, almost tripping over some jeans on the way.
"hi?" you frown once you open the door, looking back at the clock to confirm the time. and yes, he should be on his way to the rink. like 10 minutes ago. "what are you doing here?"
he pushes into your bedroom, "don't sound so excited to see me." taking in the space, the corner of mat's lips twitch. the cat bedsheets, the lacy detailed picture frame of you and cassie in uni sitting on a vintage looking dresser, that mat is sure is on its last legs. there’s little trinkets that just scream your name all over your bedroom.
it's also a mess, clothes everywhere and textbooks on the ground. mat does actually snicker when you dart past him, kicking a pair of underwear into your closet and then shutting the doors with the most urgency he's ever seen from you.
you spin back towards him, leaning back against the closest. "when am I ever excited to see you?"
he snorts. "alright, ouch."
"sorry," you swallow, feeling nervous. why are you nervous? "is cassie here?" you blurt, moving past mat again to peer out into the hallway. it's quiet, no sign of cassie who's probably just now leaving work to come home.
when you look back at mat, you see that he's followed your direction again. you swallow and turn back to him.
mat shakes his head after being momentarily distracted by your outfit. "no, I was dropping her off another bouquet like you suggested a few days ago. left it on her bed with a note."
a pang of guilt hits you, and you wring your hands out until your knuckles creak in protest. knowing what you do now, you're sure that flowers won't work with cassie. honestly, at this point, you're not sure what will.
"right, listen, about cassie—" you take a step forward just as mat cuts you off.
"—oh and this." then he holds out a plant, one you're not sure how you didn't notice at first. probably had something to do with your panic about seeing him while you're like this. dressed like a slob and worried about thongs you've left on the ground. humbling.
"for you." mat finishes, voice all dramatic like he's a royal presenting you with something valuable.
you blink once. twice. eyes trained on a replica of your plant on the windowsill that the time loop had decided to take from you. "what..."
"its the same one right?" he asks, bending down just enough so he can peer into your glazed eyes. "the dead one off your windowsill?"
feeling a little tingly, you manage a nod. "yes. but how did you—"
"i've seen it dead for a whole lot longer than you, remember?" seeing as you still haven't taken it from him, mat purses his lips and puts it on your desk, next to your dead laptop and bowl of soup you'd forgotten about since heating it up when you got home.
he turns back to you. "plus, it's a thank you for all this shit you're helping me with. granted, you have no choice, and that plant will be gone by morning too but you know." mat shrugs instead of actually finishing the thought, lips a little wobbly like he's fighting a smirk.
you look at the tiny house plant, and a warm feeling sits low in your belly. finding your words, you manage to look back at him. "thanks. that's really kind."
"never say I don't do anything for ya," he winks, dramatically, and you roll your eyes before you can even think otherwise.
"don't push your luck, mat."
he tilts his head, fond. "mat, huh?"
"huh?"
"you usually call me barzal, especially when you’re annoyed," he raises a brow and you want to flick it back down. "does this mean we're really friends now?"
momentarily taken back, you think of cassie back in the restaurant, and she essentially insinuated the same thing. friends. friends with mat. you lick along your bottom lip, all while mat waits—all too patiently—with a teasing twinkle in his eyes that makes you want to look away.
but you don't. "maybe," you grumble.
"i'll take maybe," his grin widens. looking at his watch, he curses under his breath and then moves towards your bedroom door. "I gotta go, but i'll see you at the game."
"unfortunately."
"bring a helmet please."
you snort, watching him peek around the door frame and back at you. "I will."
"i'm serious," mat points at you, "protective gear y/n, they make it for a reason."
you don't say anything more and mat doesn't stick around, leaving your apartment in a cloud of expensive cologne and something achingly familiar.
you exhale, looking back at the house plant. you take your bottom lip between your teeth as a feeling that can only be described as floaty invades you. it's a friendly gesture—a thank you even—but it hits harder than you expect. harder than it should.
tearing your gaze away, you leave your bedroom and lock yourself in the bathroom. you wait 20 minutes for the hot water to start working, and in that time you hear cassie come home. she calls out, cheery, and you respond with the same amount of faux cheer, all while a sudden feeling of guilt takes over.
—
the game goes the same as every other, unfortunately. the horrible loss for the team, and the horrible loss for your dignity in the hands of a puck. the only difference is that cassie was more more interested in conversation, only that meant she left to go sit with sidney and all the kids for almost two periods, leaving you alone with nobody but the half drunk frat guy next to you and his buddies.
a real treat. especially when you get hit and the drunk one starts talking about how disgusting you look. seriously, some top notch shit.
the breakup still happens, but you knew that it would—even with the break through you had with cassie during lunch. it only made your newfound guilt even stronger, because you didn't tell mat about it when he stopped by earlier. you didn't have the time, but still, it doesn't make you feel any better.
"hi," mat had muttered once you'd snuck down to the parking lot after the breakup, sliding into his car gingerly like usual. side stepping the puddle that time though. it's about the small victories. "you okay?"
you looked over at him, and instead of giving a proper answer, you just sighed. "I really want thai."
and that's how you ended up on the floor of mat barzal's living room, legs bent and back pressed into the plush couch behind you. you're cradling a container of pad thai, shoving it into your mouth carefully to avoid bumping your nose.
mats next to you, one long leg stretched out and in one hand he’s got a green a green curry that you can smell even through your cotton stuffed nostrils.
more takeout containers are spread between you like evidence. cardboard boxes, plastic forks, soy sauce packets you keep forgetting to open, some kind of noodle situation neither of you remembers ordering. its ridiculous considering the time, but the shitty take out and quiet is kind of soothing. for both of you.
you clear your throat, subtly getting his attention. "I talked to cassie earlier. like, properly talked."
mat chews thoughtfully. "oh good. she anything that could help us?"
"yeah, sort of."
"that sounds conspicuous."
"no, it's just," you laugh, albeit awkwardly and place your container on a place mat. "it's silly really but, she says she thinks you have feelings for someone else."
mat's face changes, but you don't clock it, too distracted by a loose thread on your jeans, and by the steady throbbing at the back of your skull. you laugh again, "stupid right?"
finally, you pick your gaze up and meet his, and see the unreadable expression written across his pale face. you swallow, suddenly filled with doubt. "unless..?"
that has mat blinking hard, snapping out of whatever was running through his head. "what? no. no."
you nod, "that's what I said."
his he's snaps towards you. "you did?"
"yeah," you nod again, "I had your back."
"ha, thanks." he rubs at the back of his neck, curry long forgotten on a second place mat.
you chew the inside of your cheek, hating the weird haze that has begun to drown you in the apartment. you sit up straighter, shifting until your legs are crossed and you’re turned more towards him—forgetting about the harry potter movie on the tv you were only half paying attention to in the first place.
"I also learned that she's been planning the breakup for weeks." you pick at the skin around your thumb, guilt about not telling him this earlier, or at least texting him about it before this moment, coming to a hilt. "she told me earlier. at lunch. I should've mentioned it before."
mat shakes his head, dismissing your apology. "no its...I mean, we figured that, but that doesn't make it any more comforting." his eyes dance over your face, and his eyebrows pull tight at the sight of your worry. he drops his leg so that his knee can hit yours softly, "i'm not mad at you."
you exhale. "but with weeks of build up, i'm not sure what we could possibly achieve in one day to have her changing her mind. meaning we're kind of back to square one."
sensing your defeat and apprehension, mat doesn't mention the time loop again, neither does he suggest getting to work on a new plan or solution. instead, he lets a few minutes pass of nothing. and then—
"tell me about something," he says through a beat, head lulled back against the couch like he's never been more comfortable.
you blink. "tell you about something? like what?"
"I don't know," he grins, lazy. "like something nobody knows about you."
"deep." you chime, teasingly.
"I know," his grin deepens, like a naughty kid. "but why not?"
you snort before you can stop yourself.
his head lifts. mat looks at you like he's surprised by the sound—and then he smiles for real. not wide, just a small, crooked thing that lingers longer than it should.
you shuffle against the rug, "alright, let me think..." pausing, you do just that, thinking back to before time halted and you lived your days blissfully unaware of what was to come. college, shitty co-workers, and your moms tomato soup that you haven't touched since day one.
eventually you think of something worthy. mat can tell by the way it looks like a lightbulb turns on above your head.
"okay. okay," you swallow, resting your bruised cheek against your hand. "do you remember the night cassie introduced us?"
mat blinks, surprised. "yeah. of course."
"and when you found me outside, sneaking a cigarette because she always used to harp on me for it."
he cringes at the memory, more specifically, the smell of smoke. "I remember, it was freezing so I wondering why you were sneaking off."
you shake your head despite yourself, thinking back to march of last year. "yeah, well, you started harping on me too, and I remember just thinking...'who does this guy think he is?'"
"sounds like you," he snorts.
you bump his knee against as retaliation. "shut up. but you said some stupid statistic that I don't even remember, but I do remember how it made me feel. haven't touched one since."
mat's brows almost touch his hairline. "no?"
"nope." you pop the p, grinning just enough that mat momentarily catches himself admiring the stretch of your plump lips. "I mean, I don't even like smoking. just did it because this guy I liked at the time did. it was stupid, and whatever you said made me realize it."
a beat passes, harry potter starts yelling something on the tv, but your attention doesn't stray. he bumps his shoulder against yours, careful not to jostle you too much. "well, you're welcome."
rolling your eyes, you bump him back. "don't flatter yourself."
"too late." he snickers, then adds—"also, I remember that guy. total performative male."
"oh, totally." you agree, laughing once hard. "okay, your turn."
"my turn huh?"
you hum and nod, waiting for him to find something just as he did you. it doesn't take mat as long, and when he looks back at you and away from his ceiling—which he claimed was his best thinking position. you snorted. he grinned—there's on a look on his face that makes you nervous.
"alright." he sighs.
"alright?"
"okay, so you know how right before you get hit with the puck—"
you cut him off with a pained sound, "don't remind me."
"stay with me," he laughs gently and then continues when you stay silent. "right before, I take that shot and miss. then I hit my stick against the ground in frustration. every time."
you nod, slowly, unsure where this is going. "yeah. hate to say it but i'm glad you miss the shot, because that sound always reminds me to brace for impact."
"good," he hums, breaking eye contact to pull at the hem of his hoodie. "because that's why I do it."
when you don't respond, mat continues gently. "I always take a shot at the same time, so I can hit my stick against the ice like an alarm bell. I did it even before you were in on the loop, like somehow it would warn you even before you knew—never worked though."
breathless, you inhale sharply. "no, unfortunately not."
he looks back at you. "so i'd take the shot, make sure I miss so that I could make a scene. otherwise i'd look silly."
you snicker softly, "so silly." you tease, steady throb in your head begin to ease. "god forbid mat barzal doesn't miss a shot. the nhl would fire you."
"they'd fire me?"
"shut up," you laugh, "I don't know how that all works. fire, suspend, maybe trade you?"
"yeah, all that."
and then you're just... talking.
about hockey, where mat tries to teach you what icing is. he fails because you don't get it, no matter how many times he compares it to actual baking. mostly because you don't know anything about baking either. you talk about bad college parties, about the time he accidentally dyed all his clothes pink his rookie year, and about how you on your first day of your loop you spilt tomato soup all over your white sweater.
the kind of nothing conversations that slowly turn into everything, and before you can even register time is passing and that your takeout has gone cold, your stomach starts to hurt from laughing.
"that's not even the worst part," mat says, grinning. "I didn't realize until after the interview that my fly was down."
"oh my god! mat—" you lose it. full on laughter, breathless and embarrassing.
"don't laugh," he groans, but it's interrupted by how own chuckle. "I can survive the loop where my team loses by a number I don't even want to say out loud. but I cannot relive this."
you laugh harder when you look at his face, and you tip forward, hand braced on the carpet as you attempt to collect yourself. and then—
"shit," you say suddenly, sitting back up while all laughter fades.
his spine straightens, "what?"
you swipe at cupids bow and stare at your fingers, seeing them covered in a new stream of blood that's leaked around the cotton plugs.
mat catches on quickly, seeing the small pool of blood soaking into his carpet, and the way you're attempting to block the flow with your hands.
"fuck," you sigh. "i'm sorry, my nose is bleeding again."
he's on his feet in an instant, grabbing one of the hundred paper napkins on the coffee table before gently prying your hands away in favour of pressing the napkins there. "don't apologize."
"sorry—"
"it's just because you were laughing," he murmurs, brows drawn inwards as he asses your face. "come to the kitchen so I can see you better."
without being told twice, you start to stand with the help of mat's strong hand, both of you making the short distance to the open kitchen of the apartment. mat flicks the light on and you squint as the harsh brightness.
"alright," he starts, voice a whisper. "tilt back a little."
you do.
gently, mat removes the cotton from your nose, and you can fell a slow stream of blood trickle down. it doesn't reach your lip before mat is swiping it away with the scratchy napkin.
he continues to dab at your nose, movements soft and practiced. his fingers brush your cheek once by accident, and something unspeakable twists in your chest.
mat's dark eyes flicker towards you. you're embarrassed to be caught staring at him, but where else are you supposed to look? at his flexing biceps as he cleans you up? absolutely not.
you swallow, "sorry about your carpet."
"it's carpet." he says, tossing the bloody napkin into the trash beside the counter before grabbing a new one. he doesn't wipe this time, instead, he holds it under your nose steady.
"i'm still sorry." your voice is muffled, and mat grins.
"and I told you to stop apologizing," he reminds you gently, "so shush."
your face feels hot, and you scratch at your arm for something to do. mat checks again after a few moments, and the blood must've stopped or slowed significantly because he seems pleased
"you okay?" he asks.
"yeah," you murmur. "think so."
he licks onto his bottom lip, pulling the napkin away completely. "you should be okay without gauze, but if you want I have some of those nose thing in my bathroom."
"should I?"
mat hums, reach out to touch around the most tender part of your face.
your eyes meet his, but words die on your tongue as you register just how close he's standing. how close he's looking at you.
the air feels different now, charged with something you don't know.
mat realizes how close you are at the same moment you do. his hand stills. your breath catches and for half a second, and the world seems to hold its breath with you.
then he pulls back, just a fraction.
"no," he says gruffly, stepping back. "I think you're good."
you nod, throat tight. "okay. thank you." watching with a cautious gaze, you follow mat's retreating back as he walks into the living room, collecting half eaten take out and putting it back into the brown bag it came in.
you step near him, "I can help."
"it's okay." he says, tone clipped enough that your spine straightens. when you don't say anything more, mat sighs to himself and then looks back at you over his shoulder.
you sit down on the couch, give him a tight lipped smile that doesn't reach your eyes, and mat feels like an asshole. he puts the bag back down onto the coffee table and then sits down heavy beside you.
"sorry," he starts, rubbing at his forehead. "just thinking about tomorrow and the loop and having to do this all again, you know? didn't mean to get weird."
you nod, "it's okay. I'm thinking about it too." you drag your socked foot over the rug, "we can meet up tomorrow at the coffee shop again after cassie heads to work?"
mat looks a little reserved, but he agrees with a half smirk, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe.
DAY 10
you feel like crying when cassie's alarm wakes you. because that means another failed day, and another day of grasping at short straws for answers you're not sure even exist anymore.
you force your eyes open, and stare at the ceiling until the alarm stops and then some before reluctantly getting of bed—already knowing you have to get dressed to go to the cafe in an hour or so. you're not even going to bother calling in sick to work. they can fire you for all you care, because when tomorrow comes it'll still be wednesday, and you'll be employed like nothing happened.
something catches your eye before you reach the doors of your closet, and you stop dead in your tracks. because there, on your desk, something is out of place. something is wrong.
the plant mat brought you yesterday is sitting right where he put it. the bowl of soup is gone, and your laptop is back on your beside table where your originally left it the day before the loop.
but the plant is there.
—
the morning storm still lingers in the gutters, rainwater creeping along the curb in thin, reflective streams. like usual, you and mat walk side by side, sneakers skimming puddles as you head back from the cafe and many hours of sticky notes and re highlighting text books that will disappear tomorrow.
"okay," you say, stopping abruptly on the sidewalk. "run it again."
he does without complaint. "I know I've been distant," he starts, careful and measured. "I don't want to make excuses, but I also don't want you thinking it's because I don't care."
you tilt your head. "that's better and definitely less defensive. but you're still talking around the part where there's no one else."
mat nods, and you can see his head working on how to incorporate that into his declaration. using the information cassie gave you yesterday, you figured that you and mat could try and completely flip her around. you thought that if mat could say these things without her bringing them up, that maybe cassie would have a change of heart.
it's a long shot, but once again, you're clutching at straws.
"try this," you prompt, "say—and I know it may seem that i've been distracted with something or someone else, but I promise that there's only you, and I would never want you to think otherwise."
a beat. then—
"do you think if I jump off this curb that the universe will kill me or just judge me?"
you give him a deadpan look and he sighs dramatically. then, mat repeats it from the beginning, changing some of your wording to make it sound more mat like, if you will.
"good," you hum. "now pause. let it breathe. don't rush to fix it. remember, this is a long shot and there's not guarantee she'll even say yes to meeting up for lunch with you, never mind accepting your apology for a argument that hasn't even happened."
mat exhales, nodding. "you're brutal."
"I'm a realist."
he huffs a laugh and you keep walking.
you fall into step beside him again. "run it one more time as if I was cassie."
he shoots you a look, "but you're not cassie"
"obviously," you huff, "but that the point of pretending."
so he tries again. you interrupt him twice, make him rephrase once, and by the third attempt, it finally sounds like something she'd want to hear.
you give him a thumbs up. "that one."
there's still an unspoken tension lingering in the space between you and mat since the weird interaction last night. you're still not sure what exactly it is that happened, or that made him go cold on you, but you're not wanting to bring it up. not when you have much bigger fish to fry.
and because of that, you haven't mentioned the new plant surviving the looping. it feels weird—feels like it could be something—and the thought is unsettling. you want to try and figure out what it could mean by yourself before bringing it to his attention.
"okay," mat huffs, pulling out his phone. "i'm going to text her now. help me?"
you hesitate for exactly one heartbeat, then nod, stepping closer when he stops again. he waits until you start dictating, and then he types.
MAT BARZAL
hey cassie, i've been thinking a lot this morning. i'm really sorry for pulling away recently instead of talking to you. but I miss you, and I'd really like to see you today before the game 😀
insisting to re-read it before he's allowed to send the text, you lean further in, shoulders brushing.
"no emojis," you say when you see the smiley at the end of his scentence. "this is not an emoji moment."
"boring." he grumbles, but thumbs it away anyways. then he hits send.
you both stare at the screen like it's a bomb. seconds stretch, then a minute passes. you're halfway through saying something reassuring when his phone buzzes in his palm.
you both look back down.
"what's it say?" you press.
his mouth lifts slowly, disbelief bleeding into relief. "okay, okay! she says...she says she's glad I texted and that she's been wanting to talk too."
you grin, but it doesn't reach your eyes. "that could be a win."
he nods, a little breathless. "could be."
another texts buzzes through, and his eyes scan the screen quickly before filling you in. "she wants to meet for lunch," mat adds. "in an hour."
"okay!" you punch his arm lightly and he jumps. "go to lunch. listen to her. be honest with her. this won't work if you're not honest, mat."
he sobers, nodding. "I know. I'm trying." pocketing his phone, he glances at you with something that makes your toes tingle. "i'll text you after."
you inhale sharply. "just... do your best."
—
mat gets to the restaurant early, mostly because he knew he wouldn't be able to just sit around his place and simply just anticipate. he doesn't work that way.
it's a small place with sun warmed brick and narrow windows, the kind cassie likes because it feels intentional without being pretentious. there's also a less chance of mat getting recognized, and that's the last thing he needs when trying to smooth things over with his not so ex, ex girlfriend.
he smooths his hands down his jeans for no real reason, checks the time again, then reaches for the bouquet resting beside him on the seat. he's not sure why he keeps trying the flowers, but for some reason he can't seem to stop.
when cassie does walk in, she spots him immediately, and mat's heart starts hammering the closer she gets.
"hey" she says, slipping into the seat across from him.
"hey." he slides the flowers toward her. "these are for you."
her expression softens, surprised in a way that feels earned. "mat, thank you." she sets them carefully on the table, like they matter. it almost makes him feel stupid, because they probably don't.
for a while—miraculously—lunch is good. they talk about nothing important. the storm that morning, a new place she wants to try for dinner, a joke about his pregame rituals that makes him laugh harder than he expects to. and when cassie reaches across the table once, fingers brushing his wrist, it doesn't feel forced.
It feels like something familiar, and mat lets himself believe it might be working.
cassie stirs her drink, greek salad half untouched in the plate as she sighs. "thanks for the flowers again, that's very nice of you."
he gives a closed mouth smile. "of course. wasn't sure if you'd like them, but y/n insisted it was a good idea—"
mat doesn't even realize the slip up until cassie's voice cuts through the air between them like a blade. "y/n? you guys talk?"
"no," he says too quickly, then laughs once. "not really. I just asked her for advice."
"you need advice about our relationship?"
he feels like he's sweating, and has to resist the urge to reach up and wipe his forehead. "I didn't say that, I just wanted a little help picking out the flowers is all."
"what?" cassie snickers, "like she's a relationship expert or something? you know she's hopeless when it comes to romance. god, remember when she starting smoking cigarettes so she could impress that guy?"
she continues, oblivious to the way this conversation is making mat's skin itch. "I mean, for what? she let him in her bed and then he ditched her. and I love her, but she wouldn't know the first thing about how to impress a woman, she doesn't respect herself enough."
he blinks, tone cold when he manages to find his words. "what?"
she smiles, like she doesn't understand how fucked up her own words are. "come on, don't make me feel like shit. it's true!"
warmth from how well this lunch started, drains from his chest and he pushes his food away, suddenly not hungry. "it's not true. and she was just trying to help, you don't need to judge her past relationships for it cassie."
"I told you i'm not judging," she huffs quickly. "i'm just talking, god."
mat shifts in his seat, not caring how this looks when he continues. "she cares about you—about us—and she'd be really hurt by how you're talking about her. she's done more than you realize for you."
she hums, noncommittal but clearly annoyed. "based on the way you're so up her ass about this, maybe she cares a little too much."
"what's that supposed to mean?" he asks.
cassie shrugs, picking at the edge of her napkin, and doesn't respond.
his jaw tightens, patience growing thinner. "you're talking like this is her fault."
that has her looking up sharply. "I didn't say that."
"but you're circling it," he quips. "and I don't like it."
her smile fades. "matt, I'm allowed to notice patterns."
"okay, but y/n's not the problem," he says, firmer now. "she's been trying to help us."
cassie exhales, frustration bleeding through. "why are you getting so defensive?"
"because you're implying things that aren't true."
"oh?" she hums, leaning into the booth so she can speak without anyone but mat hearing her. "so i'd be wrong if i assumed that you like her? that you think about her more than you think about me?"
mat swallows so hard that his adam's apple bobs. he leans back. "yes. you'd be wrong."
cassie leans back as well. "really?"
he nods. once. firm. "yes. and I think that you acting like her kindness has ulterior motives is even weirder. she's your friend."
"I know she is," her eyes flash, "and i'm not accusing her of anything. but based on this reaction from you, maybe I should be."
mat's chair scrapes against the floor as he leans forward, eye sharp and tongue sharper. "stop. you don't get to talk about her like that."
cassie goes still. "wow."
the silence that follows is brittle. mat swallows, eyes darting away before he slowly composes himself.
"you like her."
"no, god cassie I told you to stop."
"i'm not mad."
"good because there's nothing for you to be mad about."
she grabs her purse from the corner of the chair, slinging it over her shoulder as she stands. "if you're not going to be honest about this, I don't see a point in talking."
and just like that, it collapses. mat blinks and all he can register is the alarm that plagues his nightmares. the day restarted. he messed up and he knows you'll be pissed—because he didn't stick to the plan.
—
you're already in the kitchen when mat gathers enough courage to walk down the stairs of your apartment.
he almost wants to turn back around, or run right out the door, due to the unimpressed look on your face, but you hold a finger up like you knew he was thinking it.
"do not look at that door barzal," you snap, familiar soft pyjamas clad on your body that makes it hard for him to focus. "get in here."
he purses his lips, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, and walks into the kitchen.
hands on your hips, you turn to face him head on. "so what happened?"
"ummm," he rubs the back of his neck, "we fought."
"mat..."
"I know, I know but," he stops himself, the reason for his and cassie's argument on the tip of his tongue. mat wants to tell you why he flipped. he wants to tell you what cassie said about you, but he knows it'll do more harm than good.
"but...what?"
"but nothing. it was our usual shit. i'm sorry, I should've stuck to the script."
you squint, assessing. mat tries to keep his body language as neutral as possible to not give anything away, and you seem to buy it. sighing into the empty kitchen and crossing your arms over your chest.
"i'm not sending you to an impromptu lunch without a mediator ever again."
he forces a grin, trying to remain unsuspecting. "smart."
—
you and matt don't meet up at the end of the day. because as soon as you'd been hit with that flying death trap they call a hockey puck, the first thing that happened wasn't pain, it was sobbing defeat.
real, hard sobbing that made everything worse. the blood, the grimaces, and your chance of ever getting your dignity back. down the drain. I mean, you'd already been on your last legs when the day re-set mid day because of mat's argument at lunch.
it happened while you were at home, staring at the house plant like if you looked hard enough, you'd get answers. but then you blinked and were back in bed, waking to an alarm that didn't belong to you.
again.
the plant survived again, but you're not sure at what cost.
the car ride home had been complete silence saved for the pounding in your ears. you couldn’t stop thinking about solutions, further plans, or how to look for answers in places they probably don't live. you're exhausted, mentally physically and definitely emotionally.
this time when mat pulls up to your apartment, you're the first one out. slipping dangerously on the ice as you attempt to book it inside, you manage to save yourself last minute—but you knew it wouldn't of mattered either way.
shutting yourself in your bedroom, you let yourself cry silently, which is only a painful pull on your sinuses, but you can't stop. you listen as cassie breaks up with mat, listen to the way he doesn't even try and fight back anymore. he hasn't for awhile now.
he leaves, her bedroom light flicks off, the clock on your wall ticks tauntingly and you consider for a long moment smashing it to pieces.
you half expect a text from mat, asking you to come down to his car, but it never comes. and that makes your stomach ache.
eventually, after an hour or so of self pity, doom scrolling the same tiktok's and contemplating your next actions, you close off your apps and open your and mat's text thread.
holding your breath, you hit the call button before you can think about it. it's rings once, then half of the second before his voice is falling from your speaker.
"are you okay?"
you sniffle and it feels like hell. "no."
he sighs on the other end. you can picture him sitting on that big comfy couch of his and you wish you were there. "i'm sorry, y/n. for everything."
"it's not your fault." you chin wobbles as you say it, and a hot tear tracks down from the corner of your eye and into your hairline. you swipe it away.
"today is."
you laugh lightly without meaning to, "yeah, today is."
you can hear him laugh too, but like yours, it doesn't land. he shifts, something rustles in your ear and then his voice again. quiet and laced with apprehension.
"there's something I didn't tell you," he says, and your stomach drops before he even finishes the sentence. "about what happened at lunch." he adds.
your close your eyes. "okay."
mat exhales, slow and careful. "it wasn't our usual argument. it was something different."
you open your eyes again. "mat—"
"cassie said some things," he continues, voice sharper than you've ever heard it. "about you."
those words cut through like a sword. you sit up, throw blanket pooling at your hips. you swallow, nervous to ask but do so anyway. "what kind of things?"
"I slipped up and said you helped with the flowers," he swallows, hard. "and I tried to back peddle by saying I was just asking you for relationship advice or whatever and..."
mat exhales through his nose so hard it must hurt. he's collecting himself. "she implied that you don't respect yourself enough and getting advice from you would be pointless. she brought up the cigarette guy and just didn't understand why what she said was hurtful."
tears pool in your eyes again, but this time for an entirely different reason. at first, your first instinct is to find a solution. defend your friend. "she's just been upset recently," you sigh, "and people say dumb stuff when they're hurting."
mat scoffs through the phone, incredulous. "that doesn't make it okay." a beat, and then he adds, "she shouldn't get to talk about you like that," his voice is firm. "I sure as hell didn't let her."
he leaves out the part about her accusing not only him, but also you, of some sort of connection. mat knows it's not needed. once again, it would only do more damage.
over the line, you stop short. "you—what?"
"I defended you," he says. "I shut it down."
a strange, sharp ache blooms in your chest. "thank you, but—it wasn't your place."
"yes, it was."
"no," you insist waterley. "I don’t need you to choose sides."
"I didn't," he says. "I chose respect."
you drag a hand through your hair, frustration and guilt an a hundred other emotions battling in your head. "you choosing me is part of the problem."
"no," he says after a moment, voice steady. "I don't think it is."
the words hang there, and although your first instinct is to fight them, you don't let yourself. you're done fighting.
you suck in a breath once air starts feeling like it's running out. shaking your head even though mat can't see you, you whisper into the phone, quiet so cassie can't hear you through the wall. "i'm so fucking scared, mat."
he can hear as your breathing turns shallow, and instantly he's off the couch, pacing the length of his parent like it's his job. "y/n?"
he calls your name, but you don't respond. you can't. everything feels suddenly too loud, too fast—thoughts spiraling over each other. your head pounds, face throbs and chest aches.
you manage to say his name, quiet and unsure. "mat?"
"i'm here."
"can you come here?" your voice is timid. unsure if this is okay. if it's allowed. "I need you."
—
you're outside when mat pulls his car into a spot, pacing the length of the walkway up to your apartment in a hoodie that's so oversized it's impossible to tell if you're wearing shorts or not.
he opens the door and immediately gets out, not even sure if he shuts it before making his way across the lot.
you spot him and visibly exhale in relief. wasting no time, you meet him half way, rubber boots bashing against your shin's in a way that would be comical if you weren't so upset and overwhelmed.
"hey," mat sighs, brows right as you throw yourself at him. "i've got you," he murmurs, forehead resting lightly against your temple. "it's okay."
you're crying again, right into his chest as you turn into a wet, snotty mess. but mat doesn't let go. if anything he holds you tighter, acting like a weighted blanket over your trembling limbs.
the tension bleeds out all at once, knees weak, breath hitching as you sag deeper into his chest.
"It's okay," he repeats.
and standing there, pressed against him, you finally let yourself think the thoughts you've been avoiding.
mat and cassie were already destined to break. no loop or flowers or romantic gesture can change that. you can't force someone to stay, especially when they're not meant to in any version of the universe.
maybe—just maybe—you've been trying to fix the wrong thing this whole time. you briefly thought about it before, but now you're certain this ain't about cassie.
the loop isn't about saving a relationship that's already ended. it can’t be.
you swallow, eyes burning—not from pain this time, but from the slow, dawning clarity that hurts in a different way.
mat's hand smooths down the back of your hair, down to your neck where he gives a firm yet comforting squeeze. he doesn't rush you, just holds you—solid and real—as the truth settles in.
for the first time since this started, you're not thinking about tomorrow. not really. instead, you're thinking about what you need to stop trying to fix—and what you might finally be allowed to feel instead.
gently, mat pulls you off his chest and peers down at your teary face. the concern on his is plausible, and he take his lip between his teeth as he looks you over.
"do you wanna talk?" he mumbles, the calloused pad of his thumb swiping at the corner of your eye.
your breath hitches, but it doesn't show. sniffling your nose raw, you manage a weak nod. "yeah. I have to tell you something about the plant."
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? ╰┈➤ M.BARZAL (prologue)
summary: you’ve had one of the worse days of your life—truly. if it’s not your coffee burning the roof of your mouth, it’s spilling your soup all over your shirt at work. if it’s not messing up your eyeliner for the umpteenth time, it’s getting absolutely smoked in the face by a hockey puck at your roommate’s boyfriends hockey game—which means yeah, the whole world watches it happen. and just when you crawl into bed, your impending sleep is interrupted by said roommate and her said boyfriend breaking up in the next room. but tomorrow? you vow for tomorrow to be better. except that next morning when you wake up, things are seeming to follow the exact same pattern.
[word count] 13.8k
warnings: time loop au | swearing | mentions of killing a squirrel lol | break up | description of blood and injury | | humour | cliches | mature themes and dialogue
pairing; mat barzal x reader
a/n: so I wasn’t planning on completing this first part or even posting it until at least february, but once I started I couldn’t stop. I hope you love this first part as much as me, and hopefully you stick around to see where it leads. link to series masterlist
next part >
the second worst day of your life starts with an alarm.
it's not even your alarm. you register that first—it's the wrong pitch, the wrong rhythm, too shrill to belong to the gentle chime you swear you set the night before. the noise slices through your sleep like a knife, dragging you out of a dream you can't piece together.
with a groan, you roll over, sleep warm face smushing deeper into your cat, paw printed pillow covers. it feels too early, early enough for you to consider not even checking the time, and just fall back to sleep. but obviously you're not going to go that because you value your job.
with your face still buried under the pillows—so many that your roommate, cassie, always scoffs at the sight, and claims that so many pillows must mean that you're a psychopath—you pat the sheets blindly, knocking your elbow into the headboard with a dull thunk as you try and locate your own phone.
"fucking hell," you mumble, elbow throbbing.
from the other side of the thin, new york apartment wall, the alarm keeps going in that shrilling way. just when you think you'll need to barge in there and turn the alarm off yourself, you hear cassie groan—long and irritated, like her alarm isn't her own doing.
her clear distaste is followed by the heavy thud of someone sitting up in bed and back against the cheap wooden frame of the headboard. a second later, you hear her boyfriend, mat's, voice carry through the thin drywall.
"cass—your alarm."
there's a pause. fabric rustles. the alarm keeps screaming.
"I know," your roommate snaps, sleep thick and already sharp around the edges. "i'm awake."
you squeeze your eyes shut. the tension in her voice isn't new—it's been living in the apartment for weeks now, lurking in half finished conversations and slammed cabinets. you're not sure what's going on with her, and you consider yourself close enough friends to talk about it, but cassie's lips have been sealed tight, and you're not one to pry. so you've left it, and her, alone. still, it makes your stomach tighten.
eventually, the alarm turns off, and then silence—new york silence, mind you—rushes in, too sudden, too loud in its absence.
you lie there for another minute, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling you've been meaning to tell the landlord about. your jaw aches faintly—leftover soreness from clenching your teeth in your sleep. so you roll your neck once, twice, and finally force yourself upright.
with a glance at the vintage clock you've had forever, that sits home above your vanity, you see that you've got about an hour to get to work. meaning you should probably get started on getting up and at em.
the floor is cold when your feet hit it and you shiver. you manage to shuffle into the bathroom, barely opening your eyes as you prepare your tooth brush and then shove it into your awaiting mouth. as you run the bristles over your teeth, you can't help but frown at your own alarm not going off. odd. so even though it was annoying, cassie's drill sergeant alarm waking you up was a blessing in disguise.
" today will be a good one," you tell your reflection quietly, like you're vlogging your life to an invisible camera—minty foam all over your mouth and dripping from the handle of your toothbrush. that combined with your wild, tangled sleep hair, the purple shadows under your eyes and the way your lashes have decided to stick straight up like soldiers, has your reflection not looking very convinced.
your curse to yourself and then spit.
the smell of coffee hits your nostrils before you even reach the kitchen—dark and bitter and just slightly burnt to perfection. the apartment is still dim, early morning gray light filtering through the blinds, although based on an all too familiar rumble outside, you think some of the gray may be contributing to a thunderstorm.
mat is in the kitchen, lower back pressed at the hinge of the counter. he's wearing gray joggers and an old team hoodie, dark hair still wild from sleep but somehow still...looks good? you hate men and their ability to just wake up like that.
suddenly you feel a little bit ok exposed in your tiny tank top and frilly pyjama shorts. so you cross your arms tightly over your hardened nipples and then you shuffle further into the kitchen.
"morning," he hums, voice hoarse.
you pause, hand halfway to the cupboard of mugs. you shoot him a quick, sideways glance. mat looks oddly nervous. maybe tired. you can see that his shoulders are tense, like he's bracing for something.
you raise a half amused, half no-nonsense eyebrow. the thing is, you and mat aren't friends. not really. not ever. and it's not that he's not nice, but you're just not into the whole golden retriever, happy go lucky personality he’s got going on. you like quiet, and calm and maturity. all things mat barzal seems to lack. I mean, for gods sake, his career is literally a glorified version of college frat athlete, and he's just that on paper.
so you've never really had an interest in getting to know cassie's boyfriend, despite how many times you'd hear your bubbly blonde roommate claim that 'you'd two really get along if you gave him a shot!" at the beginning of their relationship 7 months ago—to which you'd reply with a curt and definitive doubt it.
mat swallows and your brought back to reality. you slowly open the cupboard and grab a travel mug, "morning." you make the coffee up the way you like it—black, two and a half sweeteners—and then dunk the long handled gold spoon cassie bought when you first secured the apartment into the cup, stirring around the contents until you're sure it's properly blended.
you look up, and find mat still watching you—his eyebrows are drawn together, spine all too straight and ridged for 7 in the morning
"what's up with you, barzal?" you quip, adding the plastic lid to the top of your traveller with a satisfying suction noise. "do I have something on my face?"
your words seem to change something in him. his shoulders deflate, almost like he's disappointed. you're not even going to ask. mat huffs out something that might be a laugh. "no, sorry. just couldn't sleep well last night."
you snicker, raising the coffee to your chapped lips, the rim hovering. "you mean that military alarm of cassie’s didn't lull you to sleep?"
the corner of mat's lips quirk.
you're not sure what made you think drinking freshly brewed coffee that you just poured straight from the pot would be a good idea—because when is it ever? but as soon as your mouth fills with your coffee, you're in a state of regret.
for a moment you just panic—unsure if you should spit it in the sink or bite the bullet and swallow. a beat passes before you manage to swallow to burning hot coffee, and you let out a disgruntled hiss and drop the traveller to the white tiles of the island.
lingering heat scorches your tongue. "shit—fuck."
mat moved towards you, cautious, hands hovering over you like you're some strange creature who could snap at any moment. like he's never seen someone burn their tongue on hot liquid before. despite the pain in your mouth, you give him a weird look.
"is it too hot?"
you almost roll your eyes at his obvious question, but manage to hold back. remember, bathroom you said this was supposed to be a good day.
"molten lava," you manage, blinking hard. "I swear I do this all the time, it's not big deal though. so you can stop looking at me like i'm going to throw it in your face."
a beat passes, and then mat snorts despite himself, then winces like he didn't mean to find that funny. "thanks." a look crosses his shark features again, and despite your lack of a relationship with mat, you don't want to guy to beat himself up over something as silly as not mentioning the temperature of coffee you definitely should not of sipped right away.
with a soft sigh, you turn fully towards him and then stick your tongue out, showing him that it is, in fact, still attached. probably beat red and missing taste buds, but still there nonetheless.
"see?" you say around your tongue, so it comes out all muffled like a child with a lisp.
mat watches you for a second longer than necessary, concern flickering across his face, pulled with something you can't decipher.
there's an awkward beat of silence. the coffee maker gurgles softly, making it the only sound in the room. down the hall, cassie's door opens and closes again, footsteps retreating toward the bathroom.
you take another sip of coffee, smaller this time, careful. It's still hot, but manageable. you swallow, then turn heel. "well, as much as I enjoy exchanging pleasantries with you, barzal, I should go get ready for work."
mat exhales slowly through his nose, gaze fixed on the floor.
you're halfway across the kitchen when he speaks again.
"hey, y/n."
it stops you short. not because he said your name—he's done that plenty of times—but because of how he says it. carefully, like he's testing whether the sound of it will break something fragile between his teeth.
you turn back, coffee warm in your hands. "yes?"
mat pushes off the counter, then doesn't quite step forward. he drags a hand through his hair instead, fingers snagging slightly like he's more restless than he's letting on.
"were you planning on coming to my game tonight with cass?"
you blink once, then again.
"was I—" you pause, frown creasing between your brows. "you have a game tonight?"
something flickers across his face. not surprise exactly, but something closer to resignation. or maybe it's something else and he's already regretting mentioning it.
"right," mat says quickly, like he's correcting himself mid thought. "well anyways—if she mentions it, you should just stay home."
your grip tightens around the travel mug, and lid creaks faintly under the pressure.
"why?" you hum, already suspicious.
he just shrugs, too casual, shoulders lifting and dropping like he's brushing lint off himself. "the team sucks right now. and we're playing the avs who are like, ridiculously good right now. It'd be a waste of time for you to come. cass too."
you stare at him—really stare. stare at the way his jaw is set just a little too tight, and at the way he won't quite meet your eyes.
"you're acting really weird," you say flatly.
"i'm not."
"you are," you counter immediately, and then cock your head, a slow, assessing tilt. "and any chance to see your ego get knocked down a couple pegs, I'm going to take."
mat's lips press into a thin line, exhaling like he's failed. "i'm being serious."
"so am I." you lift your mug in a mock salute, already turning toward the hallway. "so i'll see you after the game tonight then?"
"that's—" he stops himself, swallows. "they're not in the box."
you pause again, fingers brushing the banister at the foot of the stairs.
"what?"
"the seats," mat clarifies. "cass didn't want to be up there. and you know how she's been, so I didn't argue."
honestly the last thing you want to do tonight is be packed into the UBS arena like a sardine, especially in the crowd where you'll inevitably be surrounded by hollering drunks, and kids who never learned manners. but with mat’s sus demeanour and the fact that, for whatever weird reason, he doesn't want you to go, just means you must.
"well," you say slowly, turning back to face him. "closer to the action, I guess."
mat laughs once. short. humorless. he mutters something to himself—that's the problem.
your brows knit together. "did you say something?"
his eyes find yours again, and for half a second, you get the strangest feeling—like he's searching your face for confirmation of something only he can see.
"no," he says eventually. "I guess i'll see you later then."
cassie appears at the top of the stairs then, hair straightened in shiny perfection and blazer buttoned professionally. she gives you a chirpy morning as she moves down the stairs, her sock covered feet padding rhythmically.
she doesn't look at mat as she grabs her own travel mug. quickly she adds her coffee and then her insane portion of lavender creamer. then she's moving again, towards the front door.
"I'm heading out," she says flatly.
"okay," mat replies. "i'll see you after the game."
cassie pauses, hand on the doorframe and boot half zipped. "yup."
his jaw tightens, but not with annoyance, rather inevitably.
you don't stick around for her to shut the door, taking the stairs two at a time, heart thudding harder than it should, a faint unease crawling up the back of your neck. halfway up, you glance back over your shoulder to look at mat. he’s still lingering in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, staring down into nothing, like the floor might give him answers.
frowning, you disappear into your bedroom and shut the door behind you, the click of the latch sounding louder than usual. coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim of the travel mug and you blink away the weariness slowly settling behind your ribs.
eventually, and 5 minutes later than you should be leaving the apartment, you come bounding back down the steps. dressed in your favourite white cashmere sweater that was a gift from cassie this past christmas—guess she got tired of you eyeing it in the shops window everytime you went out—paired with slacks, coffee traveller once again clutched in your hands. your head is aching from how many times you had to re slick your ponytail, and you swear after today if you never have to see a bristled brush again, you'd be happy.
the first thing you notice is that mat isn't here anymore. he must've gone back to his place while you were getting dressed, presumably for practice. the second thing you notice is your dead plant in the window sill—that you could've sworn was alive and well yesterday afternoon.
"are you kidding me?" you say out loud. "is that how today's going to be universe?"
and apparently so, because you burn your mouth again your very next sip of coffee while you’re sitting in the drivers seat of your car.
and just like that, the second worse day of your life begins.
—
8 hours later you're walking back into your apartment with the upmost dread hanging over your head like your own personal rain cloud.
you practically slam the door, which might be a little dramatic, but it's like you can't control yourself. kicking off your boots like they personally offended you, your hand bag follows suit with a detrimental thud against the warped wood by the door.
"woah," cassie's voice sounds from the living room. it's a rather tiny space, and you can barley get a love seat in there. so you can imagine your roommate sprawled over both cushions, feet hitting the wall below your diamond painting of a goose—your prize possession truly. "you trying to kill your shoes or something?"
you stomp down the tiny hall and then just...brood under the archway that frames the small space. the tv is on low, playing the newest episode of stranger things—something cassie promised to wait and watch with you.
"are you watching it without me?"
she quirks a brow at your wobbly tone, looking between the screen and your expression like she's fully expecting lasers to shoot from your eyes, and burn the tv to ash right then and there. after a beat, cassie shrugs and reaches into the bowl of pretzels on her tummy, shoving a handful in her mouth.
"yeah, sorry. I got bored."
you closes your eyes for a moment of control, breathing deeply out your nose like a dragon.
"are you really that mad?"
your eyes snap open, and cassie swallows.
you run your fingers through your disheveled hair, tugging at the roots like you're trying to pull each strand out. then, you laugh up at the ceiling—missing the way cassie's eyes widen like she's witnessing a possession.
"no," you breathe, "i'm not mad. i'm not mad at you that you're watching our show." your eye twitches, and she blinks. "i'm mad at the universe." you declare after a tense pass.
"the...universe?"
"yes," you snap. "because i've burnt my mouth on my coffee not once, not twice, but three times today. my plant has mysteriously died, even though last night it was thriving! i've ruined my favourite white sweater because my soup decided today was my last day of peace, and slipped right out of my hands."
you pause, thinking of earlier in the afternoon. you'd been standing in the break room at work, and the stupid plastic container filled with your moms homemade tomato soup, slipping in slow motion. but the way the cold liquid stained your top was anything but slow—it spread like wildfire.
you'd laughed it off, because that's what you do—because crying at work over spilled soup would have been too much. but you still spent your lunch break blotting at the stain with paper towels and cold water. it ended up being no use, because for the rest of your day your male co-workers kept asking if you got shot. it only took three of them for you to end up sneaking away to cry in a bathroom stall.
tears threaten to fall from your waterline as you look back at cassie, bottom lip trembling. "and i'm pretty sure I ran over a squirrel on my way home." you wipe at your cheek with the back of your palm when you feel that all too familiar warm trickle.
she eyes you for a moment longer, and then tilts her head. "I thought you didn't believe in all that witchy woo universe crap."
your mouth drops, but cassie’s too busy picking out another fistful of pretzels to notice your hanging jaw. she shoves a few more into her mouth, and then mumbles through the crumbly snack—"well hopefully tonight at the game you'll get over this mood." her bright blue eyes flick back to your, completely unaware of how you're seconds away from collapsing. "we have to leave in like an hour, so you might want to shower. no offence but you smell like tomatoes."
—
of course the eyeliner is the thing that breaks you.
you're already running late for the stupid game because the hot water wasn't working and you spent almost 10 minutes trying to get the dial in that perfect spot so the water would begin to heat up.
now you're standing in front of the bathroom mirror with one sock on, hair half dried, and your phone propped against the sink playing some mindless video you're not actually watching—because you're an ipad kid at heart, and right now you need the mind numbing stimulation before you stab your eye out with the liner pen.
"okay," you murmur to yourself, steadying your hand. "let's try this again."
gently, the pen touches your lid. and then as soon as you attempt the all too familiar drag, it skips. again.
you blink with irritation, pull back, and just stare. the line is crooked—not dramatically, not enough to justify starting over, just enough to be wrong. so mistakenly, you try to even it out, dragging the tip carefully along your lash line.
but it only gets worse. thicker. uneven. darker.
"no," you whimper. "no, no, no."
you wipe at it with your finger, which only smears it outward, and makes you look like you've been punched—in other words, you look like a distant cousin of a raccoon. you grab a cotton swab for what feels like the 20th time, overcorrect, and somehow manage to remove eyeliner from a place you swear you never touched.
the bathroom door swings open without knocking, and cassie looks at you like she's on her last string of patience. "are you almost ready? puck drop is in 15."
you flinch, eyeliner pen leaving a tiny dot too high on your lid. "jesus—yeah. I mean. I will be."
she sighs loudly, leaning against the doorframe. cassie's already dressed, already perfect in that effortless way that makes you feel like you're trying too hard just by existing. all matching in her jean colouring, hair slicked back to perfection. makeup glittering in a way that screams i'm dating a player and you should be jealous.
"we're going to be late," she notes.
"I know," you snap, then immediately soften it. "sorry. my—my eyeliner's just being weird."
she scoffs light heartedly. "It's eyeliner."
you bite down on your tongue and turn back to the mirror—fighting the urge to curse her and her clean girl aesthetic out. the black line is uneven now, one eye sharper than the other. you consider wiping it all off and starting over, but the thought makes your chest tighten.
you try again, hand trembling just slightly. the pen drags, and like clockwork you blink and It smudges beyond salvage. "oh my god," you mutter, dropping the pen into the sink. "why is today like this?"
cassie crosses her arms, watching you with thinly veiled impatience. "can you fix it later? or just skip it all together so we can go? you look prettier without it—and besides it's not like you're going to be on the jumbo tron, so who cares?"
something sharp twists in your chest. "I just want to look okay." you want to feel good after the mess that was your day today, which is slowly climbing up the ladder of bad days to claim top spot for the worst.
"you look fine," she says, but her tone says the opposite—that it looks fine, and that you're being dramatic, and that she doesn't have the bandwidth for this.
you look at cassie. her jaw is tight, shoulders rigid. you can see that there's something buzzing under her skin—anger, stress, something unresolved and ugly. you know it has nothing to do with you, but that doesn't make it hurt less.
"fine," you sigh gently, reaching for makeup remover. "i'll just wipe it all off."
she hesitates, just for a second. "I didn't mean—"
"it's okay," you cut in, already scrubbing at your eyes. the cotton pad comes away black, and your lids sting faintly. "i'll be fast. plus you're right, who's going to see me anyways?"
—
you end up missing puck drop, but cassie doesn't seem too worried. you’re climbing down the steps towards your seats when the islanders score, and the place goes wild—which makes squeezing through people towards your seat an impossible task. you're pretty sure someone you pass spills there beer on your leg, but you're too afraid to look down and see.
the USB arena is loud in a way that vibrates through your bones. not just cheering—everything. skates carving into ice, the crack of sticks, the low roar of thousands of people talking over one another. it all blends together into a constant, overwhelming hum that makes it hard to think too clearly.
it's packed tonight. every seat around you is filled, knees pressed close, elbows bumping. you tug your jacket tighter around yourself and settle into your spot beside cassie. she barely glances up when you're both settled, already scrolling through her phone, thumb moving too fast.
"you good?" you ask, leaning closer so she can hear you over the noise.
"mhm-hm," she hums, eyes still down. "just checking something."
you nod, even though something about the way she says it feels off. regardless of the weird feeling in your chest, you turn your attention back to the ice, where the islanders are already looking rough. because even though they've just scored, the other team comes right back and gets two quick ones.
there's a collective groan from the crowd, sharp and disappointed. you wince instinctively, hands curling in your lap. on the ice, mat skates back toward his position, jaw clenched, helmet tilted just a fraction too low.
"shit," you murmur, but cassie doesn't react.
a third goal against them comes not long after. you don't watch games often, or know anything about the sport besides what mat has blabbed away in your unwilling ears, but even you know they are playing like shit—defending like shit.
it only takes half way into the second period for the energy in the arena to fully shift—less excited now, more frustrated, restless. people start shouting advice like the players can hear them. someone behind you swears loudly.
by the third period, the team is fully unraveling.
mat slams his stick against the ice after a missed play, shoulders tight, skating back to the bench with rigid precision. your chest aches in a strange, sympathetic way. you've seen him win games, seen him light up after a good one. this is the opposite of that—this is humiliation playing out in real time.
"this is fucking brutal," someone a few rows down says during a tv time out, and you can't help but to blow out air and nod to no one in particular.
your mouth still feels tender from earlier. just a lingering sensitivity you keep noticing when you chew the popcorn cassie abruptly decided to get between the second and third. or when you swallow.
you shift in your seat, distracted, trying to get comfortable in the hard plastic.
that's when it happens. it's not dramatic at first, simply because there's no warning. it comes as a sudden blur of black in your peripheral vision before absolutely knocking the air out of your lungs, as if someone punched you square in the cheek.
crack.
the sound is sharp and sickening, cold puck meeting bone with brutal precision. pain explodes across your face, immediate and blinding. your head snaps back, hand immediately flying to your nose while the puck rolls down the isle. some kid chases it. people around you gasp.
"oh my—"
you don't properly hear the rest of what sounds like cassie's screeching.
your eyes water, vision swimming, white hot pain radiates through your jaw and up into your skull. your fingers shake as you attempt to locate the damage—but every little pass kills. and not metaphorically. its pure, shocking pain that steals every coherent thought from your head. you can feels hot blood dripping down your lips and chin, surely staining your clothes.
"holy shit!" someone yells.
"oh my god, are you okay?"
you try to answer, but the only thing that comes out is a choked sound—half laugh, half sob. your ears ring, and the section around you has gone quiet in that horrible, focused way—too many eyes, too much attention.
an usher is already moving toward you, face pale. the arena has gone fully silent know, and you can register that the game has stopped from the lack of noise and stillness of the bodies in your peripheral.
"miss? miss, can you lower your hands for me?"
you shake your head, a tiny movement that sends another spike of pain through your face. tears spill over despite your best effort to hold them back.
"i'm—" you try again, voice thick with blood and emotion. "I think—"
cassie grabs your wrist gently, prying your hands down just enough to look. "oh god," she says quickly, face pale. "that's a lot of blood."
obviously that doesn't help.
every part of your face is throbbing now, pulse pounding right under your skin. every hushed sound feels too loud, too sharp, and now you're suddenly hyper aware of everything—your heartbeat, the cold air, the way the makeup you struggled so hard with is probably smudged again. the way this feels like the universe personally singled you out.
above you, the jumbotron lights up. you don't look, can't even if you wanted to, but you don't need to to understand what’s happening. the crowd reacts all at once—an audible oof, followed by scattered laughter and groans. your stomach drops through the floor.
"fucking hell," you whisper.
cassie looks up despite herself. "they're replaying it," she breathes. "they shouldn't be doing that!"
you squeeze your eyes shut, humiliation burning almost as badly as the pain. you can picture it perfectly without seeing it—the slow motion shot of your face, the puck flying in from nowhere, the exact moment it hits.
of course it's today. of course it's you. you're not sure what you've done to piss the universe off so much, but you're ready to beg for its forgiveness at any cost.
an ice pack appears from nowhere, pressed gently into your hands. you clutch it to your face, breathing shallow, heart racing. through water filled eyes, you make out the face of a medical staff member, islander coat on and hair gelled back.
he's giving you instructions, cassie's answering questions for you, you cheek aches and pride in pieces. somewhere on the ice, mat skates past your section, eyes flicking briefly through the crowd.
you don't know if he sees you. hopefully not. but who are you kidding—who isn't looking at you right now? more specifically, your surely crushed nose and blood covered chin.
that has you groaning with something bigger than pain. because it's bad enough that the people around you are looking at you in that pitiful way that screams better her than me, but the entire thing is televised, meaning the entire world gets a front row seat to the movie that after today, will surely be titled y/n's worse day ever.
the medical personal is poking at your face now, then shining a light in your eyes to check for signs of a concussion. through the haze of all that, you can hear the crowd noise slowly return, and the game resumes like nothing monumental just happened.
but all you can do is sit there frozen, ice pressed to your face, every nerve screaming with cold fire. after a few more tests, and frantic questions from cassie, you're being helped to a medical room for clean up and, much to your pleasure, privacy.
the rest of the night is a blur of bandages, throbbing and your own dizzying dismay.
—
you don't wait by the locker room with cassie for mat to come out. instead, you opt to sit in the car and wait for them. the quiet is nice and slowly eases the pain that's still radiating through your face. you never made it back to actually watching the isles, too busy getting the blood wiped off your chin like a clumsy toddler, and gauze shoved up your nose. but you heard from a staff member that they lost. brutally.
you're sure you resemble something insane right now, and when you pull out your phone and open the camera, your suspicions are confirmed. you groan lowly, tears gathering in your eyes as you pocket your cell again.
you're thankful the staff gave you some free merch to wear out, although it was out of the lost and found, you’ll take the vintage, too big crewneck—because walking through the busy arena covered looking swollen and teary eyed was embarrassing enough, never mind if you had to do it in your blood stained clothes.
thankfully, you don't have concussion, but some rest and relaxation was very recommended. as well as ice. lots of ice.
frowning, you pick up the ice pack they let you keep and gingerly press it to your face—it doesn't even matter where anymore, because everything hurts.
through the window, you see cassie. she's walking ahead of mat, arms crossed and blonde pointy tail swinging in a way that screams irritation. and based on the solemn look on his face, they must've had some sort of fight between the end of the game and now.
great.
cassie opens the door roughly, meeting your eyes through the gap of the headrest. thankfully, she doesn't lash out at you. rather, she send you a smile that doesn't meet her eyes and reaches through the gap to rub your knee. whether it's because you literally resemble something out of carrie, or something entirely, you're glad your roommate isn't choosing you to continue her wrath at.
a beat passes, and then mat is getting into the drivers seat. you swallow when his dark eyes meet yours over his shoulder. he doesn't say anything, but there's a look in his gaze that just screams sympathy. you hate it.
the car ride home is quiet in the worst way.
not the comfortable kind. not the kind where music fills the space and everyone sinks into their own thoughts. this kind of silence is tight and watchful, stretched thin between the three of you like a wire pulled too far.
you press yourself against the door, the cold from the window seeping through you and helping the ache that just is your body right now. you've got the ice pack is balanced awkwardly against your cheek, already starting to melt, dampening the sleeve of the blue and orange islanders sweatshirt.
your face throbs in time with your heartbeat, a deep, dull ache that refuses to fade, and every little bump in the road sends a fresh spike of pain through your jaw.
cassie is the most quiet out of all of you, switching between looking out the windshield with her arms crossed and scrolling on her phone with the echoing click of her acrylic nail. every couple minutes, she'll check on you with a raised brow, and you just shrug. it's enough for her to be satisfied.
it's not until mat checks the rearview mirror for the umpteenth time in the past 10 minutes that the silence inside the car is snapped.
"you doing okay back there?" he asks, voice low, careful.
you nod, even though he can't really see it. "yeah. i'm fine."
mat almost laughs. he's been hit by his fair share of pucks in his career, and fine isn't a word he'd use to describe how it feels.
the car slows at a stop sign, and his eyes flicker up to the rearview mirror again. "is it still throbbing?"
you catch his gaze there—wide, worried, lingering a second too long.
"it's fine," you repeat the earlier words instead of giving a proper answer, but your voice sounds smaller than you mean for it to, giving your pain away. clearing your throat, you add—"just a little tender still."
mat clicks his tongue, grip tightening in the steering wheel. "y/n, i'm not liking the way your your looking right now. I think maybe we should stop at urgent care. I can stay with you until they give you a proper—"
"I said i'm fine," you interrupt, gentler than your words deserve. "I just want to go home."
"y/n."
"barzal."
"i'm serious," he exhales. the car hits a tiny bump, but it feels like you've just been rear ended with the way hot iron pain radiates through your face. you grimace, and mat raises a knowing eyebrow at you in the mirror. he continues, "is it's hurting when—"
"god, mat can you just stop?" cassie snaps, exhaling sharply through her nose like a dragon on the attack. she continues, just a sharp. it's clear that whatever has been brewing between them is bleeding through into this conversation. "you don't need to keep asking," she says "she said she's fine."
mat stiffens, and then lets out a short laugh. "i'm just checking. in case you somehow forgot, she got absolutely smoked by a puck going 70 miles."
"yeah, well, it's excessive," cassie scoffs like you're not actively in the back seat, the glow from the red light ahead illuminating her anger stricken expression. "she got hit by a puck, not shot."
awkwardly and wishing you could just teleport back into your bedroom and far away from whatever this fight is and has stemmed from, you sink lower into the expensive leather seat.
mat runs a hand over his face, like he's heard this a million times. "don't do this cassie. i'm not doing anything wrong," he sighs. "i'm allowed to be concerned. it could've been so much worse."
"you're always just so concerned when it comes to her. it's embarrassing," cassie laughs incredulously, pulling her phone back out to scroll—a tell tale sign she's done with this conversation.
he exhales, long and frustrated. "that's not what this is, so stop."
she laughs, humourless, and doesn't look up from her phone. "whatever mat."
for a moment, you wonder if they've forgotten that you're in the backseat, but then mat meets your eyes through the rearview mirror once more 5 minutes later, and you know then he hadn't forgotten.
the rest of the drive passes without another word.
when you all finally pull into the driveway, relief washes over you so hard it makes your eyes sting. you want to strip, crawl under the covers and never see this day again. your exhausted, physically and sure as hell emotionally.
mat jumps out of the car almost as quick as cassie storms up the short driveway of your apartment complex and disappears inside. he opens your door before you can even take the ice pack off your face.
"it's icy," he says softly, offering a hand. "let me help you."
you hesitate for a beat, eyeing his calloused yet soft looking palm and then slippery looking driveway. a beat passes before you take his outstretched hand—because the last thing you need is to crack your skull open because of pride.
his grip is warm, steady, and lingers half a second too long once you're properly on your feet.
you don't say anything to one another as you walk shoulder to arm up to the door.
once you're inside, you mumble a quiet thanks over your shoulder at mat, and then waste no time heading straight up the stairs. you find the bathroom first, and instantly you're sobbing. you cry as you peel off your clothes, as you shower, and as you slip on the pyjamas you discarded in there that morning. you cry until your head hurts again, and then you manage to calm down. just enough to make it to your bedroom.
by the time you crawl into bed, your entire body feels heavy with a million different things. things you can't even begin to think about. all you do know is that you could pitch your day to a movie executive and they'd turn it into a sad comedy. or a funny horror. however you want to look at it.
you turn onto your side, careful not to press your face into the pillow, and close your eyes.
for a moment—one blissful, peaceful moment--there's quiet.
but then—"why were you acting like that?"
your eyes snap open as cassie's familiar voice, laced with anger and sharpness, carries easily through the thin walls.
you freeze, even though they can't see you, your heart already starting to race.
"I wasn't acting like anything but worried, cassie," mat's muffled reply sounds defensive. "I was worried."
she scoffs. "I'm just saying you didn't have to make it such a big thing," cassie continues. "you fucking embarrassed me."
"how?" he stresses, tone balancing in the edge of impatience.
"oh my god," she laughs. "mat, you checked the mirror more times than you've checked in on us all week."
you squeeze your eyes shut, heart pounding.
"I wasn't trying to—" mat cuts himself off, then exhales hard. "I feel like you're twisting everything."
"oh, don't do that," she fires back. "don't pin this on me. this is all on you, mat."
gingerly, you turn onto your side, bed frame squeaking slightly as you pull the blanket tighter—like it might block out the words that feel much more loaded then they sound. It doesn't.
"you never listen," she continues, voice softer than before. more defeated. "you never hear me."
"I do," he insists. "I'm trying. I've been trying."
there's a pause then. one that says more than words.
"I can't do this anymore," cassie says finally, voice cracking just enough to make your chest ache.
silence stretches.
then you hear mat again, his voice too now, quieter. "are you serious?"
"yes."
another beat. you hold your breath without meaning to. her mattress squeaks like he's standing up now.
"okay," mat says.
you hear more movement—footsteps, a drawer opening, something being set down too hard. then the door opens and closes, the sound reverberating through the apartment like a gunshot.
but all you can do stare into the darkness, tears pricking at your eyes for reasons you can't quite name.
you lie there for a moment longer, waiting to hear crying. or screaming. or some other kind of indication that cassie is upset. but nothing comes. the hallways light shining under your door disappears, and silence settles over the apartment.
she's not upset. she knew this was going to happen. hell, even you knew this was brewing, you just can't believe that today of all days would've been the boiling point.
maybe it's not only just your worse day ever. maybe theirs too.
you close your dry, sore eyes, praying for sleep to take you so that you can just wake up and start a new day.
DAY TWO
you wake up to an alarm.
groggily and eyes crusty with sleep, you groan like a zombie. once again, it's not your alarm. it's the wrong pitch, the wrong rhythm, too shrill to belong to yours. it's cassie's. again.
you groan again and roll deeper against the pillows. your nose and cheek nestles into the soft bedding, and you breathe into it. you're not planning on going back to sleep, you couldn't even if you wanted to—cassie's damn alarm is still ringing. plus, you do still work today, even though the thought of walking into the corporate office with a busted up face—
wait.
at a speed that should be unattainable for this early in the morning, you sit up in bed, pyjama tank strap slipping down your shoulder. carefully, you press a finger against the bridge of your nose, and much to your surprise, there's no pain.
brows drawn together, you spring out of bed, tripping over a pair of jeans and almost smacking your face against the door frame as you all but rush towards the bathroom.
the fluorescent lights flicker three times before coming to life. bracing your palms on either side of the sink, you lean closer to inspect your own reflection—because this can't be right, can it?
there’s no bruising. no swelling. no crusted up blood left on your cupids bow. absolutely no evidence of last night whatsoever.
"what the—?"
you begin poking and pulling at your skin, like if you look hard enough you'll find something. but you don't. I mean, you jaw aches faintly when you clench your teeth in test, and your head is kind of throbbing, but there's no physical changes that indicate you got obliterated by a puck traveling at the speed of light.
"did I....dream that?" you don't get an answer obviously, but you continue like you're searching. "or am I just going crazy?"
a beat passes before you tear your eyes away from your own reflection, busying yourself with brushing your teeth like you're trying to chip away gold rather than freshen up.
"today," you stare at your reflection, foam all over your mouth and the handle of the toothbrush. "today will be better." but based on your un-naturally tangled hair—you could've sworn you tied it back before bed—the sleep shadows under your eyes, and the way, like yesterday, your lashes have decided to pit against you and stick straight up, you're not sure how good today will be.
your curse to yourself, and then spit.
the first proper sign your day is going to be weird is mat. because he's in your kitchen. and not metaphorically, or in a "his name is being spoken and now I'm annoyed" kind of way. physically, unmistakably, in your kitchen, leaning against the counter like he belongs there, wearing gray joggers and the same an old team hoodie as yesterday morning.
you stop short in the doorway, buffering, and the sound of your bare feet skidding to a stop has him looking up from his phone.
"morning," he hums, voice hoarse.
you don't say anything, not right away. too busy trying to understand what's happening, and why mat barzal is in your kitchen this morning when just a few hours ago, he left after cassie broke it off with him.
he doesn't look guilty, or like he shouldn't be here. well, actually maybe he looks a little sick of the peppa pig coffee mug in his hand that you'd gotten at the thrift store years ago, but that's about it. he doesn't look like a man who's no longer attached to the girl you live with. he looks like nothing has happened.
you swallow, words dying on your tongue before you can even speak them.
mat quirks an eyebrow, confused. his dark eyes trail over you then, assessing as he looks over your bare legs, the sliver of stomach peeking out between your shorts and tank top—blinking hard and looking away once he sees your hardening nipples.
wait, when did you put these on?
your eyes widen with embarrassment, crossing your arms tightly. you swallow, taking a cautious step into the kitchen—the smell of rich coffee envelopes you immediately. "why," you start slowly, carefully, "are you here?"
his eyes snap back to yours, face stricken with something that can only be described as disbelief. you're pretty sure he almost drops peppa pig—did he wash that this morning? you left it dirty in the sink with a peanut butter coated spoon in it yesterday.
"what?"
you raise an eyebrow, "well, unless i've completely lost all sense of time, you two broke up last night." you gesture loosely towards the stairs, where cassie is surely getting ready for work.
mat watches you, clearly at a loss for words. feeling awkward under his intense gaze, you move further into the kitchen, squeezing past him to get to the coffee pot.
hand halfway to the cupboard of mugs, you shoot him a quick, sideways glance before continuing. "I mean...cassie seemed pretty upset last night, I figured you guys were done for good once I heard you leave. so...are you guys trying to work it out to something?"
still. nothing.
"quit looking at me like that." you snap.
mat blinks, hard. lips parting like he can't quite yet fathom what's going on. it only confuses your foggy head more so. "I wasn't here yesterday." he says it slowly, anything but simple, like he's not only telling you, but also himself.
"what," the mug clinks to the counter as you face him properly. "yes, you were."
"yesterday was wednesday." he reminds you, although he still doesn't sound sure. "today's thursday."
you counter back, "no," the word drags, "yesterday was thursday, and I know that because of your game. remember? you lost like 8-1 and I got hit by a puck, which I know it doesn't look like it, but I swear this happened. I swear. you were here yesterday."
mat doesn't say anything to that, and you let out a little desperate laugh. "I must be concussed or something?"
a beat passes, you clutching at your roots like you may be able to pull the answers out of your head, mat looking at you like you've just told him he's been traded to the sabres.
then, he shifts. close enough that you're immediately straightening, and that all you can smell is his woodsy cologne. "yesterday was thursday?"
you raise a suspecting brow and slowly nod. "yes."
"you're not fucking with me?"
"what? mat," you step back, arms crossed in what feels like defence. "why are you being so weird?"
cassie appears at the top of the stairs then, hair straightened in shiny perfection and same black pin stripe blazer you saw her in yesterday, buttoned professionally. she chirps you a morning as she moves down the stairs, her sock covered feet padding on the floor.
you watch hesitantly as cassie blows past mat, grabs her purple mug and then pours her coffee—accompanied by her hefty portion of lavender creamer.
then, before you can say anything, she’s on the move towards the front door. "I'm heading out," cassie says flatly, slipping on her puffer coat.
"okay," mat replies. "i'll see you later tonight? at the game."
your eyebrows furrow—because since when did mat have a game tonight? he just played last night.
cassie pauses at his words, hand on the doorframe for balance and boot half on. "yup."
mat's jaw tightens, but not just with annoyance, but also with disappointment. and you? you're so disoriented and confused that you almost feel nauseous.
you don't stick around to watch cassie leave. taking the stairs two at a time, you rush up towards the bathroom, heart thudding harder than it should, a faint unease crawling up the back of your neck.
in the bathroom your drop to your knees by the toilet, face hot. you don't puke, mostly because there's nothing in your stomach. you just dry heave for a good couple minutes while contemplating your entire life.
what is going on today? you've never had this much, or this of intense deja vu in your life—not like this.
once you feel like you're well enough to crawl towards the vanity, you do just that, pulling yourself up until you're able to see yourself in the mirror.
your phone bings beside the sink, some notification from your period tracking app about ovulating. but that's not what stops you in your tracks. no, it's there, right above the time in small, block letters that feel anything but tiny.
because the date reads wednesday. not thursday.
and if that's not enough for you to realize something is seriously wrong, it's the glimpse you catch of an all too familiar white cashmere sweater hanging off the rod of the shower. a very un stained sweater. a sweater that you swore that you left in your room yesterday.
"what the actual hell."
—
exactly 8 hours after your existential crisis in the bathroom that morning, you're waking back through the front door of your apartment after going through the exact same day as yesterday.
obviously, it started with the coffee. despite letting it sit on the island for almost 20 minutes before you left, it was still piping hot, and your tongue unfortunately had to suffer the consequences.
then, at the cafe across the street from your building, you opted with ordering broccoli cheddar soup, rather than bringing your moms homemade tomato sitting in the fridge—another weird deja vu thing that had you clutching the counter between the register and the wall. but it didn't matter, because the broccoli cheddar still got spilt at lunch, and still stained your clothes.
and then yes, another squirrel bit the dust on your way home. so yes, you cried the entire drive, smelling like cheese and only praying that your plant is alive on the window ledge.
you let the door slam behind you, which is definitely dramatic, but you don't even realize you're doing it at that point. you're just moving through the day under your own despair.
"woah," cassie's voice sounds from the living room. "you trying to kill your shoes or something?"
the floor boards creak as you timidly make your way down the hall, right until you're standing under the archway. like you already knew she would be, cassie's sprawled over both cushions, socked feet planted on the wall below your bedazzled goose painting.
you almost don't want to look at the tv, but curiosity gets the better of you...and yup, there it is. the newest episode of stranger things playing on low. something you swore cassie already watched without you yesterday.
"are you watching again without me?"
she quirks a brow at your tone, looking between the screen and your expression cautiously.
cassie shrugs and reaches into the bowl of pretzels on her tummy, "again? I haven't watched this one yet." she shoves the food into her mouth and chews a couple times. "and I know we said we'd watch it together but I got bored. sorry."
your mouth parts but nothing except a tiny whimper comes out. you spin on your heels, confused and angry and exhausted.
and then—there, sitting on the cracked paint of the windowsill—is your plant. dry, wilted and undeniably dead. "no," you whisper, throat thick. "this is a nightmare."
you run your fingers through your disheveled hair, tugging at the roots like you're trying to fix whatever the hell is happening. then, you laugh. then sob. then laugh again.
cassie's eyes widen like she's witnessing a possession. the couch creaks under her weight as she slowly gets up, walking towards you cautiously, like you're a rabid animal. "y/n, are you seriously that mad about me watching this without you?"
your eyes snap to her, and she swallows hesitantly, just as quickly sitting back down.
"no," you huff, tears pricking at your waterline. you press the heels of your palms to your eyes until you see white, doing your best to compose yourself—or rather, whatever is going on around you.
"no, it's not that," you release your face, and then run your hands through your hair again. root tug and all. "it's just—this might sound crazy but..." you pause, peering into cassie's awaiting gaze. you gulp and then continue, "I think i've lived this day before."
she raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow, "meaning?"
you huff, "meaning...for two days in a row, the exact same things have happened. the exact same. mat being in the kitchen when I woke up, the dead plant, spilling my lunch all over myself, burning my mouth of my coffee, hitting a squirrel—god, even you watching this exact episode of stranger things. the exact same things. the exact same day."
a beat passes with nothing but ominous music sounding from the tv, and your heavy breathing. then, cassie snorts a half laugh, "you're right, it does sound crazy."
you blink. "I know it does, which makes all of this that much weirder."
she gives you a once over, "sounds like you just had a really vivid dream."
tears threaten to fall from your waterline as you look back at cassie, bottom lip trembling. she doesn't believe you. "it wasn't a dream."
cassie eyes you for a moment longer, and then she tilts her head. "I thought you didn't believe in all that witchy woo universe crap."
you mouth drops, because you remember those words. those exact same words coming from her plump lips yesterday. and like yesterday, cassie's too busy picking out another pretzel from the bowl she left on the table to notice your face.
hopefully tonight at the game you'll get over this weird crap." her bright blue eyes flick back to yours then, completely unaware that you're seconds away from collapsing. again. "we should have to leave in like an hour for mat’s game, so you might want to shower. no offence but you smell like broccoli."
your eyes widen, frantic expression clear on your face. "i'm not going to that game, cassie." you don't tell her why. you don't tell her that if what you're going through today isn't just some universal deja vu day—that if this really is the exact same day on repeat—you're going to get hurt in front of the entire USB arena.
because if cassie didn't already think that you're insane, she would then. which, you're still trying to decipher if you're insane or not yourself.
she perks up from where she's sat back on the couch, "what? please. I don't want to watch it alone."
you pull your coat off, finally, suddenly feeling hot all over. and not in a good way. "then go sit up with the other wags in the box instead of sitting in the stands."
her mouth parts, and then just as quickly snaps shut as your words register. cassie squints inquisitively, "how'd you know the seats were in the stands?"
your hands falls to your sides with a slap, completely deflated. "I don't know." gulping sadly, your eyes begin to burn once more with that all too familiar feeling.
she eyes again, and it feels loaded. you don't bother pitching your case again, because now it really is starting to feel like a broken record. a ridiculous, stupid, impossible broken record. so instead, you just turn heel and climb the stairs—looking for a hot shower and an explanation you know won't help.
—
you don't even attempt eyeliner, but your mascara doesn't co-operate, so you still end up crying it all off the one time you manage to apply it cleanly. so that's that.
like you remembered from yesterday, or a dream, or predicted, or whatever—the uber ends up pulling up to the USB arena once the puck had already been dropped. you'd been quite the whole ride over, which only had cassie shooting you daggers from the front seat anytime she had to answer a question directed at you from the driver.
but you're feeling too off to worry about her annoyance. and as you're both trailing down the familiar concrete steps you swore not even 24hours ago you were also walking down, your fuzzy feelings only intensify. every rumble of the crowd, every cheer and shout has you on edge.
by the time the third period rolls around, it gets even worse.
the man sitting in front of you yells something towards the ice when landeskog scores on a backhand shot, and you jump again. cassie, noticing, looks away from her phone and over at you from the corner of her eye.
"you okay?"
"fine," you swallow, crossing your legs and then immediately uncrossing them. you smooth your palms down the front of your jeans then. cassie quirks an eyebrow at your twitchy nature. you catch it. then stop moving completely.
"i'm fine," you repeat, eyes darting up to the score board. "just feeling on edge. games running away from them, you know."
it only deepens your friends suspicion. "since when do you care about the score of a hockey game?"
"I don't." you snap. swallow. correct your tone. "I mean, I don't really, but I guess i'm just feeling the energy of the crowd."
"right," cassie drawls, still clearly unconvinced, but she opens her phone again, not bothering with you anymore.
you take your lip between your teeth anxiously, turning back to the blood bath that is the islanders game. like clock work, the sound of mat slamming his stick his the ice after a missed play sounds throughout the arena, and you watch him skate back towards the bench, shoulders just as tight as you suspected.
expect, this time, he's looking at you. maybe. it's hard to tell. you're far enough up in the lower bowl that you have to squint a little to make our faces on the bench, but there's no mistaking mat. or the way he seems to be looking towards you.
your chest aches in a strange way.
"this is fucking brutal," someone a few rows down says during a tv time out, and you can't help the way your spine turns to iron. it's feeling too unsettling and familiar.
you shift in your seat, distracted with the feeling of incoming doom looming over you. the whistle blows, and the players scatter.
and then. a sudden blur of black in your peripheral vision before—crack.
—
the leather back seat of mat's car is too familiar. almost as familiar as the vintage looking orange and blue islanders crewneck the medical staff had handed you from lost and found, the cuffs stretched soft with age, the faint smell of detergent and something stale and rubbery clinging to it.
you're sitting almost impossibly still, shoulders drawn inward like if you don't move, nothing else will go wrong. the plastic bag on your lap—biohazard printed in red along the side—crinkles every time you breathe too deeply. inside it, your top is stiff where the blood has dried, the knot you twisted into the handles slowly loosening, plastic sighing in protest.
your nose throbs in a steady, unforgiving rhythm. it's not as sharp anymore—just heavy. like someone pressed a thumb to the bridge of it and never let go. every beat of your heart reminds you it happened. again. just like you feared it would.
streetlights smear orange across the windows as mat pulls out of the parking lot. the engine hums low, familiar, grounding in a way that almost makes you nauseous. you know this drive. remember it just from yesterday. you know the way the car will dip into a pothole just after the arena, know the song that's about to come on the radio—
the radio clicks, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.
cassie sighs loudly from the passenger seat, folding her arms across her chest. "can you please stop braking like that? you're driving like a grandpa."
mat doesn't look at her right away. his eyes flick up to the rearview mirror instead, right at you.
you feel it like a touch.
but he looks away just as quickly, jaw tightening as he merges into traffic. "sorry," he mutters, though it doesn't sound like he means it.
your reflection stares back at you from the darkened glass—pale, eyes too bright, dried blood still shadowing your upper lip no matter how many times the medical staff wiped it away. you swallow, and the motion pulls at your sinuses, sends a dull ache blooming behind your eyes.
"you doing okay back there?" mat asks after a tension filled beat.
you open your mouth, but the words catch. "I—" you voice sounds wrong to your own ears. thin. distant. "i'm fine."
it's a lie, but not in a way you can articulate. your body feels wrong. heavy in places it shouldn't, light in others. like you're lagging a half second behind yourself.
the car hits the pothole, and your head bumps lightly against the seat.
cassie rolls her eyes from the passenger seat, the nail that was dragging on her phone screen coming to a halt. "see? that's what I mean. every time."
mat exhales through his nose, hands tightening on the steering wheel. he checks the mirror again, lingering longer this time because of a stop sign.
"you sure you're okay?" he asks again, but now there's something else under it. not concern, exactly. something searching.
you nod too fast, like you're guilty of something even though you're obviously not. "yeah. just—tired."
it's easier than explaining the buzzing under your skin. easier than explaining the strange, creeping certainty that if you closed your eyes, you could list everything that happened tonight in order. the missed shot in the second period. the way the crowd went quiet before the puck came flying over the glass. the exact moment you thought—wow, that's coming right at me—and then.
your hand twitches toward your face before you stop it. you meet mats gaze through the mirror, "I don't want to go to urgent care, okay."
his brows furrow for a pass and then he relaxes his face, car lurching slightly once it's your turn to move. "okay. if you're sure."
"I am."
"god, mat can you just stop?" cassie snaps, exhaling sharply through her nose. she continues, just a sharp. "you don't need to keep asking," she huffs, "she said she's fine."
mat stiffens, eyes darting between the road and the mirror. you look away, quickly and awkwardly. "i'm just making sure she's okay, cassie."
"yeah, well, it's excessive," she scoffs, the flow from the red light ahead illuminating her anger stricken expression. "she got hit by a puck, not shot."
the car goes quiet after that.
the radio murmurs softly, a song you don't recognize but somehow know every beat of anyway. the smell of ice rink still clings to mat's jacket, sharp and clean, mixing with the coppery tang you can't quite get out of your nose.
the plastic bag shifts on your lap as the knot finally gives, the handles sliding apart. you stare down at it, at the dark stain soaking through the fabric, your stomach twisting.
you've heard those condescending words before. this fight has already happened—the thought lands fully formed, uninvited.
you press your fingers into your thigh, grounding yourself in the solid, undeniable ache there.
in the rearview mirror, mat watches you like he's trying to decide whether to say something—or whether he already has. a beat passes, and then he sighs. careful and reserved. "let's not fight now, okay?"
"you're just always just so concerned when it comes to her." cassie laughs incredulously, pulling her phone back out to scroll. "it's embarrassing."
you feel lightheaded, so you let your head roll back against the seat and let your eyes flutter closes.
thankfully, the rest of the drive passes without another word, and when you all finally pull into the driveway, the upmost pressure settles over your shoulders. chest tightening because you knew where mat would pull in, knew that, like yesterday, he'd angle into the spot closest to the sidewalk like he always does when it's icy.
the tires crunch over frozen gravel as he parks.
the engine cuts and silence rushes in too fast, ringing loud in your ears.
before you can unbuckle, cassie is already moving. her seatbelt snaps free with a sharp click, the sound slicing through you. she doesn't say anything as she shoved the door open, cold air flooding into the car and biting at your chapped lips.
"cass—" mat starts, but she's already out, door slamming hard enough to rattle the frame.
your heart is racing now, too fast, like it's trying to outrun something you can't see. you begin fumbling with your seatbelt, fingers clumsy, the plastic bag sliding to the floor at your feet. you lean forward to grab it just as your door opens.
you jolt, breath catching painfully in your throat.
mat stands there, cold air curling around his legs, his breath puffing white in the dark. he looks exactly like he did yesterday—same knit hat pulled low, same crease between his brows. too exact. too precise.
"I got it," he says, already reaching for the bag, clearly unbothered by your blood. “careful, it's slick out." he hooks his fingers around the handles of the bag and then, like muscle memory, offers you his other hand.
open palm. steady. just like before.
something in you snaps. maybe because you're scared, and you don't know what's happening. or maybe because of the pain radiating through your cheeks and leaning towards your jaw. but you're snapping before you can think against it.
"I don't need help," you say, sharper than you mean to. the words come out brittle, defensive. "i'm fine."
mat’s hand hesitates midair, eyeing you cautiously. "y/n-"
you swing your legs out anyway, heart hammering, cold immediately seeping through the soles of your shoes. the pavement glistens under the lights, a thin sheet of ice you swear wasn't there a second ago—or maybe it was. maybe it always is.
you plant your foot, and your heel immediately slips. the world tilts violently, balance disappearing out from under you. your stomach drops, but then—
mat's arm hooks around your waist, the other catching your elbow, yanking you back against his solid chest. you gasp, breath punched from your lungs, face inches from his expensive jacket—from the familiar scent of cold air and laundry detergent and something unmistakably him.
your skidding feet immediately come to a stop as you're pulled upright.
mat exhales a shaky laugh that sounds more like relief than amusement. "told you," he says, voice low and right by your ear. "you're not fine."
you don't ask him to elaborate what he means by that. you can’t. your heart is pounding now, loud enough that you're sure he can feel it through the layers between you. his grip stays firm, fingers digging into your side like he's afraid to let go too soon.
you're gripping his sleeve too tightly. "I—" your voice stutters, world feeling like it's collapsing all around you. you swallow hard, throat burning. "I'm sorry, I'm just..." you stop yourself.
mat pulls back just enough to look at you, concern written plainly across his face now, no effort to hide it. his eyes flick to your nose, your gaunt face, the way you're still trembling.
"It's okay," he says. then, softer, and more careful—"you scared me."
the words land heavier than they should, because for some reason, it doesn't feel like he's talking about this slippery walk. or one singular incident in general. that's the scary part.
you don't say anything else to him. you're moving again, more cautious than before, but blood still pumping with adrenaline. you mumble something that might be a thank you or might just be noise, and head straight for the entrance before mat can say anything more.
by the time you get inside your apartment, the tightness in your chest has yet to ease. the entryway smells like wet boots and the candle cassie was burning that afternoon—the combination makes you feel sick.
you kick your shoes off without bothering to line them up, stomach rolling that has nothing to do with your injury. you don't stop until you reach the bathroom.
the light flips on and it's immediate and brutal—white and unforgiving, buzzing faintly overhead. you hiss, squeezing your eyes shut for a second before forcing them open again. the mirror greets you like an old friend, giving you a nice view of the dried trickle of blood by your cupids bow and the gauze shoved up your nostrils. real cute stuff.
you press your fingers gingerly to your cheekbone, then the bridge of your nose.
"you've lost it," you whisper, leaning closer to the mirror. your reflection does the same, eyes searching yours like it might offer an answer. "you've completely lost it."
the admission sounds thin in the tiled room, and you continue to stare at yourself for another long moment—long enough for a terrifying thought to trickle in.
you haven't lost it.
you're not insane.
this day is actually repeating.
your gaze drifts—to the faint mark on your cheek from the ice pack you'd left in mat’s car. to the isles crewneck hanging off your shoulders, sleeves too long…to the ghost of blood you swear you can still smell even though you know it's gone.
your breathing slows, panic creeping in. you push away from the vanity and drop down next to the toilet it for the second time today. you gag, tears fall from your eyes, body shivering.
you’re alone, scared and 99% sure this is deeper than you're thinking. thank you’re hoping.
but then—like a lonely star in the empty sky—mat's face flashes in your mind.
this morning when he'd been so shocked when you first spoke, like you'd gone off some kind of script. and then even more so when you thought it was thursday.
the way he kept looking at you in the rearview mirror. more than just casual or distracted. it was him watching, like he was waiting for you to say something specific.
the way he knew the parking spot would be icy. the way he offered you a hand without even thinking—like it's something he's done over and over again.
and once again, the way he'd muttered you scared me, like it wasn't just about you slipping. or the whole puck to the face thing. but like it was about something almost happening again.
a chill crawls up your spine.
"no," you murmur, straightening. your pulse kicks harder, logic scrambling to keep up. "no, no, no—"
the bathroom hums softly around you, like it's unaware of your crisis, pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. the just world keeps turning, perfectly normal, infuriatingly unchanged.
your heart starts to pound again—but this time, it isn't just panic. it's realization. because if you're not crazy and all those things about mat and how he's been acting make sense, then maybe it's not just you who’s stuck.
by the time you're done, the apartment is quiet.
you turn off the bathroom light and the sudden darkness makes you pause, breath catching until your eyes adjust. the hall stretches ahead of you, narrow and dim. you pad forward, socked feet whispering against the floor.
cassie's door is shut, but her light is on—a thin line of warmth glowing underneath it, steady and unmoving. you slow, hand hovering uselessly at your side, a dozen thoughts tripping over each other. you almost knock, almost say her name and try and explain what's happening again.
but you don't.
whatever is happening tonight—whatever this is—you don't have the words for it yet. not with her. not after her reaction to what you said a few hours ago.
your reach your room, and it welcomes you with familiar clutter and soft lamplight spilling in from the street outside. you shed the crewneck, and throw it next to your stained cashmere. then tug on a sleep shirt, crawl into bed, and pull the covers up around your shoulders like they might anchor you to something solid.
you turn your head carefully, cheek pressed gingerly into the pillow. you wait with baited breath, fingers clenched so hard they cramp, and then—
"why were you acting like that?"
cassie's voice is muffled through the wall just like last night, low at first, but the tension is unmistakable.
your stomach twists.
you lie there, heart pounding, listening as the argument unfolds exactly the way it did before. the same cadence. the same pauses. the same sharp edge when she says his name.
mat's voice follows, quieter but tight, like he's holding something back. his words are mostly the same, some different, but it doesn't matter. you know this fight.
this isn't deja vu.
your pulse roars in your ears as the voices spike—cassie's frustration cresting, mat's patience finally snapping. something crashes in her room. a drawer, maybe. a chair.
then the bedroom door opens, and you can hear mat’s footsteps, heavy and moving quickly down the small hallway and then the stairs.
your breath catches as you sit up just when the front door shuts. silence follows, cassie's light flicks off, the apartment quiet.
this is it. this is the proof.
before you can decide against it, you throw the covers back, adrenaline flooding your system, exhaustion forgotten. you don't bother turning on the light. you just grab the nearest hoodie and shove your feet into your slippers, hands shaking as you yank your bedroom door open.
you rush down the stairs and out the apartment. cold air slaps you in the face as you sprint down the steps, lungs burning, the hem of the islanders hoodie flapping uselessly around your thighs. the parking lot stretches out ahead of you, still slick with ice, streetlights casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement.
"mat!" you call, voice breaking the quiet.
you spot him near his car, keys in hand, shoulders hunched, breath fogging in the air. you skid to a stop a few feet away, heart hammering so hard it hurts.
his eyes widen watching you almost fall again, but you don't give him the time to talk.
"mat," you say again, breathless now. "wait."
a beat passes, heavy. deep down, he knows what this is about, even though he wishes for it not to be true. "okay," mat says through a breathe, more to himself than to you. he drags a hand through his hair, boots scraping softly against the ice.
you watch him, heart racing, breath fogging white in the cold. the parking lot feels eerily still—empty except for his car and the ones who live here, the flickering streetlight overhead, the dark shape of your apartment looming behind you.
you hadn't planned this far ahead. not about what you'd say, or how’s you even begin this kind of conversation. you swallow, slippers becoming wet from the ice.
"mat," you start, voice shaky despite your best effort to keep it together, "I think I'm going insane."
he freezes like your words hit a switch. he turns just slightly, shoulders slumping instead of squaring, like the fight leaks out of him all at once. you're only confirming what he's been suspecting all day—even if he dint want it to be true for you.
"yeah," he says eventually, voice quiet. "that tracks."
a laugh bubbles up out of you before you can stop it. it's sharp and humorless, the kind that hurts your throat. you think he doesn't believe you. that he's picking at you. trying to be funny.
"i'm serious. today—this whole day—it felt like i'd already lived it. like every bad thing happened exactly the same way. same coffee burn. same stupid soup. same makeup meltdown. same—" you gesture vaguely at your face, the lingering ache a phantom echo. "everything."
for a beat, he just looks at you and you take his silence as a sign to continue. "and at first I thought I was just having some kind of really intense deja vu, but I know it's not. I know it. everything is the same...expect for you. you're different. you're saying different things than yesterday. so I just thought..."
you don't finish, suddenly plagued with the thought that maybe you're reading too deep into this.
but then, mat takes a full step towards you, eyes locking onto yours in a way that makes your skin prickle.
"you always said the same thing," he notes.
your breath catches. "what?"
"same timing. same words." his jaw tightens as he speaks, like he's forcing himself through it. "every morning this week, you've complained about the coffee being 'molten lava.' you’d make the joke about cassie’s alarm. you'd sit in the same seat at the game before cassie and get hit in the same place with that puck."
your heart starts to pound so hard it feels like it might bruise your ribs from the inside. each example lands like a small, precise blow.
mat lets out a disbelieving laugh. "until today."
"this isn't possible," you whisper, even as a sick, awful part of you knows that apparently, it is. because it's happening.
"that's what I thought too," mat says. "for the first few days."
your mouth goes dry. you try and swallow, but it doesn't help. "first few days?"
a beat ticks. he exhales slowly, visibly steadying himself—breath curling out into the night air like smoke. when he speaks again, his voice is careful.
"can I ask you something?"
your hands curl into the sleeves of your hoodie, nails biting into the fabric. "I don't think I like that phrasing."
he almost smiles. almost because for the first time in what feels like forever, his day is different. then, mat's face sobers. "are you," he starts gently, "living the same day over again?"
the world tilts on its axis.
"I—" your voice cracks, so you clear your throat, blinking hard. "would that mean i’m losing my mind?"
"no," he stresses. he goes to reach for you, touch your arms like he did earlier when you slipped, but he just...hovers. not wanting to overwhelm you. "you're not. because if you are, so am I."
you blink, a tear falling down your swollen cheek. "how long?"
mat closes his eyes. exhales. "it's been a week."
the words land heavy, solid and terrifying.
"a week," you echo, barely recognizing your own voice. a gust of icy wind blows, and goosebumps prickles over your exposed skin.
mat eyes your legs, frowns and then nods. "I wake up every morning, same alarm, same fight brewing, same game loss." his voice tightens, cracks just slightly. "same breakup."
your chest aches at that, sharp and sudden. "you've lived that over and over for a week?"
"yes." he sniffs from the chill. you shake, cold and angry and scared. mat eyes your legs again, tuts his tongue like you being out here in shorts is the worst thing about this interaction, rather than the whole time loop disaster. "you're cold. let's get in the car."
"mat," you breathe, "I don't want to get it the car, I want to fucking go to bed and wake up tomorrow with anything back to normal."
he shoves his chapped hands into his coat pockets. "well unless you entering the time loop is the solution to said time loop, that's not going to happen."
"so what? you've been stuck in the same day for a week and didn't think to mention it when you saw me, clearly going through the same thing?" panic bleeds into irritation, hot and bright. "you just—what? watched me relive the worst day over and over? did you ever try and tell me that i'd have my face all fucked up if I came to a game?"
"no, because I thought I was crazy," mat shoots back, just as hot. your eyes widen, and he immediately softens, guilt flooding his features. "I didn't want to drag you into it if it was just...me."
you shake your head, breath coming faster now, the cold air burning your lungs. tears start falling freely now, and you turn your cheek away, embarrassed. "why is this happening?" you croak.
"hey," mat starts, moving closer. "hey don't cry. please."
your lip trembles and you still don't look at him. not until mat pulls you against his chest. his warm, strong chest. the drastic change in your temperature has you trembling. mat's hand firmly presses to your spine, trying to stop the tremors.
"I don't know why this is happening," he says over your head. "but today something changed, right? you hesitated, reacted slower, looked confused."
your throat tightens. "because I was."
"I know," he says softly. "but it was a change. and that has to mean something. it has to mean we can figure it out."
the parking lot suddenly feels too small, the air pressing in from all sides. the hum of the streetlight seems louder, the silence heavier, like the world is waiting to see what you'll do with this knowledge.
"so what," you whisper, voice barely there. "we're just...stuck?"
"yeah," he sighs, breathe moving your hair. "we're stuck." then mat pulls back from the brief hug, keeping you at an arms length as he says the scentence that has you feeling woozy once again.
"not to freak you out more or anything—but if you thought today was the worse day of your life, get ready for tomorrow."
author's note: thanks for all the love you showed part one! here's part two (and the final part, though i'll probably write some follow up fics about this couple later).
summary: you have a history of dating around and hooking up. after seeing your teammates start to settle down, you and mat make a bet to see who can fall in love first.
pairing: mat barzal x pwhl!reader
warnings: mentions of sex (though no actual smut because i can't write that to save my life), cursing, toxic boyfriends
guy three: peter (cont'd)
when you woke up early the next morning, it wasn’t because you wanted to, it was obligation to your team that had you getting on the road by eight to get back to your apartment in jersey. and maybe the time you got home coincided with peter’s work schedule, but if he asked, it wasn't intentional.
you didn't like lying, and you for sure didn't like that you were so comfortable doing it to him, but after the way he'd talked to you last night, part of you felt like he deserved it. besides, you were about to go on a roadie, you could afford to go a few more days without seeing him.
“i don't know that it should be like that,” your mom commented over facetime while you packed. “don't you want to date someone you wanna be around all the time?”
you scoffed. “don't you get tired of dad?”
“sometimes, but that doesn't mean i want to go days without seeing him.”
“even when he messes up?”
“i might go an hour with the silent treatment, but we usually try to talk about things that upset us before going to bed.” she pauses, then says, “are you sure peter is the one you want to be with?”
you blinked and took a second from throwing clothes into a suitcase to look at her. “what’re you saying? of course he is. he’s the right person, college was just the wrong time—”
“or maybe he was the wrong person then and is the wrong person now,” she said with a conviction you'd seldom ever heard from anyone.
you wrote your mom off after hanging up the phone, but the entire flight to ottawa, it was all you could think about.
you blinked before looking at her. “i think i might break up with peter,” you said.
“oh?”
“my mom made a comment this morning, about how maybe he was the wrong person then and also the wrong person now but—”
“your mom is right.”
you blinked again. “...what?”
jess shrugged like what she said wasn’t the equivalent to a record scratch in your brain. “he didn't seem to be your type.” when you said nothing, she continued. “he didn't care about what you care about. god, it seemed like he was waiting for you to give up hockey.”
your stomach twisted at the thought.
jess laid her head on your shoulder and squeezed your knee. “i just want what’s best for you, and i think the best is just around the corner.”
the roadie was long, with you winning as many as you lost. and you couldn't blame anyone but yourself for it. your mind was divided, jess’s words as well as your mom’s ringing in your head, until one night, you were laying in bed, staring at the ceiling while jess was asleep in the other bed.
you glanced at the time and winced when it said 1:40am.
but still you found yourself hitting mat’s contact.
“hello?” there was a loud bass sound on the other end, but he picked up after two rings.
you glanced at jess before walking outside in the hallway. “hey,” you said.
“what’s up? you okay?” it was music in the background, you figured out. probably some top 40 hit you hadn't heard because no one listens to the radio anymore.
you hummed and got on the elevator to head down to the lobby. “i’m fine.”
“then why're you calling me when you should be asleep? don’t you have a game tomorrow?”
“i think i’m gonna break up with peter.” you blurted out.
mat choked, the loud bass noises got quieter, like he'd walked into a hallway or outside. “you're what? what brought this on?”
“my mom and jess talked to me about it.” you sat in a chair in the lobby, your leg bouncing. “made me think that maybe peter is the wrong guy every time.”
“twitch i—”
“mat? are you coming back in? is everything okay?” grace. you would know her voice anywhere, it felt like.
“yeah i’ll be there in a sec, grace.” he cleared his throat. “listen twitch, i gotta go. let me know how that conversation goes, and good luck at your game. you're gonna do great.”
“no, yeah,” you said. “thanks mat, have fun.”
when he hung up, you continued to sit in that lobby, watching as couples stumbled in from the cold, giggling, drunk, and holding hands. you tried to remember a time where you'd been that happy holding peter’s hand, or when you'd ever been that giggly around him.
you couldn't think of a single instance.
you laughed when you were with him because you were funny. you smiled because you were having so much fun on the dates you planned.
as you made your way back up to your room, you took notice of the hollow sensation in your chest, the idea that it had all been for nothing, that you'd opened yourself up to more heartbreak in hopes that peter would be the one to make you fall in love.
you were in a canadian hotel hundreds of miles from home and mat was in a long island bar with grace.
and you weren't sure why it was that thought alone that kept you up all night.
when you finally made it back to new jersey, you wasted no time in going home and sending a text to peter.
you: we need to talk.
it didn't matter that it was nearly midnight. it didn't matter at all to you, because the truth was, while you were still young, you weren't going to waste any more time on a guy who was waiting for you to be someone you weren't.
you rehearsed a speech after morning skate the next day, trying to get your words right. yet when he came over with daisies in hand, the words fell out of your mouth.
“hey babe—”
“i want to break up.”
peter reeled back, the flowers he was holding out still in his hands, waiting for you to accept them. but the truth was:
you hated daisies.
“what?” he asked.
“i can't keep doing this anymore. i thought maybe this was our second chance, but maybe there shouldn't have been one at all.”
peter tossed the flowers on your coffee table and reached for you. “baby, you don't know what you're talking about. we work so well together.”
you took a step back. “do we? because you hardly come to my games, you don't even seem interested in them.”
he scoffed. “this again? i told you i’m busy—”
“doing what? happy hours with your douchebag friends from your douchebag job?” you ran your hand down your face. “god, we don't even care about each other’s passions!”
“passion? getting pieces of rubber flung at you is a passion?” he laughed. “that’s a hobby, you could be making so much more doing literally anything else.”
“it’s not about the money! i love hockey—”
“oh grow up! you’ll play hockey for what? another five years? and then what? you'll have to do what the rest of us do and find a real job.”
you stepped back again, his words striking a chord that hurt more than you anticipated. “we’re done,” you said, hoping your voice sounded stronger than you felt. “get out, and take those fuckass flowers with you.”
“baby—”
“no! stop! you don't get it and i’m done waiting around for you to understand hockey is it for me. i’m not gonna ‘grow up’ the way you think i need to. so just leave and find someone else willing to be what you want.”
peter gaped at you before he spun on his heel and slammed your front door shut.
the pictures on the wall rattled, but your hands and heart were steady.
guy four: ....?
there was no telling what his name was, you couldn't remember it to save your life. but his tongue was down your throat and his hands were wandering.
maybe this is what you were meant for, hookups and casual makeouts with random bartenders on their breaks.
you were halfway to second base when jess cleared her throat, snapping the two of you out of your heavy petting session.
“the manager sent me to tell you it’s time to get back to the bar,” she said, eyes at the guy you were making out with.
he nodded and, in a flash, had disappeared among the crowd.
“are you okay?” she asked, taking the place against the wall the bartender had occupied.
“yeah, why wouldn't i be?”
jess fixed you with a look that had you shrinking just a little. she knew that you knew why she was concerned. since the break up, you'd been on a bender of sorts, hooking up left and right. which, wasn't bad, but it seemed counterintuitive to falling in love.
“maybe it’s time we go home. do you need a ride?”
you shook your head, you'd only had one drink an hour ago. it wasn't liquor that made you make out with a stranger. “i think i’m gonna go to my parents’ place. i’ll see you tomorrow for practice?”
jess didn't look convinced.
“i’ll be okay, my parents’ house is like the safest place i could be.”
she nodded and hugged you tight to her chest. “i love you, twitch. text me when you get there.”
you hugged her back just as tightly. “i will.”
the drive itself was only an hour, could've been shorter if you were more reckless with your car, but seeing as you weren't a millionaire, you played it safe. that, and you didn't want to have to call your dad to come pick you up if you wrecked your car.
you pulled into the driveway, sighing at the familiarity of it all. it took only a matter of minutes for you to unlock the door and head upstairs to your childhood bedroom. you pulled out clothes you'd never taken to jersey and crawled into bed, letting the sleep take over.
when you made your way down the stairs the next morning, it was to the smell of chocolate chip pancakes and bacon.
“i knew i heard you come in last night, squirt,” your dad said before taking a sip of his coffee. “how was the game?”
you plopped down in your seat as your mom handed you a plate of pancakes and bacon. “i broke up with peter a few days ago.”
your parents, to their credit, didn't choke or show any sign that they were shocked. your dad took another sip of coffee and your mom took her seat at the table.
“how're you feeling?” your mom asked.
you shrugged. “i feel like i should be more upset that it’s over.”
“but?”
you sighed and cut a piece of pancake with your fork and shoved the piece in your mouth. “but i’m not. i guess i’m just disappointed that i wasted more time.”
“it’s not wasted,” your dad said. “did you learn something new about him or yourself?”
after a moment, you nodded, feeling like you were back in high school again.
“then it wasn’t wasted.”
“i thought it would be him. i stupidly thought the right guy would be in front of me the whole time like the movies. was it childish? sure, but i thought maybe it would be my turn.”
the whole conversation felt too intense for breakfast, but your parents weren't showing any signs of backing off.
“maybe the right guy still is,” your mom said. “we all suck at looking for things when we think we’re running out of time.”
your dad chuckled. “i can’t tell you how many times we found the lucky socks on top of the pile of laundry in the corner of your room after you said you lost them.” he reached across the table and squeezed your hand in his. “you have time to figure it out, squirt. why rush?”
why rush, indeed.
the next few days passed by in a monotonous montage. your social life was suffering and you hadn't heard from mat since the roadie when you called him. part of you was ashamed for bothering him when he was out with grace, but another part was overwhelmed with the idea that maybe your friendship was over.
he'd probably fallen in love first, he probably won the bet.
and for some reason, the thought made your stomach sink.
he was probably holding hands with grace and kissing her after games and bringing her favorite flowers because he took time to know that stuff. he probably opened doors for her and made her walk on the inside of sidewalk. he was probably on the road to falling in love with grace because she was perfect.
meanwhile, there you were, thinking peter was your ticket to a happily ever after like you'd dreamt of when you first watched sleeping beauty as a child. but he was just a guy, a guy who couldn't remember your coffee order or work schedule, a guy who expected you to be at his beck and call when he needed you, a guy who wanted you as arm candy while he waited for you to get a clue and grow up.
a guy you'd wasted time on for reasons unknown to you.
maybe it was loneliness, or a desperate need to be chosen by someone other than your parents, to be someone’s first priority, you weren't sure. it could've been any or all of those things.e all you knew now was you spent too much of your youth on him, you weren't spending anymore thinking about him.
you were laying in a vegetative state on your couch, watching reruns of temptation island when your phone vibrated next to you.
mat: hey! long time no see. are you busy tonight?
you blinked, but your fingers were moving faster before your brain could fully process what was happening.
you: nope! not at all
mat: cool. wanna come to the game tonight?
you blinked.
you: really?
mat: yeah. haven't seen you in a minute. i'd like to see you tonight. maybe catch up after the game?
you: sure!
you drove the hour to your parents’ place who were out of town for spring break. you parked in their driveway and started walking to ubs like you'd always done, this time alone.
mat texted you earlier to let you know that grace would have the passes to the locker room, to just follow her lead.
she was all soft smiles when you met up with her, greeting you kindly. her eyes looked over your shoulder, furrowing when she didn't see something, you guessed.
“where’s peter?” she asked. “was he busy tonight?”
“oh,” you laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck. “we broke up. so i don’t know where he is...”
grace’s smile faltered. “oh,” she said.
interpreting her fading smile as sympathy, you shrugged to diffuse the tension. “yeah but it’s fine, we weren't a good fit anyway. he didn't understand how important hockey is to me.” you sighed and looked around at the fans walking inside. “how're you and mat doing?”
you meant the question to be conversational, but when grace’s face twisted up, you realized you may have overstepped, though you couldn't figure out why.
“things are...fine,” she said. “we should go sit down.”
you followed her lead to the seats, recognizing a few of the kids and wives mat had talked about before. however, you didn't wave, knowing good and well they probably had no idea who you were. nonetheless, the kids were cute.
over the course of the game, you tried to talk to grace as much as possible. you asked about her work (she works for a nonprofit helping disenfranchised students graduate high school) and complimented her outfit, yet she still seemed distant. there was a look in her eye that didn't quite match the energy you were giving her.
it didn't make much sense either when you followed her down to the locker room. she was quiet then too, which was odd, considering the isles won. thankfully, there wasn't much time to dwell on it because a brown haired woman came over and introduced herself.
“i’m holly,” she said. “i know grace, but i haven't met you yet.” and had anyone else said it, you might have felt insecure or out of place, but holly said it with such inviting warmth that you told her your name.
“but most people just call me twitch,” you admitted.
almost immediately she smirked with a knowing look in her eye. you weren't sure the cause. what could she possibly know just from a nickname?
“it’s nice to finally put a name with a face,” she said. in certain lighting, it looked like she wanted to say more until she realized grace was still there.
mat came out all smiles a beat later, his eyes widening slightly when he saw you talking to holly. he walked over and greeted grace first, kissing her sweetly, if you had to describe it (even if the thought made your stomach turn).
mat hugged you next, squeezing you tightly, before moving on to hug holly.
“so,” he smiled. “what’d you think?”
“it was fun,” grace said quietly.
mat’s eyes landed on you, something you only knew because you were already staring at him. “you need to shoot the puck more. you’re playing hockey, not ping pong,” you stated. “assists are good, but so are goals.”
he rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “a ‘good job, mat’ would've sufficed, you know.”
you laughed to yourself. “maybe, but your ego is big enough as it is.” then, a realization that grace was standing there, you cleared your throat. “besides, i’ll leave it to grace to inflate your ego. as your friend, i’m here to keep you humble.”
you glanced at grace who sent you a grateful smile.
mat wrapped his arm around his girlfriend’s waist and nodded at holly as she excused herself. his attention was drawn to the locker rooms as more of his teammates exited. your eyes were drawn to a tall man just now leaving. he glanced in your direction, waved at mat, and walked towards the parking garage.
you blinked once. twice. and turned to mat. “i need you to set me up with him.”
mat choked. “what?”
“duclair, your teammate, i need you to set me up with him.”
mat blinked, then clenched his jaw and shook his head. “no.”
taken aback, you asked, “why? do you think it’d be a bad idea? is he a douchebag?”
“no.”
“then why?”
mat sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “do you need a ride to your parents’ house?”
“nope!” you popped the p. “i’m gonna walk back.”
mat immediately shook his head. “not happening. i’ll give you a ride.”
“it’s really not that big of a deal, i’m sure you and grace want to go out somewhere and celebrate—”
grace cut in. “let us get you home,” she said. “it’s not safe to be walking alone this late at night.”
you acquiesced and followed mat and grace to his car. the ride was quiet, silent except for the soft notes of a justin bieber song playing in the background. from your seat in the back, you saw mat reach to grab grace’s hand and watched in confusion as she moved out of his reach. your stomach twisted when you saw the frown on his face, so you looked away quickly to get rid of the sensation.
mat pulled up to your parents’ house and parked in the driveway.
“thanks,” you said quietly. “for the game and driving me home.” you turned your focus to grace, who was staring out of the passenger window. “it was nice seeing you, grace.”
she managed to turn over her shoulder and give you a slight smile. “you too.”
“let me walk you to the door,” mat said. you tried to protest, but he was already halfway out of the car before you could say anything.
“i’ll see you later,” you said to grace before hopping out of the car into the cold air. mat walked by your side to the front door and waited for you to pull your keys out before he said anything.
“thank you for coming tonight,” he said. “it was nice, seeing you there, after weeks of not seeing you.”
you smiled because you just couldn't help it, not when he looked so sincere. “anytime, mat.”
he reached for you, pulling you into another tight hug. “i’ll text you?” he asked.
“let me know when you get home.”
he nodded and pulled away. “i will.”
guy five: anthony
with the isles clinching a spot in the playoffs, you weren't fully expecting mat to text you any time soon. you'd kept up with his games enough to know he was playing well. and part of you felt smug that maybe he'd taken your words at his last game to heart.
you: congrats on clinching!
you started cleaning your apartment before you left to go to elmont. with the pwhl international break in full force, you were planning on taking advantage of your parents’ groceries and living situation. maybe you'd convince your parents to take off work and spend time with you, maybe you'd drive out to the hamptons or maybe see your cousin in connecticut, but you weren't going to skip town without cleaning first.
you’d just vacuumed the living room rug when your phone rang.
mat’s name appeared on your home screen.
“hello?” you answered.
“hey! you busy tonight?”
“just headed up to see my parents. it’s the first week of the international break, so i figured i’d go spend some time with them.”
“when are you leaving?”
“as soon as i finish packing.”
“would you wanna come over when you get into town?”
“s-sure, is grace gonna be there? i don't wanna overstep—”
“we broke up.”
you nearly dropped the phone. “w-what?”
his sigh echoed through the receiver. “yeah...it’s a long story. i’ll text you my address.”
clothes were being thrown into a duffel bag. you had no idea if they even matched, you just knew you needed to get out of jersey as soon as possible.
“i’m leaving! i’ll be in town in about an hour?”
truthfully, the drive was the longest drive you'd ever taken. sure, you'd shaved off two minutes from your maniacal driving, but it wasn't fast enough. you wanted to know what happened, why they broke up—
why your heart was leaping in your chest at the revelation.
you arrived at mat’s place, a house in the suburbs, a house much nicer than the one you grew up in, which made sense considering the salary difference.
mat was leaned up against the doorframe of his front door as you pulled into the driveway. you were hopping out of the car as soon as you threw it in park.
“turn your car off, doofus!” he called with a hand framing his mouth.
heat rushed to your face as you reached back into the car to cut off the ignition. “whoops,” you said.
mat came down the stairs of his porch and grabbed your duffel bag from your hands. your eyes must've widened because he nudged you. “relax, you're not moving in, but i don't think it’s smart for you to leave your stuff in the car.”
you rolled your eyes. “this is the bougiest neighborhood around, mat.”
“and? where’s your wallet?”
your eyes widened as you went back to your car, digging around in your center console before pulling out a bundle of cards wrapped together with a hair tie. “here!” you held it up like it was a trophy, something to be proud of.
mat blinked. “you can't be serious.”
“what do you mean?”
he gestured to your hand. “you’re joking right? that’s not a wallet.”
“it’s fine! it works for me!” you waved it around before mat snatched it out of the air and started towards his front door. “hey come back with that!”
“you're not carrying your important information out in the open and tied together with a hair tie, that’s ridiculous.”
you followed him inside and watched as he placed your duffel bag on the ground in the entryway. you continued to follow him into the common area and towards a table with drawers.
“here,” he said, handing you a worn leather wallet out of one of the aforementioned drawers. “take this.”
“i can't take this,” you replied.
“sure you can, i’m not using it, so take it.”
you scrunched your nose up. “but it’s ugly.”
mat ran a hand down his face and sighed. “cards tied together with a hair tie is ugly. now take the damn wallet.”
you crossed your arms and refused to move. “no. i don’t want an ugly wallet.”
“it’s pure leather.”
“and it’s ugly.”
mat looked at you, with something akin to fondness and maybe a little of something else you couldn't place. and when he smiled the bright smile no one had been able to replicate, you took the wallet.
you studied the worn brown leather. maybe it was the lack of eye contact that gave you the courage to ask the question on the tip of your tongue since that morning. “why'd you and grace break up?”
mat cleared his throat. “want something to drink? i’m a little parched.” without saying another word, he walked towards what you assumed was his kitchen.
you followed, because of course you did. you watched as his t-shirt stretched over his back muscles and shoulders as he filled a cup with iced water. “are you gonna answer the question?”
he sighed and turned around, taking a sip of water in the process. “it just wasn't working.”
“but you seemed so happy!”
he shrugged. “she wasn't.” you waited for him to continue, but he didn't.
“are you okay?”
“i’m fine. wanna go sit?” he gestured towards the lush couches in the living room.
“are you gonna answer any of my questions directly?” you asked, following him and plopping on the couch only after he did it first.
mat sighed. “i don't know, i feel like i was so close to having what my teammates have.”
you nodded along, pulling your feet up onto the ottoman. “i get that. sometimes i think there's something fundamentally wrong with me, that's why no one stays.” mat froze next to you, even as you let out a bitter laugh. “i mean, i broke things off with all of the other guys but maybe i’m just not built for this—”
“there's nothing wrong with you,” he said with a certainty you wished you possessed.
you blinked. “huh?”
“there’s nothing wrong with you.” mat looked at his feet, propped up next to your own. “even if a genie gave me a wish, i wouldn't change a single thing about you.” there was something so childish about it that stuck with you, but not childish in a bad way, childish in the innocent sense. he said it with the same conviction as a little kid who still believed in santa claus. you couldn't help it, you looked at him, waiting for his eyes to meet your own. when he did, he gave you a small smile, before it evolved into a smirk. “even if you can't peel your oranges.”
you rolled your eyes and shoved his shoulder. “asshole. at least i can stay on my feet on the ice.”
mat made an indignant noise. “that’s not fair! you hardly ever skate as fast as i do.”
you continued on like you didn't hear him. “all i know is the only times i end up on my ass during a game is because someone knocks into me.”
mat ignored your comment and reached for the remote by your feet. he pushed your feet off the ottoman and laughed when you yelped.
“you’re such a dick! i was comfortable!”
“that's what you get for being mean.” he tossed you the remote and hopped off the couch, heading back to the kitchen. “what’ve you been watching lately?” he asked from the other room.
“temptation island mostly!” you called back. “it’s trashy but—”
mat hopped over the back of the couch and landed next to you. “god i love temptation island.” he handed you a freshly peeled orange. “want one?”
there was no telling how long you'd stayed at mat’s place, or how many episodes that equated to. hell, it wasn't until mat woke you up that you'd realized you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder.
“hey,” he nudged you gently. “it’s like 9pm and all you've had since you got here was an orange. do you wanna order in?”
you inhaled and rubbed at your eyes, not realizing that the sun had set long ago. last you remembered it wasn't even six o’clock. granted, you didn't even remember falling asleep either, so who could really trust your memory?
you motioned to your phone which had made its way to the ottoman, though you couldn't remember ever placing it there...
mat grabbed it for you and winced when he saw the missed calls from your parents.
a slew of texts accompanied the missed calls, most asking where you were, if you were safe, if something had happened. one text from your dad said he was close to calling the cops, (a joke if you'd ever heard one, your dad didn't trust cops).
“i should probably get home before they send out a search party...” you were too busy messing with your phone to pull up your mom’s contact to notice the way mat’s face dropped.
“what're you doing tomorrow?” he asked, the words falling out of his mouth.
you stopped texting your mom to look at the way he waited for your answer, the way he seemed to hang onto the next words to leave your mouth. “i don't think i have anything going on...”
“come to my game?”
and when he looked at you like that, how could you say no?
the drive back to your parents’ house wasn't by any means long, but there was a longing in your heart you didn't recognize, like an invisible string was attached to mat’s house and the farther you got from him, the more unsettled you became.
you just didn't know why.
“where were you?” your dad asked the second you unlocked the front door.
“mat’s,” you said simply, missing the way your parents’ eyes widened while you locked the door behind you. however, you turned around just in time to see the smirks adorning their lips.
“oh?” your mom said, an odd tone in her voice. “and how is he doing?”
“he’s fine. i’m going to his game tomorrow.”
your mom’s eyebrows rose. “against the devils?”
“yep.”
“that's an intense game to go to,” your dad commented. “do you have anything to wear?”
you blinked and moved towards the kitchen. “what? is this an interrogation? i’m probably just gonna wear a sweatshirt and jeans, dad. it’s a game.”
your dad threw his hands up and did his best to look innocent. “just asking a question, squirt. how’s he feeling about their chances tomorrow?”
you shrugged yet again and opened the fridge. “we didn't talk about hockey.” your eyes searched the shelves in hopes of something that wouldn't require anything more than 90 seconds in the microwave. all you saw was lunchmeat and a giant ass block of cheese.
guess you'd have cereal for dinner.
“well, you were over there for a long time, what did you talk about, if not hockey?” your mom asked.
you turned around and scrutinized your parents, both of whom were on the literal edge of their seats. for once, your dad wasn't reclined in his chair with a newspaper and his readers on. his elbows were braced on his knees. and your mom wasn't working on sudoku like she usually did.
they both stared at you in a way you couldn't remember seeing before. “what're you two getting at? we just talked. mat and grace broke up and so we talked about that. and then we watched temptation island because mat hadn't seen the newest season.”
you cleared your throat when neither parent had anything to add. “and if that’s all, i’m gonna go shower.”
“tomorrow, tell mat we said hi!” your mom called up the stairs.
because you were a good daughter, you, in fact, called mat when you got to the arena the next day to relay your mother’s message.
“tell her i said hi back,” he laughed into the phone. it was rich and deep and flooded your stomach with a weird sensation you hadn't felt before. “speaking of, did she send the shirt with you?”
you adjusted the gift bag in your arms. your mother gave you strict instructions not to peek, so despite the fact that you wanted to, you respected her orders for once.
“i’ve got it in a gift bag, but i don’t think i’ll be able to take it in.”
“you didn't drive, did you?”
“mat, you've been to my parents’ house. you know i walk.”
a shuffling sound was heard on the other end. “hold on a sec, i’ll meet you outside.”
“you don't have to—”
“i’m not risking you taking a peek at the shirt. just give me five minutes to send an intern or someone to meet you.”
“you don't trust me?”
“not at all,” he said without an ounce of hesitation. “not with this.”
you huffed, but conceded. again, it was only the respect you had for your mother that kept you from looking at the shirt she made for mat. there was only one thing that could be on it. there was no doubt it was a baby picture of you, the real question was though, which embarrassing photo did mat pick?
before you could even go down that rabbit hole, a young woman was rushing out and meeting you by the entrance.
“hi,” she said, slightly out of breath. “you had something for mr. barzal?”
you almost laughed at the formality of his name, but you managed to hold it back. “yes,” you said and held out the gift bag to her. “i think my mom put some brownies in there for him, but i wasn’t allowed to peek so i can’t say one way or the other.”
she nodded but looked at you like you were speaking another language. “anything else i should tell him?” she asked.
you shook your head. “nope. that’s all.”
in a flash, she was gone again, leaving you standing by the entrance of ubs, waiting for the doors to open. there was a small part of you that regretted walking simply because it meant you had nowhere to go until the game started, but then you remembered the expensive ass parking and walking sounded like a better option.
at least it hadn't rained.
when the doors opened, you were one of many people heading straight towards your seats. you didn't make enough money to justify spending money on stadium food, but you were most definitely treating yourself to a soft pretzel anyway. so what if it was a little early, you were hungry and there was nothing like a soft pretzel while waiting for a hockey game to start.
by the time you made it to your seat, most of the wags were already there. mat warned you ahead of time where your seat would be, and it didn't seem like that big of an issue at the time. but standing among them now seemed a little daunting.
until you saw holly.
“hey!” she smiled, one arm holding her daughter on her hip, the other hand holding her son’s. “mat told me you were coming!”
you blinked. “he did?”
holly nodded. “it’s good to see you again. you picked a good game to come to.”
“it’s not quite the battle of new york, but i’m happy to be here either way.” with a quick glance around the arena, it was clear that seats were filling fast. it would be packed in no time.
you were glad you got your soft pretzel when you did. you took a bite as holly led you to your seat which was conveniently next to hers. you put a reminder in your phone to thank mat whenever you saw him next.
seeing him next happened sooner than you expected because as soon as he came out onto the ice, after doing a few laps, he skated in your general direction.
there was no legitimate reason why your stomach should've flipped when he bent down and waved at holly’s kids, or why your knees got a little weak when he threw a puck over the glass for a stranger.
he stopped in front of you this time, and smiled so big you swore you could see his molars. that, you'd decided in that very moment, was your favorite smile of his. some people, you thought, looked crazy or insane when they cackled like mat did, but it wasn't like that with him. the way mat laughed, smiled, snarked, and smirked made your insides do somersaults.
you'd never felt like this with any of your other friends. maybe it was a feeling reserved for friendship with guys instead?
mat knocked on the glass in front of you and smiled before he skated back to finish his warm ups.
your cheeks felt warm whenever the two of you made eye contact, and you couldn't figure out why. you especially didn't know why holly kept looking at you out of the corner of her eye and then proceed to smile lightly.
it didn't make sense. but you didn't dwell on it either.
the game started shortly thereafter and it was electrifying. the crowd was screaming, yelling, banging on the glass. one guy a few rows over called jack hughes a bitch as he was crosschecked into the boards.
what a time to be alive.
you were almost positive you'd be hoarse and your ears would be ringing for the rest of the night.
once mat scored a goal and you shot out of your seat, you were well on your way to not speaking for the rest of the week. you'd have to apologize to your team later. maybe your mom could make a warm cup of tea for you when you got home to help mitigate the consequences of your excitement.
mat scored again two minutes later, crouching down low and yelling while shaking his fists like he always did for a celly.
right before the end of the third, mat scored again. hats rained down from all parts of the arena. mat’s smile was wider than you'd seen it. there were tears forming in your eyes, joy afresh in your bones.
he'd deserved this, was all you could think about.
he'd deserved it all.
you walked with holly down to the locker rooms and spent time chatting with her. though, if you were being honest, you were just buying time until mat came out.
he didn't leave you waiting for long. he walked out, wet hair, suit on, and smiling. his eyes lit up when he saw you with holly.
your legs were moving towards him before you even registered what was happening. your arms wrapped themselves around his neck, breathing in his body wash. “i’m so proud of you,” you mumbled into his shoulder. “this is so exciting.”
he squeezed you back just as tightly. “thank you for being here.”
you pulled back as much as he would allow and smiled. “wouldn't wanna be anywhere else.”
there was no telling how long the two of you stood like that until the eye contact grew intense and had you stepping back.
a hand clapped mat on the shoulder. your eyes followed the lines of his arm until they landed on anthony duclair’s face.
“good game tonight, barzy,” he said before nodding at you and turning on his heel and walking away.
as soon as duclair was out of earshot, you turned to mat. “i want his number.”
mat’s jaw clenched. “no.”
“why not?”
“no.”
“mat, that's not an answer.”
he hitched his bag over his shoulder. “are you coming over?”
while you wanted to press him more, standing outside of the locker room was not the place to do it, so you nodded and let him guide you to the parking lot. he placed a hand ghosting over your lower back.
and if you’d walked slower just to keep his hand on you, who could blame you?
the car ride was quiet except for the music playing softly over the speakers. mat’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel when they weren't too busy white knuckling the leather.
he didn't say anything when he pulled his car into the garage either. you just followed him inside and attempted to wait for him to say something. but when the silence became deafening, you spoke up.
“mat, what’s going on? you haven't said a word since we left the arena, which, might i add, is unusual given how you're a top tier yapper any other time—”
“i don't get it,” he started, cutting your rambling short. “i had a hat trick tonight and you still want to date my teammate. what do i need to do to win you over? to give us a shot?”
you blinked like he was speaking a different language. what the fuck was he talking about? “i don't know what you mean.”
he ran a hand down his face and sighed. “c’mon twitch, you’re smart. you have to know by now.” mat reaches for his game day bag and pulls out the gift bag you gave the intern earlier in the evening. “this,” he said. “this is what i mean.” he tossed the bag to you, which you caught with ease. “open it.”
“mat, this is for you,” you explained slowly. “my mom said you wanted a shirt—”
“look at it,” he said. “i already know what’s on it. i picked out the picture myself.”
you looked at him with his hands on his hips shifting his weight from side to side. even before rivalry games, before his dates with other girls, you'd never seen him this antsy. you'd do anything to keep him from looking like that, so you pulled the shirt out of the bag and let it unravel as the bag fell to your feet.
and unravel it did.
the picture rendered you speechless. when mat was taking photos on his phone all those weeks ago (or was it months? you could barely remember a time when mat wasn’t in your life at that point. time ceased to matter when you were around him.), you assumed it was the photo of you in your amish outfit holding a candlestick next to your aunt’s antique butter churner. but it wasn’t. no, the picture wasn’t anything goofy or humiliating like you were anticipating.
you were six and missing one front tooth. there were two braids resting on your shoulders. you wore a pair of cinderella plastic high heels. but none of those things caught your attention.
it was the adult new york islanders jersey you were wearing that caught your attention. the jersey was your dad’s and came down to your ankles, but that wasn't the reason you were transfixed.
it was claude lapointe’s jersey.
the number 13 on the sleeve felt like a brand.
you scrutinized the image a moment more before looking up at him. “why this photo?”
mat looked at you, his eyes softening just a little. “don't play dumb, twitch. you know why.”
“if this is about the bet, mat—”
“—who cares about the bet? i don’t even remember the bet! i just know that if you’re gonna date a hockey player, i want it to be me.”
any oxygen left in your lungs suddenly disappeared. you couldn't breathe, couldn't think. there was no way this was real.
“...what?” you squeaked out. “mat what’re you..huh?” you took a step back, the shirt dropping to the floor.
he gestured to the shirt. “i don't remember what the bet was about, i don't remember what i’d get if i won. and i don’t care. because all i want is you.” mat took a step towards you and scooped the shirt off the ground. “i’m not giving duclair your number because if you’re gonna date an islander, i want it to be me.”
“me?” you pointed to yourself.
he laughed just enough to crack a smile. “who else?” mat took another step closer, the distance between you two ever shrinking. “i just want to be enough for you, i want to peel every orange, and buy bags of starbursts to look for red ones. i want to carry your goalie bag after your shut outs and when you give up seven points. i want to see you wear my jersey. i want to wear yours. i want...”
his words faded out as a memory took over your brain.
“it’s time for you to start carrying your own goalie bag and peeling your oranges, now.
draft day seemed so long ago when your dad said it. but standing in mat’s living room felt like that same level of euphoria, a high you'd been chasing since being drafted to the sirens.
in college, you would've scoffed at the idea of some guy confessing feelings for you feeling as important as your draft day. but he wasn't just some guy, was he?
he was mat.
and mat had always been different.
“i know you said you don’t hook up with hockey players, but would you consider dating one?” mat asked, still shifting his weight, looking more unsure than you'd ever seen, even when he went against the rangers a few weeks ago.
“you don’t think i’m weird?” you asked.
he smiled. “i think you're the weirdest girl i know. and i love it.” mat cleared his throat and shifted again. “i love you.”
there was no helping the smile lighting up your face as you closed the distance between your bodies. “even if i sleep with socks on?”
mat reached out and hooked his thumbs in your belt loops, pulling you closer until you nearly went cross eyed trying to maintain eye contact. “mhm,” he hummed.
“even if my wallet is a hair tie holding all my cards together?”
“i thought i gave you one—” he cut himself off and shook his head. “yes, even that.”
“what about—”
“twitch, there's nothing you could do to change my mind. i love you, quirks and all.”
you couldn't stop the smile on your face. “you love me.” a statement, no questions.
“i love you,” he said before clearing his throat. “do you—”
you stood on your toes and pressed your lips to his. you'd kissed a number boys in your lifetime, but nothing could compare to mat. not the way his arms circled your waist and brought you closer. not the way his nose bumped into yours, and certainly not the way he moaned into your mouth that sent shivers down your spine.
“i love you, mat.”
and that smile, that grin you loved so much made another appearance. it made your stomach flip like it always did when you realized you were the cause of his happiness.
“wait,” you said. “who wins the bet?”
mat rolled his eyes and pulled you impossibly closer. “who gives a fuck?”
“i do! i want to win.”
mat rolled his eyes but there was no mistaking the smile still on his lips. “you won. i’ll peel your oranges for as long as we’re both alive as long as you're mine.”
and you couldn't stop the grin appearing on your face, the kind of grin that made your eyes scrunch up.
author's note: this is a little all over the place, but i saw a tiktok edit of seven by taylor swfit and then thought to myself, what if i ignore all my wips and wrote childhood friends to lovers with a hint of childhood trauma? and this was born. and if the timeline isn't perfect with reality, oh well. i'm but a human girl. also!! if you have ever experienced or currently experiencing abuse, please know that it was never your fault. you don't deserve to be treated that way.
pairing: mat barzal x reader
summary: wherever mat went, you were never too far behind or the one where you are childhood besties
warnings: cursing (as always), mentions of parental abuse and alcholism, tumultuous childhood, drinking, mentions of sex
there was a saying that floated around in your elementary, middle, and high school days, surrounding you like a warm oversized cardigan.
wherever mat went, you were never too far behind.
the saying could also be flipped, the two of you stuck to each other like glue.
mat, despite not being one for fights, had a bad habit of running his mouth whenever you were concerned. in fourth grade, he used newly learned vocabulary words to berate a girl who made fun of your beat up shoes and nearly got detention for it.
and you had a nasty habit of squaring up with anyone who looked at mat wrong, even if they towered over you.
your friendship worked well because of it.
age eight
you could remember summer days swimming in the pool with mat and liana, laughing as you and mat teamed up against his little sister until his mother scolded the two of you when she started crying.
but there was always a darkness that sat in the corners of your memories like fingerprints that had damaged an old photograph.
you didn't have to try to remember your parents' screaming and yelling at each other, just like you didn't have to try to recall the smell of alcohol on your father's breath. it didn't take any effort to remember the way your hands shook when you locked your room at night and climbed out of a second story window to go to mat's.
you could feel the splinters digging into your fingertips as you climbed the trellis up to his window. you could still feel the way your stomach dropped when you slipped and fell halfway up in the pouring rain, nearly breaking your arm in the process. you could still hear nadia come out and usher you inside moments before mat's eight year old feet came pattering down the stairs.
he didn't even give you time to explain, he just wrapped you up in a hug.
it took you that long to understand it was never raining, it was just tears.
the next week, you found yourselves at the park laying on your backs in the grass.
"what would you do if a genie gave you one wish?" mat asked out of the blue.
the summer sun kept you warm as the breeze kept sweeping in and blowing strands of hair into your face.
"get far away from here."
"would you bring me?" mat asked.
you turned your head to look at him only to find him already staring. "i wouldn't go anywhere without you." and you meant every word, spoke them with as much conviction as an eight year old could have.
mat reached out and squeezed your hand in his own.
"what would you wish for?"
he shrugged. "to be bigger."
you furrowed your brow. "why bigger?"
"so i could protect you better."
age nine
at nine, you and mat were playing cards in your room when the front door slammed. it was like you were on autopilot. of all the times that had happened, mat was never home with you. immediately, you were locking your door and shoving things in your backpack, pulling mat towards the window and climbing out as quickly as you could. the two of you ran to your bikes and biked all the way to an empty field where you collapsed in the tall grass and cried.
mat immediately brought you into his arms, hushing you and running his hand down your braids.
"what if--" he started stopped abruptly to clear his throat. "what if you stayed with me and liana and mom and dad? we could get bunk beds and a night light, if you want, and you wouldn't have to lock the door."
you just sobbed harder into his chest and shook your head.
it's not that simple, you wanted to tell him. but i wish it was.
age thirteen
you never moved in with mat, never got to get the bunk beds, but by middle school, your mom moved the two of you out of your old house. it was then that he started packing two lunches, one for you and another for himself.
things hadn't changed much since leaving your dad in that shitty house full of demons. you still spent most of your time at mat's house (your mom was working). still spent your saturdays going to his tournaments and games. you still cheered him on and let him cheat off your homework on sunday nights.
things shifted though, regardless if you wanted them to change or not. time, you found, never gave a shit about your opinion, thoughts, or desires.
because it felt like just yesterday, you were riding your bikes down the street, racing each other back home.
now, you were helping mat draft msn messages to a girl he had a crush on in your biology class. there was an uncomfortable sensation in your stomach that was comparable to the time you got food poisoning, but you couldn't place a reason for it.
you could paint the pink on his cheeks as the girl replied.
and you would've given anything to be the reason for it.
maybe it was silly, a small crush for the sheer convenience of it all. maybe it was the fact that he'd saved you so many times from the darkness that always seemed to follow you. maybe it was because he was a tether for you, pulling you back when you went too far in your head.
so when he laughed at something she said (which wasn't even really funny), you wanted to go back to the times the two of you would cloud gaze in the middle of the day just so you wouldn't have to be home.
age fifteen
you knew mat was a kind person, knew he was handsome and a good hockey player, that was never in question.
you just didn't realize other girls realized it too.
mat always walked in front of you in the hallways because he could make way through the crowds in ways you couldn't. (he grew like a weed over the summer and while you hated how you couldn't reach things when he held them above his head, you appreciated the way crowds moved out of the way for him).
you were used to him being in front, his grip light on your wrist as he tugged you behind him. you weren't used to walking behind his new girlfriend, chloe, who had the honor of walking beside him.
mat used to tell you how much it irritated him that people would take up so much space in the hallway and make it impossible to move around them.
but there you were, an awkward moving triangle of your best friend, his girlfriend, and you trailing pathetically behind.
chloe was cool. she never felt threatened by your friendship with mat, which might've hurt your feelings if you were delusional. you knew you had no chance with mat, so you'd take him in whatever form you could get him.
lately, that looked like spending time with liana in the stands at mat's tournaments. you would both do your homework before dissolving into gossip sessions while you braided her hair.
chloe even showed up for some games, smiling and cheering as he played. at one game, he scored and came up and tapped the glass in front of you, pointing at you and smiling.
they broke up two weeks later.
age sixteen
you openly cried when mat left for seattle. you were used to times when mat had hockey camps and would be gone for two weeks, a month at a time. but he would be gone indefinitely now.
and leading up to the day he was leaving, you thought it would be harder on you, considering mat hadn't shown anything but excitement. but when it came time for him to leave, he wouldn't let you go.
both of your moms had to pry you apart with promises that he would call and text as soon as he got to seattle.
and he did.
he hadn't even gotten into his new home when he was facetiming you.
you did your best to smile as he showed you around his new place, but your eyes were watering still. he was indefinitely two and a half hours away from you.
"you okay?" he asked when you stopped responding.
you gave him your best smile, but knew he wouldn't buy it. "just miss you is all."
he nodded, eyes going blank for a second before you saw water appear in them. mat wasn't as emotional as you were, and he for sure wasn't as teary eyed as he used to be when you still lived with your dad, but his eyes were watering all the same. "let's just treat it like summer camp," he said. "i'll be back before you know it, and if you need something, you can always call me."
you had no intentions of calling him with your problems, but then your dad showed up at your house screaming and beating the door and calling for your mother while she was at work. the doors were locked, he had no way in, and the police were on the way, but your hands were still shaking.
you couldn't run to his house to hug him anymore.
so you called him sobbing.
he picked up on the second ring.
he was lounging in bed, playing call of duty or something like it. "hey--" he cut himself off and paused his game, jumping out of bed. "what's wrong?"
"my dad," you sobbed.
mat was back in coquitlam in three hours, holding you tight to his chest and rocking you back and forth. you were openly weeping into his shirt, clinging to him. you weren't gonna let him go, and mat wasn't willing to give you up either.
you and your mom spent the night at the barzal's, with her taking the guest room while nadia brought a twin mattress into mat's room under the pretense that you would sleep on it.
you didn't.
everyone knew that you got into mat's queen sized bed and clung to him all night long.
just like everyone pretended that mat wouldn't have to leave in two days to go back to seattle.
just like you pretended like you wouldn't absolutely shatter on impact the second he left your sight.
age nineteen
when mat was drafted to the islanders, you stopped breathing. sure, it was dramatic, but you only moved into vancouver for school.
mat was moving across the fucking continent.
but he came back to seattle, and for a moment, the world was right again.
until he went to new york full time.
and the full weight of his absence hit you like a damn eighteen wheeler.
you'd watch him on the tv, when you used to watch him live in much smaller stands. you used to use puff paint to make t-shirts with his name on it, now they were selling his jersey in the arena he played in.
he didn't pick up the phone as much as he used to. he would respond to your texts days later until you stopped texting him altogether.
you should've seen it coming, especially when you saw him hanging out with instagram models and going out to bars. were you really expecting him to sit at home and wait for you to call him with a panic attack?
you had to get a grip.
so you did.
you threw yourself into your studies, pretending you didn't know his game schedule or stats. and when a cute boy named thomas came along and took interest, you allowed him to get to know you better.
you told him you grew up in coquitlam, that you were an only child, and your favorite school subject growing up was english.
(you never told him that your favorite color was the shade of mat's eyes, that you haven't spoken to your dad since the night your mom left him, or that every night, you fall asleep to career highlights of the best friend you haven't spoken to in months).
you learned he was a business major, something that should've been a red flag, but you were so focused on proving to yourself that you could be loved, that you overlooked it.
you went on dates, had sex, made plans for the future, met each other's families.
but he never met the barzals, despite the fact that you could drive to their house blindfolded.
no, they felt like a precious secret. the world could have number 13, they could have the calder memorial trophy winner, but you would not allow them to have the little sister whose hair you braided, the mother who brought you inside after you wrecked her trellis, the father who covered your scraped knees with bandaids and neosporin when your biological one was drunk at 2pm.
you might have lost mat to the awful curse called distance, but you would not lose his family.
you couldn't afford to lose them too.
now thomas, you lost a month after you turned twenty when you found him balls deep in your freshman roommate.
you went back to your apartment and cried, because it hurt, but mainly because you realized how alone you were. you had no one to call other than your mom or liana. but liana didn't even know about thomas, and your mom was dating a new guy now.
your thumb hovered over mat's contact for five minutes before you locked your phone and just went to bed.
age twenty-three
you were single for a whole year before you met dawson. his brown eyes and salt and pepper hair captivated you.
you were hooked, despite the seven year age gap.
he gave you the number to a good psychologist to help you work through your past and was willing to listen to you talk about it or sit in silence when your therapy session was emotionally exhausting.
he remembered your favorite flowers and brought a bouquet of them to your college graduation and kissed you in front of your mom and the barzals (minus mat, but that was a given at that point).
and on your twenty-third birthday, he proposed.
you said yes while actively trying to forget the dreams you and mat had when you were six.
you were building a fort in his bedroom with thumbtacks and blankets and sheets you'd stolen from around his house. when the project was complete, the two of you found yourselves laying in it, staring up at the blanket canopy shoddily held up by thumbtacks pushed into the wall.
"do you wanna get married?" mat had asked randomly.
"only if i get to marry you," you replied.
mat smiled a toothy grin, it was the only time you remembered him having imperfect teeth, given that he'd just lost his two front teeth. "i thought the same thing!"
and it was the most honest you had ever been. though, that wasn't a strange concept, most people were the most honest when they were either children or drunk. and considering you stayed far away from alcohol (guided by the anxiety in your stomach and the advice of your therapist), your childhood memories held the most truth.
despite not having seen him in years, you still thought of him often. you tried to see if you could remember the sound of his laugh without looking up an interview. you tried to recall the way his hair felt through your fingers.
but you couldn't.
it was crazy how much he meant to you as a child, how you still remembered the order in which he ate his breakfast, but you hadn't spoken to him in years.
you found yourself sobbing at the kitchen table one night as you poured over who to invite to the wedding. liana was a bridesmaid, mike and nadia had to be invited.
but what about mat?
you felt sick to your stomach at not inviting him. when you were in high school, when you'd gotten a grip on reality, you believed he'd walk you down the aisle in lieu of your piece of shit father.
but you hadn't spoken to him in so long.
though you couldn't imagine which would suck worse, not inviting him, or mat rejecting the invitation.
that was how dawson found you, sobbing over photos from your childhood that you wouldn't let him see. and when you tried to talk to him about it, he suggested talking to your therapist.
he broke off the engagement two weeks later. he said he didn't feel "the spark" anymore.
age twenty-four
you'd been out of college for two years now and all you had to show for it was debt and a stupid piece of paper. you were working in a coffee shop ten minutes from your mom's house and wishing you could've gotten out of coquitlam like mat did.
maybe this was your cursed existence, going to the grocery store wondering if you were going to ever run into your father again.
you'd just gotten off your shift at the coffee shop when you stopped by your local grocery store to pick some things up for dinner. it was supposed to be a normal day, but you turned the corner out of an aisle and damn near ran into someone.
"sorry, my bad--"
you looked up and suddenly the earth stopped in its rotation. you hadn't seen in him years but you'd know him blind.
his hands were around your elbows, keeping you upright. his touch almost burned you. it was an uncomfortable feeling, like putting on jeans you loved and realizing they don't fit anymore.
you pulled away, ducked your head, and started walking the opposite direction without another word.
but you should've known he would follow you, like a moth to a flame. or maybe that wasn't the right analogy, you were used to being the bug while mat was the light of your life.
but he followed you like there was a string attached to your wrists and he wasn't used to you pulling in an opposite direction.
he managed to catch up to you in the self care aisle right in front of the menstrual products. any other man you'd known would've shied away from standing in front of the tampons and pads as you deliberated which products to get, but mat's eyes wouldn't even leave your face.
you should've known he was going to come back eventually. you'd avoided seeing him in the offseason pretty well considering you were off doing internships and working out of town in the summer.
but now you were stuck in a dead end job with no passion for anything anymore, feeling more alone than you had ever felt before.
and because nature or god or the universe hated you, naturally, that was when mat showed back up.
when you had nothing to show for the years you didn't speak.
you could see the wheels turning in mat's head as he tried to think of something to say. it was an interesting turn of events that simultaneously sent an ache straight through your heart. when you were kids, he never hesitated to say exactly what was on his mind. now, he was deliberating.
"you wanna come over for dinner?" he asked. "mom's making tomato soup and grilled cheese."
you wished you could've denied him, it would've been smarter in the long run. mathew michael paul barzal could get you to do anything, and you hated that even after all those years, he still could.
you found yourself sitting at his old kitchen table surrounded by his family, dipping your grilled cheese into the soup like you were six years old again.
except the difference now was you were laughing with liana, sitting next to liana, instead of mat.
you'd occasionally meet his eyes from across the table, but it wasn't the same.
when you were kids, you sat next to each other at every opportunity. when you were kids, mat pretended to steal food off your plate. when you were kids, you knew everything about each other.
but you were adults now. and he was effectively a stranger you knew too much about.
after dinner, everyone scattered. you tried to leave, but mat caught up with you.
"what're you doing tomorrow?" he asked.
"working," you replied.
he nodded and looked around. "can i see you?"
you wanted so badly to say no, that you were busy, but as much as you wanted to pretend that he didn't, mat knew you better than anyone else, even if he had been absent for five years.
you ended up going for a walk in the park the next day, deciding that getting dinner wasn't worth the headache of mat getting recognized.
his hands were shoved in his pockets with a baseball cap pulled down low over his face. if you were brave enough to look over, you could still see his eyes taking glances at you.
"how's your mom?" mat asked, immediately jumping into topics you'd planned on ignoring.
you shrugged. "fine."
he nodded and scuffed his feet along the sidewalk. "how have you been?"
"fine." you sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. you didn't mean to be cold, you meant it even less when you looked over and saw mat desperate for connection with you again.
in the end, you could never really deny him anything he wanted.
"life sucks right now," you admitted. "feel like i've wasted my life away here."
mat nodded along. "didn't you say your genie wish would be to leave?"
"i think my words were to 'get far away from here.'"
"you know," he started. "new york is far from here."
you couldn't help yourself. you looked up at him and saw the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "are you being serious?"
he nodded. "as a heart attack."
could this be the moment? the moment your life suddenly comes back into color? things haven't felt right since mat left for new york, and maybe moving, being with him all the time, would fix whatever existential crisis you were currently having.
the two of you were packing up your childhood room a month later .
you were on a flight to new york city two days after that.
mat was bouncing on his toes when he picked you up from the airport, having come home a few days early to get his apartment set up.
"you have to meet tito," he said as soon as the both of you got in his car. "you'll get along just fine. my childhood best friend meeting my other best friend? things couldn't be more perfect!"
you smiled though you felt like dying inside. no wonder you two lost touch, you were too ashamed to message him and he was too busy befriending his entire hockey team.
the apartment itself was large. larger than you could've ever afforded, even in coquitlam. mat brought your bags to your room and gently placed them on the floor.
"do you need any help unpacking?" he asked.
maybe a bitter part of you wanted to say no, but you'd waited for this moment for years. you nodded and mat's face lit up like a christmas tree.
while he was putting your clothes away in the dresser, he told you about his team, about his career, and all that you missed. he tried to ask about your life, but you kept up the story that nothing much had happened to you. and for the most part, you weren't lying.
you hadn't spoken to your dad, you hadn't dated anyone seriously in the last year (you conveniently left out the failed engagement. you just got into town, and couldn't afford a plane ticket to fly back to coquitlam just to bail mat out of jail).
but mat was more than content to listen to your work stories from when you were working at the coffee shop. he asked questions along the way, and momentarily, it felt like everything was headed back to normal.
you shooed him out of the room so you could shower. it was kinda incredible how a nice apartment meant that his shower was better than any other one you'd ever had growing up. when you stepped out into the nicely updated bathroom and changed into some gym shorts and a t-shirt, you felt the full weight of your insecurities hit you all at once.
your mat lived down the road from you. he had a twin bed until he was fifteen when his mom could no longer ignore the way his ankles hung off the end. he had posters of sidney crosby hanging up on the walls of his bedroom.
but this mat had expensive bathrooms and egyptian cotton sheets. you didn't get to see it yet, but you were willing to bet he had state of the art kitchen appliances that he didn't fully understand how to use outside of making eggs.
you were fully ready to walk into the living room, where you heard mat clicking through what must've been streaming services (because he could afford all of them), and tell him moving here was a mistake. too much had changed, he didn't know you anymore.
but you walked out and saw blankets and sheets strung up, pinned to the walls with pillows on the floor.
almost on cue, mat's head popped out from the makeshift fort, a bright smile on his face. "i don't have bunk beds, but i thought this would be a nice alternative."
you could've cried. you almost did.
but you sat down on a pillow and watched a movie with him instead.
two months later
mat had introduced you to anthony the second week you lived in new york. anders and matt you met the next week. the rest of the team you met over the course of the two months you'd lived with mat so far. they were all nice, and you could see why mat was so enthusiastic about his job, his passion for the sport aside.
you met his "not-girlfriend" as tito called her the day before. ashley was nice enough, but clearly not in the same tax bracket as you, who had recently gotten a job working at an indie bookstore while you worked on grad school applications.
you pretended to be too busy to notice the ache in your chest when he held her hand, remembering chloe and the nasty sensation internally of insecurity bubble up. you weren't dumb enough to not know you were jealous, insecurity was a closer friend than mat was, you'd known her longer.
and if comparison was a sport, you'd be making more money than he was at this rate.
because if it wasn't the way ashley laughed, it was her smile, or her stomach, or the gap between her thighs.
or the fact that mat looked at her with something more than a savior complex.
you stupidly agreed to go out to a bar with him, ashley, and a few islanders that night. it was dumb, you knew that going in, but you were finally with mat again, why wouldn't you spend every free moment with him?
it turned out to be a mistake.
you were left sipping a diet coke by your lonesome while he was dancing with ashley. you knew you shouldn't have done it, it was a bad idea, but you found yourself at the bar asking for a shot of literally anything the bartender would give you.
but anthony slid into the seat next to you a beat later and fixed you with a knowing look. "where's your diet coke?" he asked.
your mouth dried up when the shot was placed in front of you. your heart was pounding and for a moment, it felt like you could've thrown up.
when you didn't respond, anthony nodded and stood up. "wanna go take a breather?" and he sounded so genuine that your eyes immediately welled up with tears as you nodded.
the two of you walked outside and stood in the cool air, letting the wind hit your wet cheeks.
you looked out onto the street while anthony texted on his phone. "do you want to go home?" he asked as soon as he slipped his cellphone back into his pocket.
you shrugged. "i don't know what i want."
that was a lie. you wanted to go back to a time where mat was just your best friend, before he was number 13 for the islanders, before he won the calder memorial trophy. you wanted your best friend, the one who raced you down the neighborhood streets on bikes, who drove three hours to see you when you had a panic attack.
you wanted a childhood that wasn't tainted with the darkness of your father's mistakes. you wanted to be able to go into a room and not immediately check if you could lock the door. you wanted to be able to fall asleep in a dark room without being deathly afraid.
mat was outside a second later, huffing and puffing like he'd just run a mile. his gaze was fixed on you almost immediately, while he ignored the way ashley hung off of him. "what's wrong?" he asked. he even went as far as to pry ashley off of his body so he could frame your face in his large hands.
in the corner of you eye, you saw anthony usher ashley back inside while you and mat had a staring contest. "what happened?"
you shook your head and tried to speak, but more tears spilled out. mat nodded and pursed his lips before grabbing your hand and walking you home.
he didn't say anything else until the front door shut behind you. you had no intentions of staying in the common area, you just wanted to curl up in bed and cry yourself to sleep out of shame and pity.
"what were you doing at the bar?" mat asked before you could go anywhere. "you still had diet coke in your glass."
your throat seized up at feeling caught, but you stood your ground.
"i didn't think you drank," he continued. "mainly because--"
"because my dad's an abusive alcholic? yeah, you don't need to tell me that, mat, i already know."
"so if you know that, why did tito see you order a shot from the bartender?"
you threw your hands up in the air and shrugged. "i don't know, mathew. why do you invite me to bars when you know i don't drink?" he didn't have an answer. "you don't get to shame me for considering having a drink when a bar is the only place i get to hang out with you during the season!"
"that's not--" but he cut himself off. "what're you talking about?"
"i hardly see you! why did i move across the continent if i have to go to a scary place just to spend time with you?"
"i--"
"i mean it's not fair, you left and now i have to pay the consequences of it--"
"i'm sorry, what?"
"you left--"
"i heard you. did you forget the part where you stopped contacting me?" you rolled your eyes to keep yourself from crying even more. "uh uh, don't do that. don't blame me without taking accountability for this friendship ending."
you blinked.
but mat wasn't done. "because i always called you back when i missed your calls. you were the one who stopped texting me."
"you were too busy!"
"i'm in the nhl! did you expect me to just be laying around my apartment all day? i have practices and meetings and games at weird times, but i always made sure to get back to you."
you said nothing, the tears welling up behind your eyes, but you kept them in. the verbal lashing from mat was enough, you didn't need to further embarrass yourself by crying too.
he kept going, yelling and waving his hands around, occasionally pacing and dragging his fingers through his unruly hair.
but you zoned out.
you could hear glass bottles rattling as your father came up the stairs. you sat on your bed, hoping to god he'd just keep walking. mat was out of town for a tournament, and you were grounded.
your dad stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at you. your heart was racing in your chest and you wanted nothing more than to text mat, but your mom had your phone. "what're you lookin' at?" he slurred.
it was only 1pm.
and your mom was still at work.
but he apparently didn't feel like bothering you because he turned into his bedroom and shut the door.
you could feel the air release from your lungs before you went back to reading your book.
but the peace never lasted long. thirty minutes later you could hear him yelling and screaming obscenities before he opened his door. you launched yourself out of bed and slammed your own door shut, quickly locking it with an efficiency you'd learned at a young age. the door handle rattled and you flinched backwards, nearly tripping over clothes on the floor.
but you weren't a stranger to this situation.
you opened the window and climbed out.
but he was ready for you this time because he was at the front door screaming at you as you rode away on your bike.
you didn't stop pedaling until you got to the park where you collapsed on the grass and cried.
something in your face must've changed, because mat stopped yelling and looked at you, really looked at you.
"hey," he said, voice much quieter than before. "where'd you go?"
you shook your head, tears falling down your face uncontrollably.
"don't do that," he said. "don't shut me out." mat took a step closer to you, but you immediately stepped backwards. he breathed your name, but something in his eyes shifted, like he could read your mind. "i'm not him," he whispered. "i'm not your dad, i'm not going to hurt you. you know me, you know i wouldn't do that."
"you left," was all you could say.
mat nodded. "i did, but i didn't leave you, okay? i would never leave you." he closed the distance between you and held your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the constant flow of water from the corners of your eyes.
"but--"
he shook his head. "no, you mean too much to me to leave you, okay? you're my best friend. if you had called me and needed me? i would've been there as soon as i could."
"you would've been too busy--"
he pulled back, a bit bewildered. "when have i ever been too busy for you?"
you held your tongue, knowing that it wasn't him per se.
"what is it?" he asked, his eyes searching your own. "what aren't you telling me?"
so you told him about how you hadn't talked to your dad, and even though you were thousands of miles away, you were still scared he'd find you and ruin your life even more. you told him about thomas, about how you thought he could be the thing that fixed you, but he cheated on you.
you told him about dawson, who was older and more mature. you told mat how dawson got you going to therapy which you thought was a good sign, until you realized he never actually wanted to talk about your bad days. he proposed, you said yes, and then he broke off the engagement when he saw you sobbing over invitations.
your eyes were too blurry to see the way mat's jaw clenched, but you could feel him pull his hands away.before you could even stop yourself, you stretched out for him, but he was just out of reach.
"mat, what," you weeped. "what's wrong?"
"you were engaged?" he mumbled. "you were engaged and didn't tell me?" you expected him to look mad, but the only thing reflected in those deep brown eyes was hurt.
"that's why he broke up with me, i was crying over childhood photos while trying to figure out if i should invite you even when we hadn't talked in years." you shrugged pathetically and gave mat a watery smile. "guess he thought it was too immature of me."
mat's hands were clenching and unclenching by his side, like he couldn't decide what he wanted to do with them.
"please don't hate me," you whispered. "i don't think i could handle it if you hated me." but he didn't say anything, mat just resulted to pacing the living room. "i think my dad fucked me up beyond repair." your eyes never left his profile. if he wouldn't look at you, that was fine, you'd continue to stare at him. "i think i'm too codependent and messed up for anyone to love me." mat's head snapped up at that comment.
"i mean," you continued. "i wasn't enough for my dad to get sober, i wasn't enough to not get cheated on, i wasn't enough for someone to marry me. maybe it's not them. maybe i'm the issue."
"no," he said immediately, shaking his head in the process, crossing the room until he could pull you into his chest. "no. that's not true."
"yes it is! my dad doesn't love anything more than alcohol--"
mat cut you off. "anyone would've been proud to have you as a daughter."
"thomas wanted my freshman roommate--"
"thomas was an idiot."
"dawson couldn't handle me when i wasn't happy--"
"fuck him too. he was thirty dating a college student."
"and you left and i--"
mat pulled you back far enough to look you in the face. "and if i could do it all over again, i'd take you with me." he pressed his forehead against yours. "here's what we're gonna do, we're gonna make a fort and watch the mighty ducks. and tomorrow, we're gonna find you the best therapist money can buy and set up an appointment because i don't like you talking about yourself this way." your stomach twisted at the idea of therapy, hesitant because of dawson-- "and i wanna hear as much as you're willing to tell me, okay?"
you nodded.
"now, i need to see you smile so i know we'll be alright." you gave him a watery smile right before he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "there she is."
you held onto each other for another minute before reluctantly letting go to gather blankets and pillows.
four months later
you hadn't been able to make it to many of mat's games until tonight when they played the devils at home. you sat with sydney and grace and their kids.
earlier that night, you'd gone to your therapy session and cried your eyes out. after years of feeling like you weren't a human being worthy of love, you just started seeing value in just existing.
and mat was as supportive as ever. he gave you space after therapy sessions to process until you were ready to talk to him, if you wanted to. the two of you made plans to hang out at cafes and central park rather than at bars every weekend.
"look at your man go," grace nudged you with her elbow. "he's feeling good tonight."
"i'm sure it has everything to do with you being here," sydney commented. "i've never seen that man more in love than he is right now."
you could feel the heat crawl up your neck as you shook your head. "he's my best friend."
"a best friend who loves you so much, he's willing to keep things platonic for your sake."
almost immediately, an insecure thought popped in your head, but you stopped it in its tracks, imagining the thought on a conveyor belt, moving down the belt until it was out of sight completely.
your shoulders relaxed.
you deserved to be loved, and it if was mat, great.
if not, you'd still have him as your best friend.
a buzzer sounded through the arena and a quick glance at the ice told you all you needed to know. mat was skating into a cluster of his teammates, smiling wide before pointing up at where he knew you were sitting.
grace and sydney jostled you around a little while fans, male and female alike, screamed at the idea of the mat barzal pointing at them.
when the game ended (5-4 with the islanders win), you followed sydney and grace down to the locker rooms. you met up with the other wags and smiled when they greeted you. some chatted and passed time while others rocked babies in their arms. you however were anxiously looking through your photos on your phone, specifically the album labeled mat that you'd had since you'd first gotten an iphone. you didn't glance up until you hear the sound of doors opening.
mat was the seventh person out, not that you were counting. he wore a bright smile when he saw you standing there and immediately crossed the distance between the two of you to wrap you in a huge hug.
"how was therapy?" he asked.
you rolled your eyes but couldn't help but smile. "why do we always talk about me?"
"because i care." he lightly nudged your shoulder. "so how did it go?"
"it was good, actually," you remarked. "figured out and accepted that i deserve love."
if it was even possible, mat's smile got wider. "yeah you do."
"and maybe there are people waiting around for me to figure it out..." you trailed off before shyly meeting his gaze. and before you could stop yourself, before you ran out of courage, you stood on your tiptoes (like you've been doing since he hit his growth spurt in seventh grade) and pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips.
you lingered for a moment before pulling away and loooking up at your bewildered best friend whose mouth was wide open.
"what?" you asked. "did i read that wrong? sydney and grace said--"
"that's all i get?" he asked. "i've waited for this since i was six years old and i don't even get the real thing?"
you furrowed your brow. "what're you talking about? six years old?"
but mat was leaning in and capturing your lips with his own. "six year old mat had the biggest crush on six year old you," he said.
"and what about twenty-four year old mat?"
he kissed you again. "head over heels for you."
age twenty-six
after a less than stellar playoff run, you and mat headed back to canada for a portion of the off season, mainly to visit family.
but it was also nice to get out of new york, even if it was just for a short period.
in hindsight, you should've known something was going to happen. your mother, nadia, and liana took you to get your nails done and to grab lunch while you were out shopping. but you were so caught up in how nice it was to be back home (words you never thought you'd ever say), you paid no attention to the lack of mat time.
so when you walked into the backyard of his parents' house and saw a giant projector screen with blankets and pillows strewn about to make yet another fort, you almost cried.
mat's head popped out from the middle with a smile on his face until he saw the tears in your eyes. "why're you crying baby? this is supposed to be happy!"
"i love you" was all you could blubber out.
mat laughed to himself, taking your hands in his own. "i love you too baby." he knelt down and the tears kept coming down your face. "ever since i was a kid, i thought i'd be the one walking you down the aisle to the man you'd marry because i never thought you'd be crazy enough to fall in love with me."
you scoffed. "i'm definitely the one batting out of my league here, mathew."
"don't talk about the love of my life that way," he said before continuing on. "we've gone through a lot together, and i couldn't imagine getting through life without you by my side." mat took a deep breath. "so tell me, do you wanna get married?" mat asked.
you nodded through your weeping. "only if i get to marry you," you smiled.
summary: you and nate were fwb when one night leads to a lifelong consequence (aka you fucked around and found out)
pairing: nathan mackinnon x reader
warnings: accidental pregnancy, mention of abortion
week 14
on the flight back from cole harbour, it was decided you and nate would tell cale and tracy. there wasn't a set date, you two hadn't gotten that far, but as luck would have it, she’d find out on a thursday night you had off from work. you’ll never forget the look tracy evans gave you during girls’ night when you refused a glass of wine.
“what?” she asked. “are you pregnant?” when you didn’t reply, her eyes widened. “no way! you are?”
you nodded hesitantly.
“with whose baby?! do i know him?” you didn’t nod, she didn’t give you enough time to respond before she kept talking. “is it nate’s?” your silence was loud enough. tracy gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. “oh my god, you’re having a baby with nathan mackinnon.”
in a flash, she was beside you on the couch and hugging you. “is he being nice to you? treating you well?”
“nicer than i deserve,” you said more so to yourself.
tracy pulled back and glanced from your stomach to your face. “when are you due?”
“early january.” you shifted in your seat and held the hem of your shirt. “do you wanna see the bump?” at her nod, you lifted the bottom of your shirt to expose your spandex covered stomach, slightly bigger and rounder than it was a week ago.
tears sprang to her eyes as she covered her mouth. “oh my god, you're having a baby. how do you feel? are you excited?”
your smile shook a little at the corners. “i’m getting used to the idea. it was a lot to take in at first, still is at times.”
tracy sat back and pulled her knees to her chest. “you know what this means, right?” when you didn't respond, she continued. “we’re gonna have to throw you a baby shower and set up a nursery.” her voice increased in excitement the longer she talked. “do you know what theme?”
“i don't—”
but your response didn't matter because tracy grabbed her laptop and logged into her pinterest account. “do you wanna find out the gender?” she asked.
“i don't care, but that’s what nate wants.”
she cracked a smile. “that adds up.” tracy typed in something on her laptop. “what do you think about a circus theme for the nursery?”
you blinked. “absolutely not. maybe nate wants one at his place, but we’re not having a circus nursery at my apartment.”
tracy’s fingers paused over the keys. “you’re not gonna live together?”
you paused. “why would we?”
she must've thought you'd grown another head with the way she was looking at you.“...because you're having a baby together and you live on opposite sides of denver.”
“we’re not together, trace. we’re just coparents.”
she looked like she wanted to say more, and maybe she did, but there must've been a look on your face that discouraged her. even if she wanted to add something, she couldn't. her phone rang, a call from cale. nathan must've told him.
tracy glanced at you and smiled. “nathan must've told him already.” she put the phone on speaker. “hey babe! how was practice?”
“it was fine. just heard the craziest news. did you have a girls’ day?”
she looked at you knowingly and laughed. “i did. why? what’s up?”
“did she tell you?”
“tell me what?”
“her and nate, they're having a baby.”
as they talked, your phone vibrated in your hand.
nate: told cale
you: i know. i’m with tracy
you: how did it go?
nate: i think it went well? he didn't freak out or anything
nate: wbu
you: she guessed it when i turned down wine
nate: what’re you up to?
you thought about your best friend who was elbows deep in pinterest while talking to her husband on the phone.
you: tracy started to plan the baby shower.
nate: already?
you: well she started with the nursery until i shot down the circus theme.
nate: a circus theme would be cute
you: then your nursery can be a circus theme, but that will not be how the nursery at my place is decorated
silence followed after that text, something you didn't think about. you chalked it up to him being busy.
but then your phone started vibrating. a phone call, from nate of all people. tracy, who was still on the phone with cale, didn't look up when you stood and headed into the kitchen.
“hello?”
“what do you mean ‘your place’ and ‘my place’?”
you blinked. “what?”
“you’re keeping your place?”
“...why wouldn't i?”
“we’re having a baby together.”
“yeah, we’re not getting married, nate.”
his scowl echoed through the receiver. “how do you think this is gonna work when we’re on two different sides of the city?”
“i just figured we’d do mcdonald’s drop offs like divorced parents.”
you could picture the way he was probably running his hand down his face. “we’ll talk about this later.”
“what's there to talk about? i’m not moving across town away from my job, nate. and you’re not moving to my very public, lack of privacy apartment complex.”
“forgive me for not being comfortable with the idea of you and the baby being thirty minutes away when our schedules are already so hectic.”
“if you’re worried about me keeping you from the baby, i promise you can see them whenever—”
“it’s not about that!” he groaned into the receiver. he inhaled and sighed. “are you busy tonight? i don't think we should have this conversation over the phone.”
“sure, i’m not gonna change my mind though.”
his silence was louder than anything your parents had ever yelled at you. “when will you be finished at tracy’s?”
you glanced at your friend still talking on the phone. “not sure, sounds like cale’s on his way home, so i could probably leave now.”
“okay yeah, could you? do you want to come over?”
not really, you thought. i'd rather not talk about this at all. but the right answer was yes.
“i can be there in a few.”
he paused. “great, yeah, that'll be great. i’ll see you then.”
you bid goodbye to tracy and got in your car.
your hands shook on the steering wheel, your stomach was turning. nothing about this was something you wanted to do. you didn't want to talk about living arrangements with him. you wanted to turn your car around and go to your place.
part of you thought about driving past his hosue and turning around, but he was standing on the front porch waiting for you. which is how you found yourself parking in his driveway anyway.
nathan opened the door wide enough to let you through and followed you inside.
“so—”
“i’m not moving in with you,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “i’m not doing it.”
“can you tell me why?” he asked, restrained.
“i just—” you dragged a hand down your face. “my place is more convenient for me, you know this. it’s closer to my job.”
“is that the only thing?”
“it’s the biggest thing.”
“well what are the smaller things?”
“i—” you frowned. you hadn't really thought about it so thoroughly. “i like my place. it’s mine, it’s home.”
“if you're worried about space, i have plenty of rooms—”
“i don't wanna be a burden—”
“you wont!” he said so emphatically, you almost believed him. “you won't.” softer this time.
“i can't believe that,” you said.
“why?”
because my parents turned my bedroom into an office the second i moved out and last new year’s eve, my sister made me sleep on the loveseat instead of her guest room when i was too drunk to drive home. which is why i never stay the night.
but you couldn't say that, you wouldn't say that. you didn't need to see the look of indifference in his eyes. or worse, sympathy.
you sighed. “it’s complicated.”
“i have time.” when you didn't say anything, nathan stepped closer. “honey, we’re having a baby together, you can talk to me.”
“i just don't wanna move. that’s all.”
“then what’s your plan?”
“i can do it myself.”
he blinked. “you’ll just do it yourself?” he sounded skeptical. “what if you have ppd? what if you need something when you’re pregnant?”
well damn.
he got you there.
“what if you go into labor in the middle of the night? what if something happens and i’m on the opposite side of town?” he kept asking questions relentlessly. you didn't realize he'd thought about it so thoroughly.
“nate—”
“no,” he said. “if you have another reason other than commuting times, i’d be happy to hear them, but i’m not gonna pretend i’m comfortable being so far from you. i mean, your family probably wouldn't be too comfortable with it either—”
“my family doesn't give a shit.” your eyes widened when you realized you said it.
“what do you mean?” he asked.
you shrugged and looked at your shoe laces. “all families have problems. it’s nothing.”
but he wasn't letting it go. he feet moved into your line of sight. “no, it’s not nothing. what do you mean your family doesn't give a shit?”
“i don't know nate—”
“yes, you do.”
you dragged a hand down your face and finally looked him in the eye. “i’m not doing this right now.”
“yes, we are.”
“nate just let it go!” your voice raised a decibel.
“no!” oh good, his voice rose to the occasion. you knew how to handle this better than the softness. “it’s bothering you so it bothers me. why can’t you just be honest?”
“because!”
“because why?”
“because no one likes to admit that their own family hates them!”
nathan’s face dropped, his jaw slacked before it clenched. his face contorted into something darker, maybe angrier. you couldn't really tell and you weren't sure if you wanted to decipher it.
“what do you mean?” he asked.
but you were shaking your head. “i don’t wanna talk about it.”
but his hands were pulling you into his chest before you even realized you were crying. “what happened when you told them you were pregnant?”
the lump in your throat grew. “my dad said he was surprised it took this long. my mom essentially told me i’m on my own, and my siblings gave flimsy excuses before they hung up the phone.”
his arms tightened around you. “they’re idiots, all of them. i don’t know how they could know you your whole life and not see how lucky they are.”
“it’s not that deep, nate.”
“it is. it is that deep. you’re their daughter.”
you shrugged. “it’s been like that forever, i’m used to it.”
he pulled back for a second to look you in the eyes. “your family sucks, but you and i? we’re kinda family now. i’m not gonna let you do this alone.”
“nate—“
but he framed your face in his hands and you were suddenly reminded how you got pregnant in the first place. “i got you, let me help you.”
“i don’t wanna pack and move,” you whined, dreading the idea of packing up an entire apartment and moving it across the city.
“i’ll hire movers, i can help you pack. i’ll even pay for your gas. i just need to know you’re okay.”
this. you weren’t sure you deserved it. “you worry too much,” you smiled.
he touched your chin with his thumb for a brief second. “someone’s gotta. you can’t, stress is bad for the baby.”
“someone needs to tell that to my job.”
nate’s eyes widened. “we really need to talk about that—“
but you covered his mouth with your hand. “we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. now’s not the time.”
he wanted to argue, you could see it in his tense shoulders, but he acquiesced anyway. “do you have time to chill here?”
you probably should’ve gone home and contemplated what and when to move with nate, but you found yourself nodding anyway.
you deserved it.
week 18
moving in happened a lot sooner than you thought it would, but later than nate wanted.
nate was adamant that it was best to get moved in sooner rather than later. with preseason camp starting soon, he was concerned he wouldn’t be able to help you get settled in. you were more concerned about paying rent at your place while contributing to the bills.
nathan had all but scoffed in your face.
“you’re not paying me for anything,” he said firmly.
“i’m not a freeloader!” you replied.
“never said you were. i’m just saying you’re not paying me a dime.”
“nate—“ but he was already walking away. “nate it’s too much! you gotta let me contribute!” you called after him.
“you’re working twelve hour night shifts while pregnant, i think you’re doing enough.”
he’d been vocal about his annoyance with your work schedule, but he’d already won the living arrangement argument. you weren’t backing down.
even when you found yourself bracing your hands on your back or when a deep sigh escaped your lips as you sunk into the chair.
“you okay, mama?” dorothy, your older charge nurse, asked from the desk next to you. “baby giving you a hard time?”
you smiled but the bags under your eyes probably gave you away. “back’s a little tight.”
“well don’t overdo it, honey. take a breather.”
you nodded and took a second to check your phone.
nate: how’re you doing?
you: back aches a little but i’m fine
nate: are you resting?
you rolled your eyes.
you: had two women give birth, was a little busy
nate: but you’re resting now?
you: i’m sitting down while i chart so i guess so
nate: you hungry? need anything?
you thought about it, but didn’t feel like walking down to the cafeteria. you forgot to pack lunch in a rush to get out of the house on time.
you: i think i'm good
nate: i know you didn’t pack anything
you: …how?
nate: i’m staring at your empty lunch box right now
nate: you wanna try that again? i know you’re hungry
you: i’m fine, it’s like 2 am. go to bed
nate: i’m already headed to the car.
you: nathan mackinnon
you: don’t do it
nate: i’m already pulling out of the driveway.
you: it’s 2 am
nate: already leaving the neighborhood
you locked your phone in hopes that not responding would convince him to turn around and go home. in the next thirty minutes, you checked the dilation of two of your patients, got them cups of ice chips, and worked on more charting.
your phone vibrated on the desk next to you, nate’s name showing on the screen. your eyes widened as you snatched the phone up, glancing over your shoulder to see if anyone saw.
“hello?”
“i’m outside, do you want me to come in?”
your eyes widened. “you’re here?” you practically hissed into the phone. “are you crazy?”
“you didn’t tell me what you wanted so i packed a few things. do you want me to leave them at the desk?”
you ran a hand down your face and sighed. “no, you cannot come in unless you want me to be subjected to more work gossip. i’ll be down in a second.” you glanced at dorothy. “i’m going to grab my lunch real quick, i’ll be right back.”
but dorothy waved you off. “i’ll watch your patients, go ahead and enjoy your lunch, sweetheart.”
you nodded and thanked her before heading to the elevator. “stay in your car, i’m coming down.”
nathan was parked in a handicapped spot which you scolded him for. “i wasn’t going to make you walk to the parking deck,” he reasoned. “but if it bothers you so much i can move...” he reached back into the backseat and handed you the lunchbox. he placed a hand on the back of your headrest and pulled out of the spot, headed towards the parking deck.
when you opened your lunchbox, you weren't surprised at what you found. a beef stick, greek yogurt, a bag of granola, and a freshly sliced apple.you glanced at nate who was dressed in joggers and a t-shirt, his hair rumpled like he'd been tossing and turning. “you look tired. you should be in bed.”
“fell asleep on the couch,” he confessed. “i was about to head to bed, but i saw your lunchbox on the counter, figured you were hungry.”
“you didn't have to bring me food, i was gonna get something from the vending machine if i got hungry enough.”
“absolutely not, you and the baby need actual fuel.”
“one shift wouldn't kill me.”
he rolled his eyes. “go ahead and eat.” you stared for a moment longer before opening the beef jerky, but not because he told you so. “how’s the baby? any movement?”
a week ago, you started feeling slight movement, but it was too gentle for nathan to feel yet, something he was eagerly awaiting. his eyes lit up every time you gasped. “a little here and there. you should be able to feel them soon.”
he nodded. “and your back? is it feeling alright?”
part of you considered brushing off his concern, but remembered he'd driven thirty minutes just to bring you food. the very least you could give him was your honesty. “it’s a little tight and my feet kinda ache.”
nathan hummed and looked out of the windshield. his fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “we should look into getting you some kinesiology tape if you're going to keep working.”
“there is no if, i’m going to keep working. i need the money.”
“so when i get home, i’ll order some.”
“when you go home, you're going to bed.” you and nate stared each other down, daring the other to give in. “you have to be up in a few hours. you really shouldn't be here at all.”
he shook his head adamantly. “you needed lunch and i didn't mind bringing it.”
“still—”
“still nothing.”
“nate, you have workouts and meetings planned. i know you, this throws off your very rigid schedule.”
he shrugged like it meant very little to him. which, in the time you'd known him, couldn't be true. “you needed to eat, i was at home, i had nothing else to do.” he said it so matter-of-factly that you started second guessing your own logic.
“you're insane,” was what you settled on.
“schedules can be changed, i’ll risk waking up a little sleepy, but i’m not risking you.” he cleared his throat. “or the baby.”
you could only stare at him, rendered speechless by his words. your phone alarm went off, signaling the end of your lunch break. the very sound ripped the two of you out of the miniature haven his car had become.
“i need to get back,” you said.
nate nodded and put the car into drive. “i’ll drop you off at the door.”
hours later, when the sun had finally risen, you were finally out the doors of the hospital, exhaustion feeling as heavy as a weighted blanket. you drove back to nate’s with the windows down and music, in hopes that it would keep you awake long enough to get home in one piece and shower.
you pulled into the garage next to nate’s much nicer car. by the time you got out of the car with your work bag, nate was leaning against the doorjamb leading into the rest of the house. “how was work?” he asked when you approached. his hands took the bag from your shoulder.
you sighed, the weight from that day’s shift finally falling off your body. “long. i’m glad to be home.”
“i made some breakfast, if you're hungry.”
you glanced at the toast, scrambled eggs, and sausage sitting on a plate neatly. you almost cried at the sight of it. “i’m gonna shower first, and then eat,” you said. “i need to feel like a human again.”
you didn't know how long it took for you to fully come together as a person. you just knew that time had passed since your shower had started and ended.
and yet when you sat down to eat, your food was still hot. you spared a glance at nate who sat on the couch watching espn a little too intently. like, above average focus. if you wanted to read into it, you could've. but the dawning realization that this utopic moment would only last for a few more months hit you like a freight train.
you blew on a piece of sausage and chewed, choosing to say nothing.
week 20
your hands were braced on your lower back and you walked into the doctor’s office. working twelve hour shifts prior to getting pregnant was difficult on your back, it had only gotten worse now that you were growing a little human. you really wanted to go home and sleep off your shift, but you had an ultrasound scheduled before you got your work schedule.
you didn't even realize nate was there until you felt his warm hand at your back, guiding you to a pair of chairs. “i already checked us in,” he said. “brought you a little snack too.”
he fished out a dark chocolate bar out of his pocket and handed it to you.
you blinked, staring at his hand to his pocket to his face. “i’m just supposed to eat pocket chocolate?” you asked skeptically.
he rolled his eyes, but there was redness in his cheeks. “you don't have to take it if you don't want to, i just read that a snack might help baby’s activity levels.”
you blinked the blurriness back from your eyes and took the candy bar without another word, nibbling at the chocolate until a nurse came out and called your name.
the room looked just like every other room you'd been in as far as doctor’s offices went. nate took the seat next to the bed and scooted closer to you until his knees were pressed right against it.
the ultrasound tech entered the room shortly thereafter. she smiled when your shirt was already pulled up to your chest, and your leggings were rolled down below your stomach.
“you're ready for me already,” she commented.
“force of habit,” you replied. “i've seen enough of these done, figured i’d save you the speech.”
she smiled and got to work.
nate’s hand grabbed your own as the tech placed the gel on your stomach. a quick glance showed that nate’s eyes bounced from your stomach to the screen, like he couldn't decide which one needed to be his focus. his blue eyes eventually settled on the screen, a cute little wrinkle formed between his eyebrows.
it looked like he was trying to decipher what all the black and white images meant.
joke was on him, you'd seen a shit ton of ultrasounds done and you were no closer to understanding what you were supposed to be seeing.
the tech hummed and clicked around which only seemed to agitate nathan’s anxiety. his leg started bouncing ten minutes into the ultrasound.
you'd warned him that the techs couldn't tell you what they saw, dr. morgan would have to do it. that didn't seem to make nate feel any better though. he wanted answers, that much was clear.
it was another ten minutes before the tech finished. another five before dr. morgan came in. you squeezed nathan’s hand twice as a way to keep him tethered.
“how're we doing today?” dr. morgan smiled as she pulled on gloves. “are we wanting to find out the gender?”
truth be told, you hadn't cared about knowing, but you knew nate did. you'd seen the way he scheduled his week in blocks on google calendar (he’d shared it with you so you'd know when he'd be home). living together meant you were privy to his love for details and desire to understand every possible outcome.
“yes, but could we get it in an envelope?” you asked so nate wouldn't have to. he wanted to know, that much was obvious, but he also wasn't one to assume it was what you wanted as well. the only thing you really wanted was to find out in private, without an audience of a doctor and a room full of awaiting patients in the lobby.
“great!” dr. morgan smiled. “so this, is the spine,” she said, pointing to a long white line that looked sort of connected to your baby. “and this is their nose.” she went on like that for maybe three minutes, updating the both of you that things were looking good with your baby.
nathan’s leg continued to bounce until dr. morgan stopped the wand on your stomach and wrote on a sheet of paper before folding it into an envelope.
“congratulations, mom and dad. baby looks great. continue doing what you're doing and we’ll see you back here in a few weeks.”
the walk back to your cars was relatively silent, a comfortable silence, but silence nonetheless. “when do you wanna open it?” nathan asked.
“can we wait till we get back to your place?” you asked. “i’d feel better in a more private setting.”
he nodded immediately. “yeah of course, see you in a few?”
that damn envelope burned a hole in your passenger seat for the entire drive back. you kept glancing at it. if nathan were in the car, he'd scold you for taking your eyes off the road so many times.
nathan was anxiously standing in the kitchen doing his best to look casual and utterly failing. his hands were braced against the counter, but he kept shifting his stance.
“you ready?” you asked, envelope in hand.
he nodded and stood up straight. you stood next to him in the kitchen, hands shaking as you did your best to open it up. you glanced at nate once the envelope’s seal had been broken like you were trying to find some sort of comfort.
his blue eyes looked deeper than normal.
“okay,” you breathed. you pulled out the card.
congrats! you’re having—
“—a girl,” you whispered.
“w-what?” nate stuttered, before he pulled the card out of your hands and read it for himself. “a girl? we’re having a girl?”
your ears started ringing, your vision went a little blurry. your hands braced themselves on the counter to hold you upright.
a girl.
you were having a girl.
you lied earlier, about not caring about the gender. turns out, there was a wrong answer, and that answer was a girl. bile built up in the back of your throat, but you couldn't vomit.
this had to be your worst nightmare.
you'd give birth to a girl, maybe you'd raise her right. but what would happen when you eventually settled down with someone and had more kids? would you parentify your daughter the way your parents did to you?
god, you were fifty shades of fucked up and most definitely were going to pass that onto your daughter. she would grow up resenting you, there was no doubt about it. she’d blame you for her need for therapy when she became an adult.
and the worst part? when you glanced at nate, he was furiously wiping at his eyes and staring at the card like it was the best news he'd gotten.
he was going to be a fantastic father and your daughter would prefer him over you in a heartbeat. you'd fuck her up emotionally and mentally, but nate? he'd be the one she’d run to when things get hard. she’d prefer weekends at nate’s and would beg him to take her on roadies if it meant she didn't have to stay with you.
you were going to have a baby girl and absolutely ruin her.
there was no telling how long you spiraled before nate realized your tears weren't happy ones. but as soon as he understood the situation, his hands were on your shoulders, pulling you into his chest.
maybe a part of you should be ashamed of the snot and tears you were getting on what was probably a very expensive t-shirt. but when you tried to pull away, nathan was pulling you back in.
his large hands drew lines on your spine with his palms. his mouth let out small soothing noises until your cries lessened.
god, he'd be such an amazing dad. and you'd be the reason your daughter would end up in extensive therapy.
before the tears could pick back up again, nathan cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to make eye contact. his blue eyes searched yours, like secrets were hidden among your irises that he could decipher.
“what's going on?” he asked. “when we talked last night, you said you wanted a healthy baby, you didn't care about the gender.”
“i didn't know there was a wrong answer until now,” you sobbed.
but he was shaking his head emphatically. “there isn't a wrong answer. you heard the doctor, she’s healthy. she's perfectly healthy.”
“but she's a girl!”
nathan nearly looked upset, maybe on the side of anger. like he couldn't fathom how this was a bad situation. “what are you talking about? girls are good! they're great, even.” his tone was a tad defensive, already going to bat for your daughter.
god he'd be such a tremendous parent. you should leave after you give birth, give your child the best shot at happiness with her dad.
you shook your head. “not for me.”
hard lines contorted nate’s face. “what're you talking about?”
after a brief moment of silence, you said, “i’m gonna fuck her up.”
his face relaxed for a moment before that wrinkle between his eyebrows appeared again. “what do you mean? no you're not.” and the confidence in his voice, the assurance, was almost enough for you to believe him.
almost.
you shook your head. “my parents are awful at being my parents, but they're great for my siblings. what if i’m the same? what if i get married one day and have kids with my husband and love them more than her? what if i parentify her? what if she hates me? i mean you're already better at this than i am—”
“that's not gonna happen,” he said, ever bit as sure of himself. “okay? it’s not gonna happen.”
“but—”
his grip on your face tightened ever so slightly. “look at me,” he said. “you are not your parents.”
“nate you don't know them—”
“but i know you. and i know that stressing about these things is proof that you're going to be a wonderful mother, honey.”
you searched his face for any hint of deception and found none.
“do you trust me?” he asked.
without even thinking about it, you nodded.
“then trust me on this.”
you nodded. nate searched your eyes once more and when he didn't find anything concerning, he pulled back. “are you okay?”
you nodded again.
“you're not gonna freak out?”
you shook your head.
nate inhaled before giving you a shaky smile. “i’m really happy we’re having a girl.”
“yeah?”
he nodded, his smile growing with each passing second. “i told myself i didn't care so long as the baby was healthy, but i think deep down i really wanted a daughter.” his eyes drifted down and landed on your bump. “it’s crazy that she’s in there.”
you pulled your shirt up under your chest and rolled down your leggings so they were just under your bump. “you wanna feel?”
his eyes lit up. his hands immediately touched your stomach, his palms taking over most of the surface area.
he still couldn't feel her kicking around and moving, but knowing she was there seemed to be all he really cared about.
week 21
“what do you think about hosting a party for my teammates here?” nathan asked one random morning after working out. your swollen feet were propped up on the couch until he picked them up and placed them in his lap as he sat down. without missing a beat, he started massaging the soles of your feet.
it took everything in you not to moan at the sensation.
“sure,” you said. “just let me know when so i can make myself scarce.”
with the way nate looked at you, you must've grown another head. “why would you do that?”
you blinked. “because they're your friends and i don't wanna intrude?”
“this is your home too—” he lifted a finger to cut your rebuttal off. “it is, you live here, this is your home too. i’m not gonna kick you out just to hang with the boys. i thought you'd wanna be there too.”
you hadn't seen any of nate’s teammates since the season ended, the only exception being cale but that was in passing and it was definitely before you were showing. your discomfort may have shown on you face because he added:
“what if we just have movie night with cale and tracy? maybe landy and melissa? keep it light and easy.”
that felt significantly less intimidating.
“i can do that,” you agreed.
nate smiled. “fantastic. do you need anything while i’m just sitting here?”
“as long as you keep up the footrubs, i’m just peachy.”
his chuckle reverberated in your chest, it made your stomach have this really odd swooping sensation. “do you mind if i facetime my family real quick? i haven't gotten a chance to tell them what we’re having.”
“go right ahead, tell them i said hi.”
with one hand, nate started the facetime button while the other hand continued massaging one of your feet.
“nathan!” his mom greeted, you could practically see her smile. his dad’s voice echoed his name a beat later.
“nate, i know you don't have a job right now, but some of us do,” sarah joked. “what’s up? how’s honey?”
“she’s right here,” he said, flashing the screen towards you. if you weren't feeling so pregnant, you would've hidden under the covers to hide your appearance. instead, you waved and smiled.
“you doin’ okay, sweetheart?” kathy asked.
“sure am,” you replied. “i’m getting bigger every day it feels like.” you rubbed the swell of your stomach and watched as nathan’s family smiled in response.
“which is why we wanted to call you,” nate started. “we found out what we’re having about a week ago.” while nate talked, you got up and walked into the kitchen where the outfit you and nate picked out sat in its bag.
three days ago, nate made you breakfast before proposing you two go shopping for baby clothes, now that you knew what you were having. “i want baby girl’s first clothes to be bought by us,” he said.
and when he looked so excited about it, you couldn't say no.
you brought the bag to the couch and took your spot next to nathan who casually tossed his arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer. you watched as his mom and sister’s eyes widened in anticipation for the news you were about to share.
“any guesses?” he asked.
sarah and graham both guessed boy.
kathy hesitated before smiling. “you're having a girl. i feel it in my bones.”
nathan couldn't stop beaming, his eyes practically disappeared behind his cheeks when you pulled out the green gingham romper and saw his sister flip out in real time.
“oh my god! a girl? you're having a girl?” sarah was practically yelling, but from the looks of it, she wasn't in an office, so at least she wasn't disturbing anyone’s workday.
graham was equally as excited, whooping and hollering proudly.
but kathy? she was quietly weeping. “my baby is having a baby, it feels so real now.”
you could hear nate’s sniffling so you wrapped your arms around his waist now that you didn't need to hold up the dress anymore. he pressed his lips to the top of your head and smiled into your hair.
“i’m so happy for you both,” sarah said.
“now is the team throwing you both a baby shower?” his mom asked.
you didn't know, so you looked up at nate. “not sure,” he replied. “we’re hanging out with tracy and cale and maybe landy and his wife this week, we can talk about it then.”
“is your family gonna throw one, honey?”
how could you politely tell his family that your parents didn't give a shit about you?
“they're not big party planners,” is what you settled with. “they'll come to the shower,” unlikely, “but they're not good at actually planning things like that.”
kathy nodded like she knew there was more to the story, but thankfully, didn't press. “well, i’m happy for you both.”
“thanks mom.”
“thank you, kathy.”
“we’ll talk to you later. love you!”
“love you, mom,” nate replied before everyone hung up the phone. his hand rubbed up and down your arm. “do you wanna call your family and tell them?”
you scoffed. “after last time? they can get a text and call it a day.” quickly, you pulled out your phone and sent a text in the rarely used family group chat.
you: found out we’re having a girl.
you weren't expecting a response immediately, you'd be lucky if you get one in two hours.
“so,” you started. “when do you want cale, tracy, and the landeskogs to come over?”
“are you working tomorrow?” you shook your head. tomorrow would be day two of your four days off. “wanna do tomorrow?”
“works for me.” you curled into his chest, your legs folded at the knees until he pulled them over his lap once more. “do you mind texting them? my phone is on the other side of the couch and i don't feel like moving.
his chuckle was felt in your bones. “i got it, don't worry about it, honey.”
the next night had you pacing around the house to make sure everything was set up. nathan was in the shower while you were internally freaking out about the state of the living room. were there enough blankets? nate didn't keep the house super cold out of abundance of caution for you and the baby, but maybe everyone else was cold natured?
when you decided the living room wasn't going to get any better, you went to the kitchen and opened the pantry for movie night snacks.
only there weren't any.
honestly, it was on you to assume nate had sweets just laying around. there were more now that you were pregnant than there had ever been to your knowledge. but you ran out of your favorites a few days ago.
which meant you had to go grocery shopping.
you grabbed your wallet and your keys, barely remembering to slip on shoes before you headed out. it didn't even cross your mind to leave a note. and you were halfway to the store when you realized you didn't have your phone.
but it didn't matter.
you weren't going to be gone that long.
you'd returned home with two arms worth of groceries, hopefully enough to feed three professional athletes, their partners, and a pregnant woman. once you walked into the house, you went straight towards the kitchen to unload the groceries and to get started on making the popcorn.
you didn't hear nate at all at first. not until he was apparently hanging up the phone.
“no, she's here now. we’re all good, i’ll see you shortly.”
you turned around from where you were standing by the microwave. initially, you smiled when you saw him until you caught the way his hands shook a little. “nate? everything okay?”
“are you?”
you blinked. “why wouldn't i be? i mean, i was freaking out about the state of the living room and the lack of movie snacks but i’m fine now. why?”
“you weren't here when i got out of the shower,” he said. “and you left your phone.”
“i wasn't gone that long, it was only...”
oh.
forty-five minutes.
long enough for nathan to get out of the shower and freak out when you were nowhere to be found. slowly, you approached him like you would a wounded animal. except he wasn't a wounded animal, he was your daughter’s father and someone you'd come to see as a friend.
“i went out to get snacks, i just forgot my phone,” you said gently. “i’m sorry.”
he nodded, albeit shakily. “you're okay? baby girl is okay?”
“we’re fine, nate,” you said, bracing your hands on your bump where baby girl was moving around (a recent development). “she’s okay, she’s moving just fine.” you took his hands and placed them on your bump. “we’re okay, nate.”
after a moment, he nodded and his shoulders relaxed. “okay.”
“i’m sorry i worried you.”
but he was pulling you in and resting his head on top of yours. “you're both okay, that’s what matters.”
the microwave beeped in the background, but neither of you moved an inch. not for a while, anyway. when the two of you finally pulled away, you got to work. nathan was in charge on popping popcorn, which he watched and listened for diligently. not a single kernel was burned on his watch.
you were setting up the divided snack platters with peanut m&ms (nate’s favorite), twizzlers (your least favorite, but you got them just in case someone else liked them. there had to be a reason they’re still being sold in theaters), chocolate chips, off brand peanut butter cups, and a few other salty snacks you were craving.
you huffed and braced your hands on your back after you finished plating everything. with one hand, you wiped the small amount of sweat gathered at your hairline. nate took notice and nodded towards the stairs. “go get ready, i’ve got this.”
you slowly went up the stairs to get changed into a pair of leggings and a crop top that used to only expose an inch or two of your waist. now, it functioned more like a sports bra with sleeves, but you were hot and weren't gonna cover up the bump. not in your home.
still, you found yourself tugging the shirt down a little bit. one part of you glanced at the avalanche shirt hanging in your closet. you'd wear if it you didn't fear it would send the wrong message to his teammates.
after death gripping the railing, you finally made it downstairs, something that had grown more and more precarious the farther you got into your pregnancy.
gabe and his wife melissa were already in the kitchen when your foot hit the bottom stair.
everyone’s attention landed on you. melissa and landy smiled and waved, but nate couldn't take his eyes off your exposed bump.
“hi, it’s nice to meet you,” you said, trying to turn on the charm.
melissa smiled brightly. “you have to be the cutest pregnant woman to exist.”
you looked at her, then down at your exposed stomach, then down to the socks you wore to cover your slowly swelling ankles. “oh uh, thanks.”
landy stuck his hand out and introduced himself like you didn't know who he was. “nate’s told us a lot about you.”
immediately, you looked at nathan to see if that was true and sure enough the tips of his ears were red. “all good things i hope.”
melissa’s laugh sounded like a windchime. “it’s been nothing but good things, honey.”
tracy and cale arrived five minutes later, the former embraced you in a tight embrace that bordered on too tight before nate cleared his throat. “you're absolutely glowing, love.”
cale gave you a smaller, less intense hug, one that was brief before he returned to tracy’s side. after all the hugs and introductions, you made your way to nate’s side, leaning into his hip and the arm he had resting on the counter behind you.
“thank you all for coming,” nate started. “we both really appreciate it and—”
you rolled your eyes. “we’re not doing an interview with the press, nate. you can tell them.”
“tell us what?” tracy asked. “what could you possibly have to—” her eyes widened. “do you know what you're having?!”
you couldn't stop the smile from taking over your face when you nodded. you glanced up at nate just in time to see him already staring back. “you can tell them,” you said. “i don't care.”
nate nodded and looked away to his captain and teammate. “we’re having a girl,” he beamed.
tracy’s eyes widened before she shrieked and rounded the counter to embrace you in another hug, rocking you side to side. “oh my god oh my god oh my god!” she said repeatedly. “a baby girl!” tracy pulled back and cupped your face in her hands, nearly squishing your cheeks together. “how're you feeling? are you okay?”
you nodded. “it was an adjustment at first, but i’m good now. it’s all good.”
“baby girl is a big step, nate,” landy started with a wide smile. “you sure you know what you're doing?”
nathan shrugged. “can’t be that hard if you can do it.”
the six of you moved to the living room with snacks in tow. the plan was to watch a movie, but the boys ended up talking about the upcoming season while tracy and melissa politely insisted on throwing a baby shower soon.
all the while, remember the titans played in the background. you'd forbade nate from playing miracle, or any of the mighty ducks movies, not that it did much good seeing as hockey was still half the conversation. but you couldn't really complain, not when you leaned into his chest, and certainly not when his arm wrapped around your waist for his hand to land on your belly.
after nathan helped you up the stairs, you retired to your room and slept like a rock, exhausted from the relief of feeling fully supported for the first time.
week 22
“so how long are you gonna work?” sophie asked once you sat down to chart at your desk.
you shrugged. “no idea, as long as i can.”
“and your baby daddy is gonna let you?”
sophie was twenty-three and while it wasn't too much younger than you, her view on the world was still quite naive. “he doesn't let me do anything, soph. i’m grown and responsible for my own decisions.” you accented your comment with the clicks of the keyboard.
“right, that's what i meant. i mean, are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“i only get twelve weeks of maternity leave, soph. i’m not using that time until i have a baby.”
and maybe you were being a little rude about it, but you and nate had gotten into an argument about the same thing two nights ago.
“i just don't think it’s good for you,” he pointed out. “you working this much while this pregnant.”
“i’m surrounded by doctors all day, nate. i couldn't be working a safer job.”
“let me get this straight, we’re calling a job where you have to work twelve consecutive hours, safe?”
“safer than your job.”
“i’m not the one who's pregnant!”
you threw your hands up. “and there’s where you lose the argument, nate. you're not pregnant, i am. my body is telling me i can do this and so i will. if it becomes too much, i’ll stop.”
he’d clenched his jaw at that but hadn't protested anymore.
safe to say, when sophie made that comment, you could've been nicer about it, but it was already a touchy subject. thankfully, she didn't bring it up again.
by the time you made it home, your back ached something fierce. you were basically waddling into the house.
nate came around the corner when he heard you enter through the garage door. “you okay, honey?”
“just tired,” you whined, immediately falling into nate’s open arms, his miracle hands working out the knots in your back. “i need to shower.”
“go shower, i’ll get the living room set up for you.”
“including footrubs?” you asked.
he smiled and nodded. “including footrubs.” he looked past you and up the stairs. “do you wanna shower down here? i can bring some clothes down so you don't have to go use the stairs?”
you about cried as you nodded. “thank you, nate.”
he kissed the top of your head and nodded. “anything you want in particular?”
“sweats and that avs shirt in my dresser.”
nate squinted at you. “you mean the one you stole from me?”
but you were already waddling to the bathroom. “whatever!”
sometime between the moment where you stepped into the shower and the time you stepped out, nate snuck in and dropped your clothes off. they laid in a neat pile on the vanity counter. all items of clothing accounted for, underwear included. maybe, if you weren't literally pregnant with his child, you'd feel embarrassed about nathan going through your underwear drawer, but after the day you had, you couldn't care less.
you found nathan sitting on the couch, arm on the back of it. immediately, you slid into the space next to him, and like clockwork, his arm draped around your shoulders.
“what’re we watching?” you asked, eyes half open.
“a nature documentary, i heard it was good. and i thought you would like something other than sports.” he looked down at you. “do you need anything? footrubs?”
you leaned further into his chest. “mhm,” you hummed. “not right now, ’m too comfy.”
you lightly dozed while nathan watched the movie, only really noticing slight movement from your baby. however, it was the sharp kick to your side that had nathan shooting up and you by proxy.
“what?” you asked, startled. “what’s wrong?”
“that was the baby?” his eyes were as big as the decorative bowl on his coffee table. “she kicked?” his hands were immediately cradling your stomach, waiting for more movement. as if she was waiting for this very moment, she kicked right where nate’s palm was. “oh my god,” he said, sounding a bit stuffed up.
she kicked a few more times before settling, and each time was better than the last.
nate buzzed with energy after the kicking settled down. “will she do it again?”
“at some point, but she might not be in the mood right now.”
“god that's so fucking amazing,” he murmured into your hair, placing a delicate kiss there. “there's an actual baby in there.”
his smile was contagious, you couldn't help but grin back at him.
week 23
“tracy, i’m probably the worst friend turned baby mama on the planet,” you said into the phone.
“i’m sure that's not true,” she replied. “but just in case it is, what's wrong?”
“nate’s birthday is in two days and i haven't planned anything.”
“oh.”
“exactly, trace. i’m the fucking worst.”
“to be fair, you've been busy growing a little human and delivering other people’s little humans.”
you ran a hand down your face and exhaled. “what're the odds that you can help me set up a surprise party in two days?”
silence, then, “that's a cakewalk. do you want to invite the team?”
you didn't know his teammates very well, but who else would you call? his parents? sidney? they couldn't be here in two days. so you said yes.
“the tricky part is getting nate out of the house for everyone to get here.”
your eyes lit up, though she wasn't there to see it. “i picked up a day shift that day, i can ask him to pick me up afterwards, play it like i’ll be too tired to drive. that’ll give you and everyone about an hour to arrive and get set up.” you said.
tracy groaned your name. “you already work so much, did you really need to pick up another shift on a day you aren't actually scheduled?”
“i know, i know, but i needed the money—”
“you're being ridiculous, nate pays for most things—”
“but when the baby comes and i’m on my feet again, i’ll need to find a place to live, trace,” you reasoned.
her scoff echoed through the receiver. “good luck getting that past nate.”
before you could stop yourself, you rolled your eyes. “he does not dictate my life. when it’s time to move out, i will.”
“you're so stubborn.”
not by choice, was what you wanted to say. not by choice but by necessity. you didn't need to say that the refusal to accept help was formed in a dysfunctional childhood. tracy only knew parts of your upbringing, and you weren't going to clarify anything else over the phone.
“so can you talk to the boys and get them here by 6:15?”
“i sure can. anything else you need?”
you thought about it for a moment. “i need you to drop me off at work, i’ll say my car doesn't work or something. that way i don't have to worry about leaving my car on the other side of town.”
“won't that look suspicious to nate?”
you shrugged though she couldn't see you. “he’ll be busy working out, it won't matter.”
sure enough, on nate’s birthday, you were meeting tracy in the driveway while the sun was still down.
“you're lucky i love you,” she said after taking a large sip of her iced coffee.
“you can take a nap when you get home.”
tracy pulled out of the driveway. “did nate say anything?”
“i tried to get out before he had time to talk to me.”
“...how?”
you hummed. “he's a creature of habit, i timed leaving with his post morning workout shower.”
tracy blinked. “do you think he's gonna notice your car is still there?”
as if he knew he was the subject of your conversation, your phone vibrated. “hello?”
“your car is still here.”
you blinked. “i know, nate. tracy is taking me to work.”
“why?”
“my car didn't start this morning.”
“do you know what's wrong with it?”
“i’m a nurse, nate, not a mechanic.”
he paused for a brief moment, then, “i’ll take a look at it. do you need someone to pick you up later?”
perfect, just as you planned. “yes, if you don't mind. i get off work at 7 tonight.”
“i’ll be there. do you want dinner or anything?”
“no i think we have food at home i can eat.”
he hummed. “i’ll see you after work then. go easy today, okay? did you bring your tape?”
“it won’t be that bad, i don’t need it.”
“you say that now.”
“nate,” you groaned.
“i’ll let it go. i’ll see you after work.”
you bid tracy goodbye as you headed into the hospital. once you were in scrubs, you headed to your desk to receive the report.
the workload wasn’t too bad, most of your coworkers did the heavy lifting, which used to bother you but with the way your back was aching, you couldn't find it in yourself to care anymore. you spent the twelve hours fetching ice chips, checking dilation, helping women labor, and occasionally fielding questions from your patients about how far along you are.
“must be comforting working at a hospital while you’re pregnant,” one mom said. “you’re in the best place just in case.”
you smiled. “it does have its perks.”
“are you not exhausted at the end?” her partner asked.
“oh all the time, i practically pass out when i get home.”
one of your moms asked about your baby between contractions and minutes before she started pushing. you were getting her situated on the yoga ball when she looked up and noticed you were pregnant for the first time.
“what’re you having?” she asked through her deep breathing.
“a girl,” you replied as you adjusted her hospital gown.
“do you have a name?”
a laugh escaped your lips. “i wish i was that prepared. her dad probably has a list of names, but i haven’t had time to seriously think about it.” and then, because you had nothing else to lose. “do you have any tips or suggestions?”
there was a pause in the room as she breathed through a contraction. as the moment passed, she exhaled. “do yourself a favor and don’t name her after a family member. she doesn’t need the burden and you don’t need the drama.”
“noted.”
your shift ended shortly after her baby was born, a healthy, screaming, six pound boy.
after changing out of your amniotic fluid covered scrubs and into your leggings and t-shirt, you waddled to the elevator.
a quick glance at your phone let you see the most recent text from nate.
nate: parked outside
you shot a quick text to tracy.
you: nate’s here, we’re about to leave. eta is 7:30
she liked the message right as you walked outside and saw nate idling under the portico. you were in the car for all of two seconds before nate was handing you a granola bar and an owala.
“liquid iv is already in the water,” he said when you looked at the bottle warily.
part of you wanted to deny his help, to say you could eat when you got home, but the hyperindependence was wearing on you. it was so much easier to trust nate would take care of things when you couldn't.
“i looked at your car today,” he said while driving back to your house. “what did you say was wrong with it?”
“it wouldn’t start,” you said, taking a bite of the bar.
“funny you say that, it started just fine for me today.”
“hm, interesting.” you said noncommittal. “crazy how that works out.”
“was there a reason you needed tracy to drive you? did you just not feel like driving?”
without giving up too much, you shrugged. “didn’t want to interrupt your workout. and tracy was headed to spin anyway.”
“if you didn’t wanna drive, you could’ve asked me,” he said, switching into the left lane. “i would’ve done it.”
before you could second guess yourself, you reached over and squeezed his arm. “i know, nate.”
he glanced down at where your hand touched his bicep. then he cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the road. “how’s baby girl doing?”
you took your hand off his arm to rub your stomach. “she’s been kicking away, like nonstop.”
his face lit up like a christmas tree. “god i can't wait to meet her.”
at the sound of his voice, baby girl sent a kick to your side. you grunted and touched where she’d landed the blow. “i think the feeling’s mutual.”
“how was work?” he asked.
“it was good, actually. delivered a baby boy today, his mom gave me some solid advice.”
out of amusement, nate lifted his brows. “oh really? what was it?”
“don’t name baby girl after family or friends.”
“oh that’s easy to do,” he said simply.
you gaped at him. “do you have names already picked out?”
like it was no big deal, he shrugged. “a few.”
you didn’t even know why you were surprised. but when you told the mom earlier, you were only halfway serious. “okay,” you said, slightly twisting in your seat. “let’s hear ‘em.”
“well i like annie.”
“annie as in the musical or the girl from michael jackson’s smooth criminal?”
he groaned and rubbed a hand down his face. “okay so not annie, what about jordan?”
“as in michael jordan?”
he rolled his eyes and continued. “if you don’t like those, what about sarah?”
you blinked. “as in your sister? or as in michael cera?”
nate shot you a dirty look. “how many michaels do you know?”
“i mean i don't know any of them personally,” you quipped.
an irritated sigh left his mouth like a leaky tire. “okay so you don’t like any of those, what do you like?”
without even thinking, you shrugged. “i know what i don't like.”
“you’re gonna have to give me more than that, honey.”
“i don’t know what you want me to say.”
“what don’t you like?”
“i’m not a huge fan of overly girly names. i kinda like gender neutral names.”
“jordan is gender neutral,” he said in defense.
“i know, but all i can think about is michael jordan.”
because your logic was anything but logical, he let out a quiet laugh. “that makes no sense.”
you shrugged. “i don’t make the rules.”
as you pulled into the neighborhood, you sent a text to let tracy know you were two minutes out.
when nate pulled on the street, a wrinkle appeared between his brows as he noticed the cars parked. “lotta cars parked out here.”
because you couldn't afford to spoil the surprise when you’ve come this far, you waved him off. “it’s labor day weekend, i’m sure people are just having barbecues.”
he hummed but didn’t seem to buy it, but what else could it be? nathan pulled into the garage and cut the car off right as the door started to close. while he didn’t open your door for you, (not because he didn’t want to, he’d just learned you took it as a challenge to get out independently) nate did wait for you to join his side before he opened the door into the house.
all the lights were off, which immediately put him on alert. “i could’ve sworn i left a light on,” he said, reaching for the light switch.
as soon as he flipped the switch on, light filled the room while his teammates and their partners screamed “surprise” in unison.
nate jumped in shock before laughing. “jesus fucking christ.”
landy and cale approached first before the other teammates followed, wrapping him up in hugs as you squeezed past them. you meandered into the kitchen where you met tracy with the cake, a two and nine candle side by side.
“thank you, trace. seriously, for all the help.”
she waved you off. “whenever you need it, i’m your girl for parties for your baby daddy.”
“what’s this about your baby daddy?” nate said from behind you, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. his hand rested on your back.
“just thanking tracy for her help.” but she was holding her hands up.
“i just executed the vision.”
you glanced back at nate right as he looked down at you. “you planned this?”
you nodded, albeit a bit sheepishly. “you would’ve done the same for me.” to distract yourself from the gravitational pull of the soft look on his face, you pointed at the cake and grabbed a lighter from the drawer. “you wanna blow your candles out?”
you lit the candles and watched as nate blew them out, his right hand lingered on your lower back. if tracy hadn’t shooed you out of the way, you probably would cut the cake and served the ice cream, but her and nate were both shoving a plate in your hand with dessert and escorting you out of the kitchen.
nate joined you no more than three minutes later. without hesitating, he pulled the coffee table closer so you could rest your feet.
“thank you for this,” he said. “i wasn’t sure if you remembered.”
“i almost forgot,” you admitted. “but i checked my calendar and saw it there.”
nathan smirked, looking incredibly smug and proud of himself. “you have my birthday in your phone?”
initially unaware you’d given yourself away so obviously, you quickly course corrected. “i have all my friends’ birthdays in my phone.”
he nodded like he was trying to convince himself that’s all it was. before he could think too deeply, his teammates started congregating in the living room.
“do we wanna do presents?” tracy asked.
nathan shook his head. “you didn’t have to—“
you squeezed his arm. “we wanted to.” when you made a move to stand, nate held you back.
tracy appeared in front of you. “you relax, mama. do you need me to grab something?”
you scowled for a moment until nathan absentmindedly tossed his arm behind you and around your shoulders. “would you mind grabbing nate’s present off my dresser?”
in a quickness you missed and envied, tracy went upstairs and came back in less than five minutes. you almost let your irritation get the best of you, tempted to just complain at how pregnant you were, but then nate kissed the side of your head, his fingers stroking your shoulder, and you forgot what you were upset about.
“should i open this first or last?” nathan asked when you fiddle with the present in your lap.
“last!” mikko called from the other side of the living room. “give the rest of us a shot to be appreciated.”
the presents nate got were nice, various athletic gear and gift cards, a ton of gift cards. there weren't handwritten cards with lines under certain words on the inside, but you didn't expect that from this group. hell, you didn't really expect that from anyone.
nathan nudged you. “i think it’s time for your gift,” he said, already reaching for it.
hesitantly, you handed it to him, suddenly nervous at the sheer number of eyes carefully watching the interaction.
nate took the package and carefully unwrapped the present. you couldn't look at his hands carefully undoing your tape and wrap job, your eyes were fixed solely on his face.
your ears tuned into the way he sniffled when he finished pulling the paper away and saw a picture frame. in the center was a photo you'd taken of nate smiling while holding baby girl’s ultrasound after finding out her sex. the caption of the frame said “best dad in the world.”
nathan wiped at his nose with the back of his sleeve, his other hand cradled the back of your head as he brought your forehead to his lips, pressing a gentle and lingering kiss there. “thank you,” he said just quiet enough to be inaudible to everyone but you. “sorry guys, this one wins,” he said louder, still wiping at the corners of his eyes.
“that’s the cheat code, ladies and gentlemen,” landy started. “baby related gifts always win.”
melissa smacked him in the arm and mumbled something about not everything needing to be a competition.
the party went on for another hour or so before people started leaving. you weren't paying much attention, starting to doze on nate’s shoulder sometime after presents had been opened. it wasn't until he lightly nudged you that you'd noticed the living room was already half empty.
“you should go to bed, you look exhausted,” he said softly.
if he wasn't right, you would've asked if he was calling you ugly just to see him blush under the accusation, but you didn't have it in you. “i’ll clean up then head to bed.”
nathan shook his head and with his other hand, gestured for tracy (and cale by proxy) to come over. “the boys and i can clean up, honey. trace, will you help her to her room?”
your friend was already holding her hands out for you to take to make getting off the couch easier. “i don't need an escort, nate.”
“you're exhausted and can't see your feet anymore.” when you didn't move, he sighed. “for me? since it’s my birthday?”
and because you were a sentimental, pregnant woman, you rolled your eyes and sighed. “fine.”
tracy ushered you up the stairs and straightened your room while you showered and got dressed. “do you need me to do anything else?” she asked.
as you climbed into bed you shook your head. “thank you again, for helping me with all of this.”
“anything for you,” she said. “especially for someone who makes you this happy.” she squeezed your foot where it rested underneath the blanket. “i love you, let’s get together sometime this week or next and plan that nursery out.”
for the next fifteen minutes, you scrolled on your phone while lounging in bed until there was a knock.
“come in,” because you already knew who it was.
nate opened the door slowly and leaned against the doorframe, your present to him gripped lightly in his hands. he held it up to you. “thanks for the party, for this, for baby girl,” he said, voice sounding a little watery.
“you don't have to thank me—”
“i don't think i've ever been this happy in a long time,” he admitted.
there was no stopping a smile from taking complete control over your face. “i’m glad it was a good birthday, nate.”
he swallowed and nodded his head, but he looked unsettled. he pushed off the doorframe and kept shifting weight on his feet. “it was a good birthday.” he looked at the picture frame once more. “me and baby girl’s first picture together.”
“i’ll get you another one when she’s born.”
he cracked a smile, it felt like it lit up your entire room despite the sun having set awhile ago. “i’m gonna hold you to that.” a soft silence fell over the room, a yawn made its way out of your mouth. “i’ll let you get some rest, you've had a long day.”
“good night, nate.”
he rapped on your doorframe twice. “good night, honey.”
week 24
hockey had started back with camps, training, and preparing for preseason games which meant nate was a little busier than normal. preseason camp was in full swing which cut into the time you had with him.
hence why tracy was over scrolling through pinterest once again.
“all i’m saying is we only have so much time before the baby gets here and hockey season is in full swing.”
“there's no way you're gonna get a baby shower done before the regular season starts,” you said.
but tracy continued on like you hadn't said anything. “what do you think about this one?” she flipped her laptop around and showed you a picture of a flowery themed baby shower.
you shook your head. “it’ll be fall, the flowers would be dead or very expensive. i wouldn't oppose if it was a spring shower, but seeing as i’m pregnant now...”
tracy nodded. “you're absolutely right.” she typed more on her laptop until a wide grin spread across her face. “okay, but what about this one?”
a little pumpkin is on the way.
there was no stopping the smile on your face. sure, it was cheesy beyond belief and probably would be cringe in a few years, just like every other trend, but it was so cute.
“i love it,” you smiled.
“what do you love?” you and tracy spun around on the couch to see nathan coming in from the garage covered in sweat.
“how was your workout?” you asked, completely ignoring his question. he didn't seem to mind though, because he didn't answer yours either.
“how’s baby girl? she been kicking any?” he rounded the couch and sat on the coffee table in front of you, his hands hovering as if asking for permission to touch you.
your hands guided his to your bump. as if she knew her dad was around (because according to your app, she could hear you both talking now), baby girl gave a light kick.
nathan leaned in a pressed a light kiss to the spot, something he'd been doing ever since you gave him the green light two weeks ago. “never gets old,” he smiled before standing. “what were you two talking about? i never got the answer.”
“baby shower themes,” tracy said before showing nate the pinterest board she’d started creating in the last two minutes.
“pumpkins?” he asked, then leaned in. “our little pumpkin?”
“you like it?” you asked. “i thought it was cute.”
nathan kissed the side of your head and stood, headed to the kitchen. “love it.” he opened the fridge, frowned, the opened the cabinets. “do we need to go to the grocery store?” he asked.
“i meant to before you got home, got caught up talking about baby stuff. i can go in a minute.”
“we can go together,” he said. “there's too much to get just for you to go alone.”
“when do you wanna go? tracy is still—”
“i actually am meeting cale soon for lunch,” she interjected.
“...but it’s 3pm,” you said.
she was already standing and waving you off, gathering her things in a hurry. “early dinner, then. it was good seeing you both.” tracy pointed at you. “i’ll text you and we can keep planning this baby shower.”
she was out the door in a matter of minutes, leaving you and nate to gape and stare at each other in silence.
“guess we should go now, huh?” you said. it took a second to get off the couch, something that was getting harder to do the bigger your belly got.
“are you going in that?” nate asked, gesturing to your spandex and tank top.
“and risk being seen with you, belly on full display?” you scoffed. “i’m not trying to end up on twitter.”
“twitter?” he asked.
slowly, you moved up the stairs and called over your shoulder. “the rumor mill, nate. i don't need people speculating about my private life, or its connection to yours for that matter.”
while you couldn't see his face, you could almost picture him nodding along. “fair enough!” he called up the stairs. “do you need me to make a list?”
“yes please!” then, after a moment, “but i’m gonna need something other than chicken, rice, broccoli, and quinoa in the house, nate!”
“you and baby girl need nutrients!”
“baby girl wants buffalo chicken dip and trolli’s sour gummy worms.” nathan could've replied, but you weren't listening. trying to pick out an outfit that would cover your growing baby bump was more pressing than entertaining nate’s nonsense.
it was too warm to be wearing baggy sweatshirts or multiple layers so you settled for a pair of maternity jeans and the largest t-shirt you could find after raiding nathan’s closet.
“nice shirt,” he commented once you made it back down the stairs.
“it was the only thing big enough to cover the bump.”
“i’m not mad,” he smiled. “it looks good on you.”
you rolled your eyes to keep yourself from dwelling on his comment. “you're such a man,” you said. “let’s go before i lose the motivation to leave the house.”
the drive to the store was relatively short. nathan let you choose the music since you'd complained about his taste before which meant his fingers drummed on the steering wheel while you belted your heart out.
as you pulled into the parking lot, you looked over at him. “do you have your disguise?”
a chuckle escaped his lips before he reached into the backseat and pulled out a baseball cap. the avs logo front and center.
“you can't be serious,” you deadpanned. “an avs hat? are you even trying?”
“what?” he asked, pulling the cap over his head.
“you can't honestly expect that to work. i thought we were going for subtle.”
nathan looked at your like you were dumb. “honey, my face is gonna be recognized regardless if i wear a hat.”
“oh!” you snorted. “that self assured are you?” he winked and unlocked the doors. in the process of getting out, (which, like most things, had become more difficult as your belly grew), nate had rounded the front of the car to open your door. “you didn't have to.” but he held a hand out and eased you out anyway. “do you have the list?”
he held up his phone as the two of you walked into the store. “in my notes app.”
“what’s on it?”
wordlessly, nathan handed his phone to you. after a quick glance at the list he'd curated, you couldn't even say you were surprised. it was exactly what someone might assume he'd put on the list.
“nate, this is awful.” you handed the phone back to him and pulled out your own, jotting things down that you would want. you brought your wallet for this exact reason. there was no doubt nathan would want to buy the groceries, he'd said as much before, but if he won't budge on the snacks you want, you'd pay for them yourself.
“what's wrong with it?”
you stopped walking abruptly, but nate’s hand was on your back, pushing you forward so you didn't get hit by a car in the middle of the parking lot. “what's wrong with it? nate, this food is so healthy.”
“i fail to see the problem there.”
“i want something sugary. that's the problem.”
the automatic doors of the grocery store slid open before nate responded. he grabbed a cart and started pushing it down the aisles before responding. “the research i did says you need all the nutrients you can get,” he said just loud enough for you to hear, aware that no one in the store needed to know your business.
“i hear that, but i’m telling you i don't want ants on a log, i want pretzels and nutella.” nathan opened his mouth, but you cut him off. “celery is not an equivalent substitute for pretzels, nate. don't even try to pretend like it is.”
a grin cracked his steely composure like he couldn't help himself. “fine, you win.”
before you could second guess yourself, you latched yourself onto nate’s bicep for a second and squeezed. “thanks, nate.” you let go a beat later.
you began tossing some snacks in the cart, paying little attention to the grunts from nate when he clearly disagreed with the need for them.
“alright,” you wiped your hands on your pants. “what’s next on the list?”
“nothing you put in the cart was on the list,” he deadpanned but you reached for his phone anyway.
you paid him no mind as you scrolled for anything you could grab that was on this aisle. when you went to hand his phone back, a man approached the two of you.
“are you nathan mackinnon?” a man who looked to be at least ten years older than you walked up with a box of cereal in his hand.
nate’s shoulders sagged in a way only you would notice, the quiet disappointment of not being able to be a normal person doing mundane things.
“that’s me,” he said with a smile on his face, looking every bit ready to play the part.
not wanting to get caught up in the fan interaction, you quickly exited the area with the cart to go to the produce area for nate’s cement sludge smoothies. you grabbed some bananas, blueberries, strawberries, apples (for your lunches), a few kiwis. you were perusing the avocados when someone reached for the same one.
“you can have it,” he said, taking his hand back.
once the avocado was in your hand, you took a glance at the man next to you. your eyes widened. “logan?”
your ex boyfriend’s face lit up when he recognized you. “no way! how’re you doing? you look good!”
there was no helping the smile on your face. “i’m alright, how’re you? it’s been a minute.”
logan nodded. “about the same for me. how long has it been? a year?”
when you did the math in your head, it checked out, about a year and some change, though it felt much longer than that. you’d lived so many lives since the break up last june. “feels like forever ago.”
he looked older, which was to be expected, some time had passed since you’d seen each other, the last time being when you went to exchange your things at the end of june. and yet, he was still incredibly handsome.
“we’re different people now,” he said. “what have you been up to?”
you shrugged. “just working really, nothing too major.” as if she was offended by your remark, baby girl kicked you in the side as a reminder that she was still there. a startled gasp forced its way out as you braced your hand where she kicked.
“you okay?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing in a way you used to think was cute.
“yeah, just caught me off guard.”
his eyes darted to where your hand rested, they widened like it was in that moment, he realized you were pregnant. the dark green shirt you wore helped cover your bump until your hand was pressed against the fabric, making it noticeable.
“you’re pregnant,” he stated.
you nodded, a bit sheepish, but ultimately not ashamed of your current situation. “yeah, it wasn’t planned but i can’t say i regret it.”
you were waiting for the joke, for the mention of a rebound or even a comment on how it took you less than a year to get knocked up when that had never happened in the two years you’d dated logan. but he smiled, surpassing all expectations.
“congratulations! when are you due?”
“early january,” you replied, rubbing your bump.
“pregnancy looks good on you.” logan cleared his throat. “what did your family say?” he asked carefully.
after two years of dating, logan knew your family pretty well. the disdain they held for you wasn’t secretive, in fact it was pretty obvious. it was a legitimate question, seeing as logan had seen up close and personal how critical your family (parents especially) could be on your life choices.
“they definitely could’ve said something worse.”
he grimaced. “that bad?”
“c'mon logan, you know them. can you say you’re surprised?”
“fair enough.” his eyes kept darting to your hand that was gently rubbing your stomach.
you couldn't stop the smile on your face. “do you wanna feel?” you asked. “you keep staring.”
logan looked at you sheepishly. “is that okay? i don’t wanna overstep—“
you shook your head. “not overstepping, i offered.”
hesitantly, he reached out and placed a warm palm over your stomach. his breath caught in his throat as baby girl gave a little tap.
“was that—“
you nodded. “she’s pretty active and a bit of a show off, just like her dad.”
“who’s her dad?”
“me.”
you were proud to say you only jumped slightly when nate’s voice sounded from over your shoulder. to his credit, logan didn’t shy away, but after looking nate in the eye, his hands slowly pulled away from your stomach.
there wasn’t much time to feel the absence of warmth logan’s hands left because nate’s palm took their place, with his other hand resting on your hip.
“nice to meet you, i’m logan.” usually, your ex would’ve held his hand out since that’s the kind of person he is, but there must’ve been something on nathan’s face that had him shoving his hands into his pockets.
“nathan,” he replied rather gruffly. “how do you two know each other?”
because logan looked incredibly uncomfortable at this turn of events, you spoke for him, shifting slightly so nate was more beside you than behind you. “logan and i used to date.”
nate’s hand tightened slightly on your hip.
“yeah…” logan said, albeit a little awkwardly. any easygoing demeanor he had disappeared as soon as nate walked up. “but it was like a year ago, we were friends before that.” logan cleared his throat. “how did you two meet?”
“through tracy,” you replied. “do you remember her?”
his eyes lit up in recognition. “yeah! your friend from those spin classes?”
“that very one. she just got married to cale this summer.”
“oh that’s—“
“honey, we’ve got a few more things we have to get,” nate interrupted, rather curtly in your opinion. part of you wanted to tell him so, but one look at logan’s face said he was ready for the interaction to be over.
so you nodded. “right, yeah.” you glanced at logan and smiled. “it was nice seeing you again.”
“same. i’ll see you around!” he said before walking off.
as soon as logan was out of sight, you turned to nate. “well, that was rude,” you hissed, pushing the cart towards the next aisle.
“what was rude?” nate asked, trailing behind you.
“you're not an idiot, nathan. you know exactly what i’m talking about.” once he started walking beside you, you snatched his phone out of his hand and looked at the list. you needed chickpea pasta next.
“i was not being rude,” he said.
“oh so you do know what i’m talking about?” you turned into the pasta aisle, still refusing to look at him. “you didn't have to be a jerk.”
“i don't think i was being irrational,” he defended. “you walked away and when i went to find you, i turned a corner and saw a stranger with his hands on you and our baby.”
“logan isn't a stranger, he’s an ex.”
“even worse,” he grumbled.
“you're being dramatic.”
“i don't think i am.”
there was a portion that wanted to retaliate with a snarky comment, but you were reminded you were still in a public place. so instead, the two of you walked in silence, adding things to the cart whenever the list (or your cravings) called for. any lightness from earlier disappeared when the cloud over nate’s head formed. neither of you said anything to each other until you were loading groceries into the trunk of his car.
well, nate was loading the car, you were standing there with your hands on your hips wondering why he was brooding.
“are you gonna tell me what's got you in such a bad mood?” you asked.
nathan shut the trunk and glanced at you before heading to the passenger side. he opened the door wordlessly and offered you a hand to get in the car.
you pointedly ignored it and decided struggling to get in the car was the better option than accepting help from a pissy professional hockey player.
“honey, c'mon, don't do this.”
“i don't know what you're talking about,” you said, doing your damndest to get up into his car without making a fool of yourself. you grabbed the handle and hoisted yourself into the passenger seat successfully. had you not been completely out of breath after the fact, you would've been quite smug.
despite the fact that he was clearly annoyed, nate still shut the door gently once he made sure all your parts were inside.
it took five minutes before he broke the tense silence.
“i wasn't trying to be a dick, i just didn't know him and it freaked me out, seeing someone i didn't know with his hands on you.” his knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight you thought he could’ve chipped a tooth at some point from the sheer force of it.
“he's just a guy, nate.”
“a guy you dated,” he clarified. “that's not ‘just a guy’ to me.”
“why does it matter? we’re not together anymore.”
“when did you break up?”
“last june two months before i met—”
“—me,” he finished. his jaw tightened even more. “how serious was it?”
there was no going back now, you might as well have been honest. “we dated for two years. i thought he was the man i was going to marry.” you couldn't look at him, not when you felt so exposed.
nate swallowed and cleared his throat. “why didn't you?” his voice was rough, like he had to force the words out of his mouth.
“his parents hated me. and when push came to shove, he couldn't, or rather, wouldn't defend me. and after a while, i couldn't take it anymore. i couldn't marry into another family that criticized me at any and every point in time.
the car came to a stop as nate pulled up to a red light. “that doesn't make any sense,” he said after a moment.
“what's confusing about it? i’m—”
“perfect. you're perfect.” he reached over and rested his hand on your knee, squeezing it lightly. “i know this whole thing wasn't planned, but i can't imagine doing this with anyone else. honestly, it’s his family’s loss, not yours.”
“you don't have to say that, nate. i’m really over it—”
“no you're not,” he said firmly. “you looked wrecked after you told your parents about the baby. you were uncomfortable when my parents brought up your family. you wouldn't even look me in the eye when you told me why you and that random guy broke up. you can hide behind snark and indifference whatever independent streak you have, but i know you.” you couldn't look at him, not with the hot water rising in your water line. but you felt his stare, you felt the heat of his hand on your knee.
it took a minute to say anything. “i don't want to talk about this anymore.”
nathan exhaled and squeezed your knee once more before he took his hand back. “okay, that's okay. we don't have to.”
the rest of the ride was quiet. when the two of you finally made it back home, nate insisted you head inside, he'd be responsible for getting the groceries inside. for once, you didn't fight him on it and headed straight to your room.
you didn't speak to him for the rest of the evening.
week 28
“you work tonight?” nate walked into the hallway, rubbing at his eyes from his pre-game nap, and frowned when you tried to walk past him carrying a laundry basket.
“i worked last night, i’m off today,” you replied, rolling your eyes when he took the basket from you and walked it into the laundry room.
“what're you doing tonight? tracy coming over?”
you shrugged and followed him to the laundry room, albeit significantly slower. “i was gonna try to clean up a little, do some laundry. tracy’s going to the game.” you braced your hands on your lower back and stretched, the tendons there feeling tense.
nate opened the washing machine but paused a moment later. “do you wanna go? i have a ticket you can use if you want it.”
you didn't say it, but the way you shifted on your feet must've given away your hesitation.
“you don't have to come if you don't want to,” he quickly amended, looking unsure of the words coming out of his mouth. “just figured i’d offer.”
“i’ll see how i feel, my back’s been aching lately.”
nate nodded and started putting some of your clothes in the washing machine. maybe you should've been embarrassed, but he'd literally taken those same pair of panties off of you earlier in the year, it wasn’t anything he hadn't seen before.
“i’ll text you the ticket, but don't feel pressured to go if you're not feeling well. do you need anything before i leave?” he stood and put detergent in the machine before starting it. “are you planning on being upstairs or downstairs?”
“more than likely downstairs,” you said more than anything to quell the thoughts you knew were raging in his head. though he'd never verbalize it, nathan was nearly always watching you with a careful eye especially when you were on the stairs. “do you need anything from me?”
there was something about the way he looked at you that made the breath in your lungs stutter just a little. “no,” he said, a little breathlessly in a way that made you think he was lying.
part of you waited for him to say something else, but the last honest conversation you two had was a month ago and that very talk nearly exposed parts of your psyche that you'd been desperately trying to cover up since.
“will your family be there?” you asked.
nathan shook his head. “they came to the columbus game, you were working that night.”
you frowned. “sorry, i didn't realize—”
“don't worry about it,” nathan said. “they understood and asked me to make sure you're taking care of yourself.”
“that was kind of them.”
the two of you stood in silence until his phone went off, startling you both. embarrassingly enough, the sound of his alarm nearly made you pee. “i should get ready to go,” he said.
you nodded and stepped out of his way. “yeah...”
nathan moved around you and back to his room, leaving only the scent of his cologne behind. you watched as he walked away, an ache in your chest that you couldn't quite explain. it wasn't long before you heard the opening of the garage door.
it felt like you were stuck in time, watching life pass around you. it’d been so long since the two of you had a conversation that was even remotely close to normal. in all the time you'd known him, even the first time you'd met, the conversation hadn't been this stilted.
but you were an emotionally stunted, pregnant, twenty-seven year old. nothing about your current situation with nathan should be a surprise. you were bound to fuck it up one day. but nate deserved better than that, your baby surely deserved better than your emotional constipation.
your fingers hit tracy’s contact before you could second guess yourself.
she came over within the hour and was there to help you down the stairs and tie your shoes. she patiently waited for you to waddle out to her car and helped you into the passenger seat when it was clear you were struggling.
“so, what happened?” she asked, waiting until she pulled out of the neighborhood.
“what do you mean?”
tracy fixed you with a look like you knew better than to be intentionally obtuse. “don't play dumb, you know what i’m talking about. you and nate, something’s off.”
“says who?”
“says you! says his body language. you two were so in sync a month ago, what happened?”
how could you tell her the truth? how could you string together enough words to say “he saw me and it was terrifying?”
“we ran into logan at the grocery store,” was what you settled on.
tracy paused. “your ex?” when you nodded, she grimaced. “how did that go?”
“nate was being weird about it.”
“weird how?”
“i—i don't know, he was just acting weird. it doesn't really make sense but—”
tracy shook her head. “i think that's the perfect word to describe him,” she cut in. “he's always been a little weird.”
you gave her a sideways glance that she caught when she took her eyes off the road for a brief second. “he's not weird though, not like that,” you said, feeling a bit defensive.
she rolled her eyes. “you can’t be serious. you know he's a little odd, with his little routines and habits—”
“there's nothing wrong with routines!”
but she continued on like you hadn't said a word. “not saying there’s anything wrong with them, but i am saying you need to specify his weirdness. what was he acting like?”
“i—i don't know! he just got really closed off.”
“well what happened?”
you shrugged helplessly. “i was talking to logan and let him feel baby girl kick and nate walked up—”
“and there you have it,” tracy concluded. “he went cave man.”
you blinked. “i’m gonna need an explanation.”
tracy rolled her eyes. “you mean to tell me, you can recognize the early signs of labor but can't figure out why nate, your baby daddy, wouldn't want logan, your ex, touching your bump?”
an uncomfortable weight settled in your stomach. “it’s not like that—”
“you're smarter than this, girl. you cannot be this blind.” she took her eyes off the road for a second to glance at you before fixing her eyes back on the windshield in front of her. “babe, his eyes stayed on you for the entire duration of his birthday party.”
“that’s nothing—”
“you literally told me today that he doesn't like you going down the stairs alone.”
“he's just protective. i can't seen my feet anymore and i’m carrying his child.”
tracy hummed like she wasn't fully convinced, but kept her mouth shut on that topic. instead, she cleared her throat and changed the subject. “did he send you a ticket?”
you held up your phone like a trophy. “texted it to me before he left.”
“but he doesn't know if you're coming?”
“not for sure, at least. he asked me earlier and i told him i didn't know.”
“good, he’ll be pleasantly surprised then.”
ball arena was freezing, just like every other time you'd been there. only this time, you had a lot further to walk.
when nate sent you the ticket, you didn't realize how close you would be to the glass, given that this was the first time you'd come to a game on his dollar. and while you were grateful for the close up view, you didn't account for how hard you'd need to grip the railing because you couldn't see your feet going down the stairs.
it wasn't that you'd never been to a game before, you'd gone a few times in the last few years, a few times in college, and a few times growing up with your dad and brother. but for all those instances, you were farther up in the stands meaning you didn't have to carefully traverse down the stairs like you did now.
“you okay?” tracy asked, glancing at you when you finally made it to your seat.
you braced your hands on your lower back. “just hoping i don't have to pee for the entire game.”
it wasn’t until you sat down that you felt like you could catch your breath.
tracy grimaced. “i can't believe you're here at what, thirty weeks?”
“twenty-eight,” you huffed. “and i’m fucking huge.”
“i don't know how you do it,” she said.
“do what? the stairs?”
“the stairs, being pregnant, being a nurse, you name it. there are so many things you do that blow my mind. you have the patience of a saint.”
you shrugged. “i don't have much of a choice at this point. i’m committed now.”
“how’re you feeling with everything?”
you thought back to the last few days since you'd seen her. morning sickness had been gone for months now at this point, but the catch was it swapped places with shortness of breath, active nights, and leg cramps. “i’m really tired. baby girl keeps moving at nighttime and i feel like i can’t do anything without needing to take a breather. walking down these stairs just about killed me. they might have to airlift me out of here,” you laughed.
the conversation ended when the avs came onto the ice, moving at a speed you hadn't seen in awhile. it didn't matter how many times you'd been to a game, it was still mesmerizing to see how fast the boys came out. your eyes were wide, your mouth open. it didn't even bother you when tracy laughed and took a photo of your face.
“you look like it’s your first time,” she laughed. “act like you've been here before.”
“i’m sorry, i just forgot how overstimulating it can be.”
the first period was disappointing with anaheim scoring twice, though you were thankful there wasn't an expectation for you to jump up and scream with everyone else when you weren't even sure how you were going to leave the arena.
nathan and tracy might have to take the seat out with you.
the avs finally got on the board in less than a minute of the second period starting. tracy jumped up screaming and banging on the glass and turned to you. “cale was on the assist!” she smiled.
“yay,” you tried, but it felt like baby girl was somehow in your lungs and on your bladder. despite all the experience you had with pregnant women, you weren't prepared for the inability to breathe coupled with the incessant need to pee.
“you okay?”
you nodded and shifted in your seat. “just trying to get comfortable.”
“did you bring your kinesiology tape?” she asked, sitting down once the hype had calmed down.
“no, i’m not at work.” when she opened her mouth, you shook your head. “you sound like nate.”
“well as uptight as he can be, he does have a point sometimes.”
it wasn't until the third that colorado took the lead, nate had an assist on the third goal by ross colton. the game looked like it was about to be over, but the puck stayed in front of georgiev until it slipped by him and into the back of the net with less than a minute left on the clock.
tracy groaned and put her head in her hands. “cale’s gonna be pissed when he gets home.”
“there’s still overtime,” you reminded her. “it’ll work out.”
that was what you hoped at least. you had to pee but didn't want to get up and miss whatever was about to happen, so if you were gonna stay in your seat, you hoped to god they would win.
there were multiple moments throughout the game that it looked like nate’s shots were gonna go in, too many to count, but it wasn't until he was in a three-on-one situation in overtime that the puck slid over the goal line. the horn reverberated throughout the arena, the stands screaming and banging the glass.
you were grateful the game ended in a win, something you didn't care about until you were pregnant and sharing a home with an nhl player. a few months ago, it didn't matter if the avs won or lost, you were still getting laid. the results of the game only determined how rough the sex would be that night. but now it was different, nate was grumpier after a loss.
your old solution to his attitude was sex, the next solution was waddling into the living room so he could feel the baby kick.
tracy was kind enough to sit with you while the stands cleared out a little more. she was even kinder to wait for you outside the bathroom after it took a considerable amount of effort (and time) for you to climb all the stairs. thankfully, she knew her way to the elevator which spared you from another set of steps.
by the time you made it down to the locker rooms, you wanted to curl up in a ball and take a nap.
and pee.
yet again.
your hands were braced on your lower back once more when melissa walked over.
“it’s the stairs, isn't it?” she asked, a small smile on her face. “they killed me too when i was pregnant.”
“did it ever get easier?”
“not even a little bit.”
you winced. “i might just watch the rest of the season from the comfort of nate’s couch then.”
shortly thereafter, players began trickling out of the locker rooms, greeting their loved ones. you weren't super familiar with most of them, despite having them over for nate’s birthday party.
you waved at gabe as he came out, but you stayed with tracy even when cale exited the locker room. cale kissed his wife and greeted you with a hug.
“how’s baby girl doing?” he asked. “you feelin’ okay?”
you rubbed your very large bump and sighed. “she's taking all my lung capacity.” you stretched your back out a little.
“does nate know you're here? he didn't mention it.”
“i didn't tell him i was coming for sure, but he sent me a ticket just in case.”
nate walked out, head down on his phone. your phone buzzed a beat later. there was no point in checking it when you knew who sent it. nate sent you the same variation of a text after every home game. it was always something like we won/lost. on my way home.
tonight wasn't any different.
but instead of checking, you leaned against the wall and watched and waited with cale and tracy for nate to notice you were standing right there.
he pulled his phone up to his ear at the same time your back pocket started vibrating. it was only then that he looked up and saw you standing with the makars. nate hung up the phone quickly and headed your direction.
“i wasn't sure if you were gonna come,” he said, a little breathless for some reason.
“i almost called for an airlift to get me out of the stadium seats.”
nate grimaced, as if it just hit him how far you had to walk. “your back okay?”
“it’s a little tight,” you admitted.
he nodded and shifted his bag into one of his hands before placing the other one on your lower back. “let’s get you home, then. think you can make it to the car?”
“if you're patient,” you quipped.
the two of you said goodbye to the makars and (slowly) walked out towards the parking garage. “that was a nice goal,” you said after a moment. “funny though that you could score in a three-on-one situation but not at equal strength.”
nate nudged your shoulder with his arm. “you're hilarious,” he deadpanned. “i’d love to see you try to do my job.”
“you first.”
he grimaced as if remembering the stories you'd told him about labor and delivery. “i’ll pass.”
when the two of you finally made it to the car, nate made sure to open your door, offering a hand for you to get in the passenger seat.
he cranked the heat as soon as he turned the ignition, you immediately reached out to turn your seat warmer on.
“thank you,” he started.
there was a split second where you contemplated playing dumb, where you thought about asking him what he was talking about, but things had been so awkward lately. you didn't want to make it worse.
“of course. it was about time i came to a game. and i don't know how feasible it'll be when i’m super pregnant.”
nate glanced at your stomach. “are you not super pregnant right now?”
you gawked before slapping him in the arm. “nathan raymond mackinnon! you cannot say that!”
but your words were barely heard over the sound of his laughter.
this. this was what you missed, the ease, the laughter, the joy. the last few weeks were a pressure cooker in your shared home. tensions were high. god it felt like you were holding your breath.
until now.
and just because you couldn't help yourself, you reached over and squeezed his arm. “sorry about the last few weeks, for icing you out,” you said.
nate took one hand off the wheel and squeezed your hand where it rested on his arm. “there's nothing to be sorry for.”
he was pulling into the driveway and opening the garage door moments later. and like before, he helped you out of the car when you weren't sure where your feet were.
when you got inside, he untied your shoes and slipped them off your feet. he spotted you as you slowly headed upstairs to your room. before he could walk down the hall to his own room, you grabbed his arm once more.
“thanks, nate. for all you do.” for taking off my shoes, for walking slowly, for spotting me up the stairs, for being concerned when you saw someone with his hands on the bump.
he smiled and kissed the top of your head. you melted inside, turned into a puddle of soft gentle light.
“anytime, honey. if you need anything, i’m right down the hall.”
Summary: you’re the first woman to play in the NHL, and the weight of history sits heavy on your shoulders. Every save is scrutinized. Every mistake dissected. You didn’t fight your way through lawsuits and locker room doubt just to be a curiosity, you came here to win. Then your captain starts looking at you like you’re more than just his goalie. And suddenly, the hardest save you’ll ever have to make has nothing to do with the puck.
(This was written before the trade and I don’t have the energy to go through and change pretty much everything, so it takes place in Vancouver)
The timeline of your life is measured not in years, but in the scrape of blades on ice. It’s measured in the sting of a frozen puck against your blocker, the muffled thud against your pads. It’s a staccato rhythm of saves and shots, of locker room speeches and the lonely quiet of the crease.
It started on a frozen pond behind your house, bundled in so many layers you could barely move, your dad lacing up your first pair of tiny skates. He’d shoot worn-out tennis balls at you, and you’d kick them away with a defiant joy that echoed across the snow-covered landscape. That joy became a fire.
The fire carried you through youth hockey, where the whispers followed you from rink to rink. “A girl goalie?” Mothers would murmur from behind the glass. “Is that allowed?” Fathers would grumble. The whispers turned to shouts from opposing benches, taunts from players who thought they could scare you. They didn’t know they were just fuel. Every chirp, every cheap shot after the whistle, every coach who looked at you with doubt — it all went into the furnace.
High school was a blur of state championships and headlines that always seemed to include the word “female” before “phenom.” You hated it. You weren’t a female phenom. You were a goalie. Full stop.
Then came college. The NCAA. The wall.
“The rules are clear,” the athletic director at Boston University had said, his face a mask of practiced sympathy. “The men’s team is for men.”
“The rules are discriminatory,” you’d shot back, your voice steely, betraying none of the fear churning in your gut. “I made the team. I beat out two other goalies in tryouts. Put me on the roster.”
He didn’t.
So you fought. Your family fought. You found lawyers who believed in the simple, radical idea that the best player should play. It became a national story. A lawsuit that crawled through the courts, each headline a fresh wave of pressure. Commentators debated your right to play on primetime television. Legends of the game weighed in, some for, some against. Through it all, you just kept training. Waking up at four in the morning, spending hours on the ice before class, facing down a puck-shooting machine until your legs screamed and your glove hand ached.
The day the judge ruled in your favor, you didn’t celebrate. You felt a quiet, bone-deep relief, as if a weight you’d been carrying your entire life had finally been lifted. The next day, you walked into the locker room, your nameplate freshly installed above a stall, and you pulled on the jersey.
And then you won. You won the Beanpot. You won the Hockey East championship. You carried the Terriers to the Frozen Four two years in a row, your save percentage and goals-against average shattering school records. You became a legend not because you were a woman, but because you were impenetrable. You were a wall.
Now, the fight is over. A new one is about to begin.
***
The air in J.P. Barry’s office is different. It’s thin and smells of money, glass cleaner, and the faint, lingering scent of a very expensive cigar smoked hours ago. His office is a glass box suspended forty stories above the glittering chaos of Manhattan, and from this vantage point, the world looks orderly, manageable. Deceiving.
You sit in a leather chair that costs more than your first car, a bottle of Voss water sweating onto the polished mahogany table beside you. Your hands are resting in your lap, still. A goalie’s hands. Calm. Ready.
J.P. Barry, your agent, paces slowly in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’s not a large man, but he commands space, his presence filling the room. He’s dressed in a tailored suit that probably costs more than your college tuition, his movements precise and deliberate. He’s been your agent for exactly six months, but in that time, he’s become the calm center of the hurricane that is your life.
“The media narrative is … predictable,” he says, his voice a low, even baritone. He stops pacing and turns to face you. His eyes are sharp, analytical. He’s not looking at you; he’s assessing an asset, calculating variables. “They’re calling it ‘The Great Experiment.’ ‘The Next Frontier.’ They’re treating you like a curiosity.”
You give a small, humorless smile. “I’ve been a curiosity since I was twelve.”
“This is a different level of curiosity,” he counters, walking back towards the massive desk. He taps a thick folder lying in the center. “This is a multi-million dollar curiosity. Every GM in the league wants to be the one who breaks the barrier. They want the good press, the ticket sales, the marketing bump.”
“And a goalie who can stop the puck?” You add, your voice quiet but firm.
A genuine smile touches the corner of his mouth. “And a goalie who can stop the puck. That, thankfully, is the one variable that isn’t in question. Your college career speaks for itself. The lawsuit proved your right to be there, and your performance proved you belonged.”
He sits down opposite you, lacing his fingers together on the desk. “Which brings us to this.” He gestures to the folder. “The offers. As an undrafted free agent, you’re in a unique position. You get to choose. We’ve fielded calls from nearly every team in the league. We’ve narrowed it down to the most serious, viable options.”
Your heart starts a slow, heavy drumbeat against your ribs. This is it. The moment every kid who ever played road hockey dreams of. The NHL.
“Lay it on me, J.P.”
He opens the folder. “Alright. Option one: The Utah Mammoth. They’re offering a two-year, entry-level max deal. The appeal here is opportunity. Their goaltending situation is … fluid. You’d go into camp with a very real, very immediate shot at the starting job. It’s a low-pressure media market. You could go there, find your footing, and make your mark without the intense scrutiny of a major hockey city.”
“The ‘safe’ option,” you surmise.
“The strategically sound option,” he corrects gently. “There’s no shame in starting your career on solid ground.”
You nod, processing it. Utah. It feels alien. “Okay. What’s next?”
“Option two: The New York Rangers.” He lets the name hang in the air. The history, the prestige, it’s all implied. “They’re offering more. Three years, ELC max, with significant performance bonuses. They want to make a splash. They see the marketing potential of having you in the biggest city in the world. The lights would be blinding. Every save, every goal let in, would be magnified a thousand times. You’d be a superstar overnight, for better or for worse. But … you’d be behind Igor Shesterkin. You’d be a backup, unequivocally. Learning from one of the best, yes, but your ice time would be limited.”
You think about Madison Square Garden. The roar of that crowd. The pressure. It’s tempting, the sheer glamour of it. But he’s right. You haven’t fought this hard your whole life to sit on a bench, no matter how nice the view is.
“I didn’t go to court for a front-row seat,” you say quietly.
J.P. nods, as if he expected that answer. “I figured as much. Which brings us to the third, and in my opinion, most interesting option.”
He slides a piece of paper across the desk. On it is a logo you know well. A stylized blue and green orca forming the letter ‘C’.
“Vancouver,” you breathe.
“Vancouver,” he confirms. “The Canucks. The offer is similar to Utah’s. Two years, ELC max. But the situation is … different. They have a clear number one.”
“Thatcher Demko.”
“Exactly. One of the best in the league when he’s healthy. They’re not looking for a savior. They’re not looking for a marketing gimmick. Patrik Allvin was very clear about that on the phone.” J.P. leans forward, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more earnest. “They’re looking for a partner for Demko. Someone who can push him. Someone who can reliably take thirty, maybe thirty-five games a season and give them a chance to win every single night. They want to build the best goaltending tandem in the NHL.”
He lets that sink in. A tandem. A partnership. It’s not about being the star. It’s about being part of a whole.
“They’re in a Canadian market,” J.P. continues. “The media pressure will be intense, no question. It’s a religion up there. But it’s different from New York. It’s a hockey-literate pressure. They’ll criticize your glove hand, not your gender, if you’re playing well. They want to win. That’s all that matters.”
You stare at the logo. The Canucks. You think of the West Coast. The mountains, the ocean. You think of Thatcher Demko. You’ve watched his tape for years. His calmness, his economy of motion. The idea of sharing a crease with him, of learning from him, of competing with him … it feels right. It feels real.
“What’s the catch?” You ask.
“The catch is you have to earn it,” J.P. says plainly. “Nothing is guaranteed. They want to sign you, but you have to go into training camp and prove you’re the best option for that number two spot. You have to beat out the other guys. They’re not just going to hand it to you because of your story.”
A slow smile spreads across your face. “That’s not a catch, J.P. That’s the whole point.”
He leans back in his chair, a look of satisfaction on his face. “I thought you might say that. Utah is safe. New York is glamorous. Vancouver … Vancouver is a challenge. It’s a hockey decision, not a business one.”
You look out the window, at the endless grid of streets below. For so long, the fight was just to get a seat at the table. Now you have three seats offered to you, and you have to choose the right one. The one that leads not just to a job, but to a career. To a legacy.
“I don’t want to be the woman who broke the barrier,” you say, your voice clear and steady. “I want to be the goalie who won the Cup. Everything else is just noise.”
“And Vancouver gives you the best chance to do that?”
You think it over. A team on the rise. A passionate, hockey-mad city. A chance to be part of a tandem, to grow and develop without the crushing weight of being the immediate franchise savior. A chance to earn your spot, just like you always have.
“Yeah,” you say, a feeling of certainty settling deep in your chest. “I think it does.”
J.P. picks up his phone. He doesn’t look triumphant, just professional. The decision is made. Now comes the execution.
“So you’re telling me to call Patrik and tell him you want to be a Canuck?”
You take a deep breath, the filtered office air feeling suddenly fresh, full of promise. The pond behind your house. The taunts from the other kids. The sympathetic smirk of the athletic director. The slam of the judge’s gavel. It’s all led to this single, quiet moment, forty stories above the world.
“Yeah, J.P.,” you say, and the smile that breaks across your face is real, and bright, and full of fire. “Tell him I’m coming home.”
***
The air that hits you as you step out of the jet bridge at Vancouver International Airport is different. It’s clean, carrying the faint, briny scent of the Pacific and the crisp promise of pine from mountains you can’t yet see. It feels less like air and more like an inhalation of pure potential. The butterflies in your stomach, which had been performing a frantic, anxiety-fueled ballet for the entire six-hour flight from Boston, seem to calm, their wings beating a slower, more purposeful rhythm.
You navigate the terminal, a rolling duffel in one hand, your custom goalie sticks in a massive travel bag slung over your shoulder. People give you a wide berth. You’re used to it. A woman of your height, with the broad shoulders built by a thousand push-ups and the unmistakable gear of a hockey player, tends to part crowds. You scan the faces in the arrivals hall, a sea of reunions and greetings, looking for a sign. J.P. had said a team rep would meet you. You picture a fresh-faced kid from the media relations department, or maybe a grizzled, old-timer from the equipment staff, someone with a face like a well-worn catcher’s mitt.
Then you see him.
He’s leaning against a concrete pillar, away from the main throng, trying and failing to look inconspicuous. He’s tall — taller than you expected — and built like someone carved him from the side of a mountain. He’s wearing a simple black hoodie, the hood pulled up, and a pair of jeans. In his hands, he’s holding a small, slightly crumpled piece of printer paper. On it, in surprisingly neat block letters, is your last name.
Your brain takes a moment to process the image. The face under the hood is one you’ve seen a thousand times on television, in highlight reels, on hockey cards. The calm, intense eyes. The strong jaw. The placid expression that goalies perfect, the one that says nothing can rattle them.
It’s Thatcher Demko.
The starting goaltender for the Vancouver Canucks, a Vezina finalist, one of the best in the world, is standing in the arrivals terminal at YVR holding a makeshift sign for you like he’s an Uber driver.
Your feet feel suddenly rooted to the polished floor. You take a breath, tighten your grip on your duffel, and walk towards him. As you get closer, he looks up, his eyes meeting yours. A flicker of recognition, and then a small, genuine smile spreads across his face.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a low, easy rumble. It’s exactly as you’d heard it in post-game interviews. Calm. Steady. “You made it.”
“I … yeah,” you manage, your own voice feeling ridiculously small. “You’re Thatcher Demko.” It comes out as an accusation, a statement of blatant, unbelievable fact.
He glances down at the piece of paper in his hands and then back up at you, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I was trying to be subtle. Guess it didn’t work.” He crumples the paper and shoves it into his hoodie pocket. “Figured it was better than having some stranger pick you up. Welcome to Vancouver.”
He reaches for your stick bag, and you instinctively pull it back a little. “Oh, I can get it.”
“I’m sure you can,” he says, his smile widening. He gently takes the bag from your shoulder anyway. “But let me. It’s a big bag.” The transfer is seamless, professional. He handles the cumbersome bag with an ease that tells you he’s done this a million times.
You walk together towards the parkade, the silence between you punctuated by the squeak of your shoes and the rumble of your duffel’s wheels. Your mind is racing. Why is he here? Is this some kind of test? A rookie initiation?
“So,” he says, breaking the silence as you step into the elevator. “I have to say, this is pretty cool.”
“Cool?” You echo, confused. “What’s cool?”
“This. You. The whole thing.” He shifts the weight of your sticks on his shoulder. “I, uh, might have spent a few hours on YouTube last week watching your college highlights.”
You blink. “You did?”
“Oh yeah.” He nods, completely serious. “That glove save you made in the Beanpot final, second overtime, on that BC forward … Ryan Leonard, was it?”
“James Hagens,” you correct automatically.
“Hagens, right. The way you read the pass and pushed across, you were already there before he even shot it. Your anticipation is … insane.” He says it with the genuine, unadulterated enthusiasm of a true fan.
You don’t know what to say. Thatcher Demko is geeking out about your save. The world has officially tilted on its axis. “Thanks. He … he has a heavy shot.”
The elevator doors open, and he leads you to a large, black Ford F-150 that looks like it could drive up the side of a building. It’s immaculately clean. He loads your gear into the back with practiced efficiency before opening the passenger door for you.
“So you’re a truck guy,” you say, climbing into the cab.
“You kind of have to be, with the size of our gear bags,” he says, shutting the door and walking around to the driver’s side. “Tried a sedan once. Lasted about a week. Felt like I was solving a Rubik’s Cube every time I went to the rink.”
He starts the engine, and the truck hums to life. As he navigates out of the parkade and onto the highway, the city begins to reveal itself. Glass towers glint in the late afternoon sun, framed by the dark, majestic peaks of the North Shore mountains. It’s beautiful. Breathtakingly so.
“So, listen,” he says, his eyes on the road. “I know things are probably going to be … a little weird at first. With the media, and, you know, everything.”
“I’m used to weird,” you say with a small smile.
“Yeah, I bet you are. But I just wanted to be the first one to say it doesn’t matter. None of that stuff matters in the room, and it definitely doesn’t matter in the crease. You’re here because you can stop the puck. Period. Anyone who has a problem with that is an idiot.”
The directness of it, the simple, unequivocal statement of support, loosens a knot in your chest you didn’t even realize was there. “Thank you,” you say, and the words are heavier than just two syllables. “Seriously.”
“Don’t thank me. Just be ready to work.” He glances over at you. “And don’t be afraid to be a weirdo.”
You laugh. “A weirdo?”
“Yeah. You’re a goalie. You have to be a weirdo. It’s in the job description.”
“Okay,” you play along. “What’s your weirdest goalie thing? Your biggest superstition?”
He thinks for a moment, a slight smile on his face. “Alright. Don’t tell anyone this. Especially not Ian Clark, he’d kill me. But before every period, when I skate out to the crease, I have to tap the left post, then the right post, then the crossbar with the butt-end of my stick. In that order. Always. If I mess it up, I have to skate a little circle and start over.”
“Okay, that’s pretty standard,” you say, nodding. “The post-tapping ritual. I get that.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the weird part,” he continues. “The weird part is … I say hello to them.”
You turn to look at him. “You what?”
“I say ‘Hey, Lefty. Hey, Righty. Hey, Top,’ under my breath. Every single time. Gotta make sure we’re all on the same page, you know? They’re my best friends out there.” He says it with such deadpan sincerity that you can’t help but burst out laughing.
“Okay, you win,” you say, wiping a tear from your eye. “That is officially weird.”
“Your turn,” he says, grinning. “Spill it. What’s your thing?”
You hesitate for a second, then decide he’s earned it. “My glove,” you say. “The night before a game, I take it to my hotel room. And I put it on the pillow of the other bed. Like it’s a person.”
He nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Okay. Okay. I see it. You want it to be well-rested. Limber. Ready to perform. That makes a weird kind of sense.”
“And,” you add, emboldened, “I never, ever, let my pads touch on the floor of the locker room when I’m getting dressed. They have to be standing up against the stall, perfectly parallel. If someone bumps one and it falls over and touches the other one, I have to … well, it’s not good.”
“It throws the whole alignment of the universe out of whack,” he finishes for you, his expression deadly serious.
“Exactly!” You exclaim. “You get it.”
“I get it,” he confirms. “We’re the same kind of crazy.”
The rest of the drive passes in an easy flow of conversation. You talk about gear, the never-ending quest for the perfect skate sharpening, the agony of breaking in a new blocker. You talk about the mental side of the game, the deafening silence after letting in a soft goal, the weird Zen-like state you can get into when you’re seeing every puck like it’s a beach ball. He doesn’t treat you like a rookie, and he doesn’t treat you like a woman. He treats you like another goalie, a fellow member of the strange, lonely union.
He pulls up in front of a sleek downtown hotel. “Team puts all the new guys up here until they find a place,” he explains, putting the truck in park. “It’s not bad. Good gym. Decent room service.”
He gets out and helps you with your bags, walking you into the lobby. The concierge greets him by name.
“Thanks for this, Thatcher,” you say, as he hands your duffel over to the bellhop. “You really didn’t have to.”
“Demko,” he corrects. “Everyone just calls me Demko. Or Demmer. And yeah, I did. Wanted to make sure you got a proper welcome.” He offers you a hand. You shake it. His grip is firm, confident. “Get some rest. Camp starts in two days. It’s gonna be a grind.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Good.” He gives you one last nod. “See you at the rink. Try not to let your pads touch.”
And with that, he’s gone. You watch him walk out of the lobby, leaving you standing there with a feeling you haven’t had in a long, long time. The feeling that, for the first time, you might have just found a place where you truly belong.
***
Two days later, that feeling of belonging is replaced by a tidal wave of pure nerves.
You walk through the corridors of Rogers Arena, following the signs to the Canucks locker room. The air is cool and smells of Zamboni fumes and stale popcorn. You can hear the distant, echoing clicks of pucks and the shouts of the early-arriving players. Every step feels momentous.
You push open the heavy door, and the room goes quiet.
It’s not a dramatic, movie-style silence. It’s more subtle than that. Conversations don’t stop mid-sentence, but they trail off. Heads turn. The dozen or so players already there, in various states of dress, all look at you. It only lasts for a second, but it feels like an eternity.
The room itself is exactly what you’d imagined. A large oval, stalls lining the walls, the iconic orca logo woven into the massive carpet in the center. Jerseys are hung with pristine care, a sea of blue, green, and white.
A man with a sharp suit and an even sharper expression detaches himself from a conversation with two other men in tracksuits. He walks towards you, hand extended.
“You’re here,” he says. It’s not a question. His voice is gravelly, no-nonsense. “Adam Foote. Welcome to camp.”
“Coach,” you say, shaking his hand. His grip is like iron. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Opportunity’s gotta be earned,” he says, but there’s no malice in it. It’s just a statement of fact. He turns to the rest of the room, his voice booming. “Alright, listen up! This is Y/N Y/L/N. She’s here to compete for a spot, same as everyone else. Introduce yourselves. Make her feel welcome.”
He gives you a short, sharp nod, and then he’s gone, back to his conversation. The ice is broken. A few guys call out a “Hey” or “Welcome.” One by one, players start to come over as you make your way to the empty stall someone has clearly designated for you. It’s between a veteran defenseman and an empty space.
A tall forward with a friendly, open face is the first to offer a proper handshake. “Brock Boeser. Good to have you here.”
“Conor Garland,” says another, his handshake firm, his eyes assessing. “Heard a lot about you.”
“Elias Pettersson,” a lanky Swede with intense eyes says with a polite nod.
You go through the motions, shaking hands, learning names, matching faces to the players you’ve watched for years. It’s a blur of polite greetings. Then, a goalie in full gear, minus his helmet, waddles over. He’s got a bright, optimistic look on his face.
“Kevin Lankinen,” he says in a slight Finnish accent, pulling off his blocker to shake your hand. “Welcome to the competition.”
You look him in the eye. He is, in the most direct way, your rival. The man you have to beat to earn that job. The smile he gives you is genuine, but his eyes hold a competitive fire that you know well, because you see it in the mirror every morning.
“Good to meet you,” you say, your tone even. “Looking forward to it.”
“May the best goalie win,” he says with a cheerful grin, and waddles back to his stall. There’s no animosity, just the clean, simple reality of professional sports.
You finally get to your stall and begin the long, familiar ritual of getting dressed. It’s a comfort. The specific order of things — shin pads, pants, skates, chest protector — is a meditation. You focus on the task, blocking out the low hum of conversation around you, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.
“So, is it true?”
The voice is quiet, coming from your left. You turn your head. Leaning against the adjacent stall is a player you recognize instantly. Quinn Hughes. The captain. He’s smaller than most of the other guys, but he has an aura of quiet confidence. He’s watching you with a curious, almost academic interest.
“Is what true?” You ask, pulling a skate lace tight.
“That you sued the NCAA and won.” He says it casually, like he’s asking about the weather.
“Yeah,” you say, starting on your other skate. “That’s true.”
“That’s pretty badass,” he says with a small smirk. “Must have cost a fortune.”
“It did,” you admit. “My parents remortgaged their house.”
His smirk fades, replaced by a look of genuine respect. “Wow. So no pressure, then.”
You can’t help but smile. “None at all.”
He pushes off the stall and sits down on the bench in the empty spot next to you. He’s already in his lower gear, his skates on but unlaced. “I watched some of your games from last year. You, uh … you don’t move a lot.”
It’s an odd observation. “I move when I have to.”
“No, I mean, that’s a compliment,” he clarifies, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “A lot of goalies are all over the place. Hasek wannabes. All flash. You’re … efficient. Calm. Like you know where the puck is going before the guy even shoots it.”
He’s a student of the game. You can hear it in the way he talks. He’s not just seeing a goalie, he’s analyzing a system.
“It’s called anticipation,” you say. “Kind of important for the position.”
“Right.” He nods. “So, are you going to be able to anticipate my shot?” There’s a playful challenge in his eyes now.
You finish lacing your skates and stand up, looking down at him. “Which one? The slapshot you never use or that weird, jerky little wrist shot you release from your hip?”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and then he breaks into a wide, infectious grin. “Okay. Okay. You’ve done your homework. I respect that.”
“You have to,” you say, grabbing your chest protector. “It’s called being a professional.”
He laughs, a genuine, happy sound that draws a few glances. “I like you,” he declares. “You’re alright.”
“Glad I have the captain’s seal of approval,” you say dryly, pulling the bulky protector over your head.
“You don’t need my approval,” he says, his tone shifting back to something more serious. “You just need to stop pucks. That’s all anyone in here cares about. You do that, and you’ll be fine.”
He stands up, his presence suddenly feeling closer. “For what it’s worth,” he adds in a lower voice, “I’m glad you’re here. It’s good to have someone in the room who had to fight to get here.”
Before you can respond, Foote’s voice cuts through the room. “On the ice in five! Let’s go!”
Quinn gives you a quick tap on the shoulder pads. “See you out there. Try to keep up.”
He skates away, and you’re left with the echo of his words, a warmth spreading through your chest.
Stepping onto the ice at Rogers Arena is like stepping into another dimension. The lights are brighter, the ice is colder and harder, the rink feels both bigger and more intimate than any college barn you’ve ever played in. You take your place in one of the nets, Demko in the other, and begin your warm-up stretches, the movements as familiar and comforting as breathing.
Ian Clark, the legendary goalie coach, skates over. His eyes are piercing, and you feel like he’s taking a complete inventory of your technique, your stance, your very soul, in a single glance.
“Alright,” he says, his voice quiet but commanding. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Just movement drills to start. T-pushes. Shuffles. Butterfly slides. I want to see clean edges. No wasted energy. Let’s go.”
For the next twenty minutes, he puts you and the other goalies through the paces. It’s grueling, precise work. He corrects your hand positioning by an inch, the angle of your skate by a few degrees. He doesn’t offer praise, only corrections. You just nod, absorb the information, and execute. You feel Lankinen next to you, matching you move for move, his own movements economical and sharp. The silent competition has begun.
Then, the team drills start.
A 3-on-2 rush comes down on you. Garland is carrying the puck, Pettersson on his left, Boeser on his right. It’s a blur of elite speed and skill. Garland dishes to Pettersson, who one-touches it back. You read the return pass, sliding across the crease, every muscle screaming. Garland fires it, a hard, low shot aimed for the far corner. You extend your leg, the toe of your pad just catching the puck, deflecting it wide.
A defenseman taps your pads with his stick. “Great save!”
You just nod, resetting. The next rush comes.
For an hour, it’s a relentless onslaught. You face shots from every angle, every type of release. Breakaways, backdoor tap-ins, point shots through traffic. You feel yourself slipping into the zone, that hyper-focused state where the puck seems to slow down, where you’re not thinking, only reacting. You make saves you have no business making, your glove snatching pucks out of the air, your pads slamming shut on five-hole attempts. You let in a few, too. A perfect snipe from Pettersson that goes bar-down. A tricky deflection you can’t track. But you don’t let it rattle you. You reset. Next puck.
Late in the practice, you see him. Quinn, gathering the puck at the blue line. He skates laterally, his head up, surveying his options. He’s not looking at you, but you know he knows you’re there. He fakes a pass, freezing the forward covering him for a fraction of a second. In that tiny window, he lets it go — that jerky, deceptive wrist shot you’d mentioned in the locker room. It’s not a hard shot, but it’s perfectly placed, ticketed for the top corner, short side.
You don’t have time to think. It’s pure muscle memory. You explode upwards from your butterfly, your glove hand shooting up, and you feel the sharp thud of the puck nesting perfectly in the pocket.
The whistle blows. You hold the glove up for a second, then toss the puck out. You look over at him. He’s standing at the blue line, stick resting on his hips, just watching you. He doesn’t smile. He just gives you a slow, single nod. A nod of pure respect.
In the world of hockey, it’s better than a standing ovation.
When the final whistle blows to end practice, you’re drenched in sweat, your legs feel like jelly, and you’re utterly exhausted. But you’re also exhilarated. As you skate towards the gate, Demko glides alongside you.
“Not bad,” he says, his face impassive behind his mask, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Not bad at all.”
“Just trying to keep up,” you pant.
“Well, you did.” He taps your pads. “Good work. See you tomorrow.”
Back in the locker room, the atmosphere is different. It’s lighter. The curiosity has been replaced by a quiet acceptance. You didn’t just show up. You performed. You proved, on day one, that you belong on that ice.
As you’re pulling off your skates, Quinn walks by your stall. He stops, leaning an arm against the frame.
“So,” he says, a small grin playing on his lips. “I guess you anticipated that one.”
“I told you,” you say, trying to keep your voice even, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating a little faster. “It’s my job.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing off the stall. “Tomorrow, I’m scoring.”
He winks, then walks away, leaving you to stare after him, a smile you can’t contain spreading across your face. It’s only day one, and the fight is far from over. But as you sit there in the loud, bustling, sweat-soaked locker room of the Vancouver Canucks, you feel a sense of rightness, a deep and profound certainty that you chose the right city. You chose the right team. You came to the right place.
***
Training camp is a blur. It’s a relentless, soul-crushing, beautiful grind. The days bleed into one another, marked only by the searing pain in your legs during bag skates and the fleeting satisfaction of a perfectly executed drill. Your world shrinks to the ice, the gym, the hotel, and the film room. It is monastic. It is punishing. It is exactly where you want to be.
You and Kevin Lankinen exist in a state of professional orbit. You are never far from each other, a silent, magnetic push-and-pull of competition. You watch him during drills, noting the efficiency of his pushes, the quickness of his glove. He watches you, his eyes lingering after you make a sprawling save in a scrimmage. The respect is mutual, the goal singular. There is only one job.
Your friendship with Demko solidifies. He’s your unofficial mentor, your confessor in the church of goaltending. He’ll skate by your net after a drill, offering a quiet word. “You’re opening up your five-hole a hair early on your butterfly slides,” or, “Keep that blocker hand active. Don’t let it go dead.” It’s never criticism, only data. He’s helping you, sharpening you, not because he’s a saint, but because he wants the best possible goalie playing behind him. A strong tandem makes the whole team stronger.
And then there’s Quinn. The interactions are small, fleeting moments that somehow feel more significant than entire conversations. It’s a shared laugh in the middle of a brutal stretching session. It’s him skating by the bench and squirting water from his bottle at you, earning a playful glare. It’s him seeking you out in the lunchroom to ask a question about a defensive breakdown in the scrimmage, his tone treating you not as a rookie, but as a peer whose opinion he genuinely values. You find yourself looking for him, your eyes scanning the ice for the smooth, effortless stride of number 43.
The preseason arrives like a judgment. Six games to decide your fate. Foote announces that you, Lankinen, and a prospect from Abbotsford will split the first three starts. The math is simple and terrifying. Every single shot matters.
Your first test is in Seattle. You’re backing up Lankinen, which means you spend the first half of the game chewing on a towel and trying to keep your leg muscles from seizing up. The Climate Pledge Arena is loud, a wave of teal and navy blue. Lankinen looks … tight. He lets in a goal on the first shot, a wrister from the point that he seems to misread. Ten minutes later, a bad rebound kicks right out into the slot, and a Kraken forward buries it. You can see his shoulders slump.
At the halfway mark of the second period, during a TV timeout, Ian Clark skates to the bench and looks directly at you. “You’re in.”
That’s it. No pep talk. No instructions. Just “You’re in.”
Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You pull on your helmet, grab your stick, and skate to the net. Lankinen is already there. He lifts his mask, his face slick with sweat and frustration.
“See ‘em well,” he says, his voice tight. It’s the goalie’s equivalent of ‘break a leg.’
“You got it,” you say, tapping his pads.
You do your ritual. The familiar routine is a rock in a stormy sea. The whistle blows. The puck is dropped. A Seattle forward carries it over the blue line and fires a slap shot from a mile out. It’s a tester, a nothing-burger of a shot. You swallow it up in your glove, holding it for a second before the whistle. You feel the tension drain out of you. Okay. Just hockey.
For the next thirty minutes, you are a black hole. Everything they throw at your net, you absorb. A frantic goalmouth scramble where you lose your stick and have to make a save with your blocker while lying on your stomach. A breakaway from Matty Beniers where you match his speed, hold your ground, and force him to shoot it wide. You aren’t spectacular. You’re just … there. A calm, immovable object. You make the saves you’re supposed to make, and one or two that you aren’t. The Canucks end up losing 3-1, but you let in zero goals. In the silent, brutal accounting of a goalie battle, that’s a win.
A few nights later, in the home locker room at Rogers Arena, Foote walks up to your stall. “You’ve got the Oilers tonight.”
A cold dread mixes with fiery excitement in your stomach. The Oilers. McDavid and Draisaitl. The two-headed monster that haunts the dreams of every goalie in the league.
“Yes, coach,” you say, your voice betraying none of your internal chaos.
Before you go out for warmups, Demko, who is sitting this one out, comes over to you. He leans in close.
“Forget their names,” he says quietly. “They’re just 97 and 29. They’re just two guys with sticks. Watch the logo on their chest, not the name on their back. Stop the puck.”
You nod, the simple advice cutting through the noise in your head. Stop the puck. It’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.
The game is the fastest you have ever experienced. The speed is breathtaking, particularly Connor McDavid’s. The first time he comes down on you with a head of steam, it feels like he’s warping reality around him. He skates past two of your defensemen like they’re traffic cones. He’s in alone on you. He dekes left, dekes right, his hands a blur. You don’t bite. You hold your depth, your focus narrowed to the six-ounce piece of vulcanized rubber on his stick blade. He tries to slide it five-hole. You slam your pads shut. The puck thuds into your pads and dies right there.
The arena, which had held its breath, explodes. You see Quinn skate by the net and bang his stick on the ice in appreciation.
You make forty-two saves that night. You rob Draisaitl on a one-timer that he blasts from his office at the side of the net, your glove shooting out to snag it. You stop a wraparound from Zach Hyman. You stand on your head. But they are who they are. McDavid scores on a ridiculous individual effort where he banks the puck off the back of the net to himself. Draisaitl scores on a power play. You lose 2-1.
But as you skate off the ice, exhausted and aching, the crowd is on its feet, giving you a standing ovation. You lift your stick to acknowledge them, a sense of gratitude washing over you. You lost the game, but you proved you could stand in the fire.
Your last chance is the final preseason game, on the road, against the Calgary Flames. The Scotiabank Saddledome is a sea of red, hostile and loud. This is it. The final exam. You feel a strange sense of calm. You’ve done everything you can. Now you just have to play.
And you do. You play the best game of your life. You’re in that surreal state of flow, the zone, where time slows down and you see everything. You’re reading plays before they happen, sliding into position a half-second before the pass is even made. You stop a 2-on-0 shorthanded breakaway. You make a glove save that is so audacious the Calgary crowd lets out a collective groan.
You pitch a shutout. The Canucks win 2-0.
In the locker room afterwards, it’s a quiet, happy scene. Guys are packing their bags, excited for the real season to start. You’re sitting in your stall, slowly peeling off your gear, when Quinn sits down on the bench next to you. He’s still in his gear, helmet off, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“You know,” he says, looking straight ahead, “you’re a real pain in the ass.”
You turn to look at him, confused. “What?”
“For Foote,” he clarifies, a grin spreading across his face as he turns to you. “You’re making this decision impossible for him. Lankinen has a contract. You don’t. And you just came in here and outplayed him at every turn. It’s a real headache for management.”
“Oh,” you say. “Sorry to be a bother.”
“Don’t be,” he says, his voice softening. “It’s the best kind of problem to have. You were unbelievable tonight.”
“Thanks, Cap,” you say, a genuine warmth spreading through your chest.
“Anytime,” he says, standing up. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”
He’s right. The next day, the final cut day, the air at the arena is thick with tension. The rink is quiet. Players walk around like ghosts, waiting for the summons. You sit in the players’ lounge, staring at a cup of coffee, your phone face down on the table. Every time a door opens, you jump.
At 11:30 AM, a team staffer finds you. “Foote wants to see you.”
Your blood turns to ice water. This is it. You walk down the hall, your footsteps echoing. The hallway to the executive offices feels a mile long. You knock on the door that says ‘HEAD COACH.’
“Come in.”
You open the door. Adam Foote is sitting behind his desk. Patrik Allvin is in a chair beside him. They both look serious. Your heart sinks. This is the ‘thanks for coming, but we’re going in another direction’ face. You’ve seen it before.
“Sit down,” Foote says, gesturing to the chair opposite them.
You sit. The leather is cold. You place your hands on your knees to keep them from shaking.
Allvin speaks first, his Swedish accent precise and clear. “We brought you into camp to compete for a job. We told you nothing would be handed to you. We told you that you would have to earn it.”
He pauses, letting the words hang in the air. You just nod, your throat too dry to speak.
“Well,” Foote cuts in, leaning forward. “You did. You came in here, you worked your ass off, you didn't say a damn word, and you were outstanding in all three of your games. You earned it.”
You stare at him, the words not quite registering.
Allvin smiles, a warm, genuine smile. “What Adam is trying to say is, we would like to offer you a two-year, two-way NHL contract. We want you to be Thatcher’s partner this season.”
The breath you’ve been holding for your entire life rushes out of you in a single, silent gasp. The room swims for a second. You feel a lightness in your head, a dizzying, overwhelming wave of relief and joy and disbelief. You swallow hard.
“Thank you,” you manage to say, your voice cracking. You clear your throat. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”
“We know we won’t,” Foote says, his stern expression finally breaking into a small smile. “Now get out of here. J.P. is waiting for your call. We’ve got a press conference to arrange.”
You stand up, shake both their hands, and walk out of the office in a daze. As the door clicks shut behind you, you lean against the wall in the empty hallway, closing your eyes. It’s real. You did it. All the years on the frozen pond, the taunts, the lawsuits, the 4 AM practices, the remortgaged house … it was all for this.
When you open your eyes, Demko is standing at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall, a huge, knowing grin on his face. He doesn’t say anything. He just gives you a slow, deliberate nod. You nod back, a wide, shaky smile spreading across your own face. He knew. Of course he knew.
***
Two hours later, you’re standing in the Canucks media room, but it feels more like a gladiator pit. The room is packed. Every major sports network in North America seems to be here. Cameras flash like lightning, and the low hum of dozens of conversations creates a palpable buzz of energy.
You, Allvin, and J.P. sit at a table on a small stage. Allvin makes the official announcement. “The Vancouver Canucks are proud to announce that we have signed goaltender Y/N Y/L/N to a two-year contract.”
The room erupts in a cacophony of camera shutters. After a few minutes of formal statements, they open the floor to questions. Most of them are for you.
They start easy. “How does it feel to make history?” “What does this moment mean to you?” You give the practiced, humble answers you’ve been preparing your whole life.
Then, a reporter from a major network in the front row gets the microphone. He has a smug, confrontational look on his face.
“A question for you,” he says, his voice amplified by the speakers. “We’ve seen a similar phenomenon in basketball with Caitlin Clark, who chose to embrace the WNBA and help grow that league. The PWHL is having incredible success in its own right. Why do you think you’re too good for the Professional Women’s Hockey League?”
The room goes quiet. It’s a loaded, cynical question, designed to trap you, to paint you as arrogant or as someone who is turning her back on women’s hockey. You can feel the weight of every female hockey player in the world on your shoulders.
You take a slow, deliberate breath. You look directly at the reporter.
“First,” you begin, your voice calm and steady, projecting through the room. “Let’s be clear. I think what Caitlin Clark is doing for the WNBA is incredible, and I think the PWHL is one of the most important things to ever happen to our sport. I have watched every game I can, and I am in awe of the talent in that league. I’m not too good for that league. No one is.”
You pause, letting that sink in.
“But my dream was never just to be a professional hockey player. It was to play in the best league in the world, against the best players in the world. Period. When I was a little girl, my dad didn’t tell me, ‘One day, you can play in a great women’s league.’ He told me, ‘One day, you can play in the NHL.’ My whole life, every decision I’ve made, every battle I’ve fought, including a lawsuit that took years off my parents’ lives, was for the right to have the opportunity to compete for a spot here.”
You lean a little closer to the microphone.
“This isn’t about me being too good for one league. This is about me finding out if I’m good enough for this one. The women in the PWHL are building something special, and they have my absolute respect. I’m trying to prove something different. I’m trying to prove that in hockey, the only thing that should matter is your ability to play the game.”
You lean back. The room is silent for a beat. You’ve answered the question, disarmed the trap, and stated your case without disrespecting anyone.
The scrum breaks up shortly after that, dissolving into a chaotic swirl of reporters trying to get one last quote. As you step down from the stage, you feel a hand clap you firmly on the back. You turn. It’s Quinn, a huge, proud grin on his face. The entire team had been watching from the back of the room.
He leans in close so you can hear him over the noise. “That,” he says, “was the best damn answer I’ve ever heard.”
He gives you a quick, conspiratorial wink, and then he’s swallowed up by the crowd of your new teammates, all coming over to congratulate you. But the wink lingers. It’s a seal of approval, a sign of alliance. It feels less like a welcome to the team and more like a welcome home.
***
The first four games of the season are a unique form of torture.
You are in the NHL. You have the contract, the stall in the locker room, the number on your back. You are living the dream. But you’re living it from the best seat in the house, on the bench, watching Demko do his job.
It's a strange purgatory. You are part of the team, but not yet part of the game. You chew on the nub of a Gatorade towel, your leg bouncing with a nervous energy that has nowhere to go. You track every puck, your body making phantom saves, your muscles twitching in sync with the action a hundred feet away. You are a loaded gun with the safety on.
“It’s the worst, isn’t it?” Demko says to you after the season opener, a solid 5-1 win against the flames where he was brilliant.
“What is?” You ask, looking up from the tablet where you’d been re-watching one of his saves from the third period.
“The waiting,” he says, leaning his head back against the wall. “Being the number two. You do all the same work, all the same prep, but you don’t get the release. It’s like being a race car driver who only gets to sit in the passenger seat. You just have to stay ready.”
“How do you do it?” You ask, the question genuine. “How do you stay sharp when you don’t know when you’ll play?”
“You get weird,” he says with a shrug. “Weirder than usual, I mean. Your practices become your games. Every shot in a morning skate is the Stanley Cup Final. You get into a competition with yourself. And you watch. You watch everything. You learn my tendencies, you learn the shooters’ tendencies. You become a librarian of hockey information. So when they finally call your number, you’re not thinking. You just know.”
You take his advice to heart. Your practices become legendary among the coaching staff. You stay out thirty minutes late every day, begging anyone — Pettersson, Garland, Boeser — to take extra shots on you. You become a student of your own team, learning how each defenseman likes to play a 2-on-1, which forward is most likely to block a shot.
Your bond with Quinn deepens, not through grand conversations, but through the quiet language of the game. He learns that you like to play the puck behind the net, and he starts presenting a better, more predictable target for your passes. You learn that on the power play, he loves the deceptive shot-pass, and you start anticipating the deflection. Before each game, as the team lines up in the tunnel, he’s the last one you see before you take your spot on the bench. He has a ritual. He skates by, taps Demko on the left pad, then skates to you and taps you on the right. Every single time. A small gesture of inclusion. A reminder that you’re part of the tandem.
After a tough 3-2 loss to the Blues at home, he finds you in the gym, long after most of the team has gone home. You’re on the exercise bike, churning out your frustration.
“Hey,” he says, walking over. He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower. “Shouldn’t you be at home eating pizza or something?”
“Not tired,” you say, your breathing heavy.
He just nods, understanding. He grabs a foam roller and starts working on his legs a few feet away. You ride in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the whir of the bike and the squeak of the foam roller.
“That second goal,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “That was on me. I bit on the pass, left Hronek out to dry.”
You slow your pedaling. “It was a 2-on-1, Quinn. It happens.”
“It shouldn’t,” he says, his voice tight with the frustration of a perfectionist. “Demmer had the shooter, I’m supposed to take the pass. I got greedy. I thought I could strip the puck.”
He’s not looking for absolution. He’s just analyzing the data, frustrated with his own error. It’s the same way you break down goals against yourself.
“Next time you’ll take the pass,” you say.
He looks up at you, a small, grateful smile touching his lips. “Yeah. I will.” He gets up, stretching. “Don’t stay too late. We’ve got a flight to catch tomorrow.”
“Yes, Captain,” you say with a mock salute.
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he walks away.
The moment finally comes on a gray, drizzly morning in Dallas, Texas. The team is going through a light morning skate ahead of their game against the Stars. It’s the fifth game of the season, and the second half of a grueling back-to-back that saw the Canucks lose a tight game in Chicago the night before. Demko had faced forty shots.
You’re in your net, feeling loose, tracking pucks, when Adam Foote skates over. His face is its usual stony mask.
“You’re in tonight,” he says, his voice a low gravel.
You freeze for a fraction of a second, a shot from Boeser sailing harmlessly past your ear. You turn back to the coach.
“You got this,” is all he says, before skating away to yell at a defenseman for a lazy pass.
Your stomach does a complicated series of flips. This is it. No more waiting. No more watching. The race car is yours to drive.
Demko skates over to your net, leaning against the crossbar. “Hear the news?”
“Heard the news,” you confirm, your voice coming out steadier than you feel.
“Good. It’s about damn time.” He looks around the American Airlines Center, at the thousands of empty green seats. “This is a tough barn to play in. They’re a heavy team. They love to crash the net. Stand your ground. Don’t let them push you around.”
“Got it.”
“It’s just another net,” he says, tapping the post with his stick. “Six feet by four feet. Same as it’s always been. Go have fun.”
The rest of the day is a slow, agonizing crawl towards 7 PM. You try to nap at the hotel, but your mind is racing, playing out every possible scenario. You eat your standard pre-game meal of salmon and quinoa, but it tastes like cardboard. You sit on the bus on the way to the arena, your headphones on, but you don’t hear the music. You just hear the thumping of your own heart.
In the locker room, the atmosphere is loose, but professional. The team is tired from the back-to-back, but they’re ready. As you go through the long, meticulous ritual of putting on your gear, you feel a sense of calm finally settle over you. This is your church. The smell of the room, the feel of the pads, the specific order of operations — it’s all familiar. It’s home.
When you’re almost dressed, Quinn walks over. He’s leaning against your stall, his expression unreadable.
“Ready for this?” He asks.
“Born ready,” you lie, trying for a confident smirk that probably looks more like a grimace.
“Good,” he says. “Because we’re gonna be running around a bit tonight. Tired legs. We’re gonna need you to be our best player.”
It’s not a pep talk. It’s a statement of fact. It’s a transfer of responsibility. He’s not trying to pump you up, he’s telling you what the team needs from you. It’s more effective than any rah-rah speech could ever be.
“I’ll be there,” you say.
“We know.” He offers you a fist bump. You meet it with your blocker. “See you in the tunnel.”
Walking down that tunnel is the most terrifying and exhilarating moment of your life. The lights of the arena are blinding, the roar of the Dallas crowd a physical force. You step onto the ice, and a chorus of boos rains down on you. They know who you are. They know this is your first start. They want to see you fail.
You skate to your crease, do your ritual.
The puck drops.
The first five minutes are a whirlwind. Dallas comes out flying, pinning the tired Canucks in their own zone. The puck is a blur. A shot from the point through a screen that you have to fight to see, your glove snatching it at the last second. A wrap-around attempt by Wyatt Johnston that you get your skate on, kicking it out of danger. A one-timer from Jason Robertson in the slot that you get your chest on, the puck thudding into your protector like a punch.
With each save, you feel the nerves melt away, replaced by the cool, clear focus you’ve been chasing your whole life. You are in the zone. The game slows down. The hostile crowd fades into white noise. There is only you, the puck, and the five skaters in front of you.
The Canucks weather the storm, and the game settles into a tense, grinding affair. It’s 0-0 at the end of the first. You’ve made 15 saves.
In the locker room, Foote is pragmatic. “Good period, good period! We bent, we didn’t break. She’s holding us in it,” he says, jerking his head in your direction. “Now let’s get our damn legs moving and get her some support. We can’t let her stand on her head all night.”
The second period is more of the same. It’s a goaltending duel. At the other end, Jake Oettinger, another young American star, is matching you save for save. He robs Pettersson on a breakaway, his long legs stretching to deny the deke. You stop Mikko Rantanen on a deflection from the top of the crease, the puck changing direction at the last second.
Late in the period, the Canucks finally break through. Garland forces a turnover at the blue line and feeds a pass to Boeser, who wires a wrist shot over Oettinger’s glove. 1-0 Vancouver. The small pocket of Canucks fans in the upper deck goes wild. You bang your stick on the ice, a jolt of pure joy running through you.
The third period begins, and Dallas comes with a desperate push. They are a proud, veteran team, and they hate losing at home. They throw everything at your net. The game gets chippy. A scrum ensues after you freeze the puck, and you get a little shove from a Stars forward. You don’t even flinch.
Then, it happens.
About eight minutes into the third period, there’s a mad scramble in front of your net. The puck is loose in the blue paint. You dive, covering it with your glove just as a skate kicks it. The whistle blows. You’re lying on your stomach, the puck safely under your glove.
As you start to get up, a massive weight lands on top of you. It’s Jamie Benn, the Dallas captain. He doesn’t just fall. He lands, and then he pushes. He grinds his weight into your back for a split second too long, a deliberate, antagonizing act of disrespect. A clear violation of the code.
You feel a flash of hot anger, but before you can even react, he’s gone. Because he’s been ripped off you.
Quinn, who had been the defenseman closest to the net, moves like a viper. He drops his stick, grabs the back of Benn’s jersey with both gloves, and yanks him back. Benn is bigger, stronger, a renowned tough guy. He turns, surprised, a snarl on his face. Quinn doesn’t care. He gets right in Benn’s face, his expression a mask of cold fury.
“Don’t you ever touch our goalie!” He screams, his voice raw, audible even over the crowd.
Benn shoves him hard. Quinn doesn’t go down. He shoves back. And then the world explodes.
Filip Hronek, Quinn’s defensive partner, is the next one in, grabbing Benn from behind. Another Stars player grabs Hronek. Suddenly, it’s a full-blown line brawl. Gloves are dropping everywhere. Garland finds his dance partner. Joshua squares off with another Dallas heavyweight. Every skater on the ice is paired up, grappling, shoving, throwing muffled punches that land with dull thuds against shoulder pads and helmets. The referees are overwhelmed, blowing their whistles uselessly, trying to separate the tangled knots of angry men.
And you? You get up, brushing the snow off your jersey. You watch the chaos unfold in your crease for a moment, a strange sense of calm detachment washing over you. This is insane. And it’s all for you. They are defending you. Your team.
You see Oettinger at the other end, standing in his crease, watching the mayhem just like you. A strange, unspoken goalie etiquette takes over. This isn't your fight. You look at him. He looks at you. You both give a slight nod, a silent agreement.
You calmly skate out of the warzone in front of your net, leaving your stick behind. You skate towards center ice. Oettinger does the same from his end. You meet right at the red line, the giant Stars logo beneath your skates. You both stop, standing a few feet apart, turning to watch the brawl like two patrons enjoying a particularly rowdy dinner theater performance.
“Well,” Oettinger says, his voice muffled by his mask. He leans on his knees, casual as can be. “That escalated quickly.”
“Tell me about it,” you say, shaking your head. “Benn get a little too friendly a lot?”
“That’s his move,” Oettinger says with a sigh. “Loves to stir the pot in the crease. Never does it when I’m in net, though. Professional courtesy, I guess.”
“Guess I haven’t earned that yet,” you say with a dry laugh.
“Oh, I think you just did.” He gestures with his blocker towards the pile of bodies, where Quinn is still trying to get at Benn, held back by a linesman. “Your captain seems to like you.”
You watch Quinn, his face flushed, still yelling at Benn. A strange, warm feeling spreads through your chest, a feeling that has nothing to do with the game. “Yeah,” you say softly. “He’s a good captain.”
“So, that save you made on Moose in the second,” Oettinger says, changing the subject with the ease of someone completely disconnected from the violence being perpetrated by his teammates. “The deflection. Did you read that off his stick or did you just get lucky?”
You can’t help but laugh. Your teams are engaged in mortal combat, and the two of you are here at center ice, breaking down film. “A little of both,” you admit. “I saw him get his stick free, and I know that’s his spot. I just tried to get my body in the way and hoped for the best.”
“Nice,” he says, nodding in appreciation. “Real nice. You’re looking solid tonight, by the way. Sucks that it’s against us, but, you know. Respect.”
“You too,” you say. “That stop on Petey was larceny.”
The linesmen finally start to get control of the situation, peeling players apart. The ice is littered with gloves and sticks.
“Well,” Oettinger says, straightening up. “Looks like the intermission’s over. Good luck the rest of the way.”
“You too,” you say. “Try to keep your captain in his pen.”
He chuckles. “No promises.”
You skate back to your crease, a small smile on your face. You pick up your stick. The rink crew comes out to scoop up the yard sale of equipment. The referees convene. The penalty box doors are about to get a workout. When the dust settles, Quinn gets two minutes for roughing. Benn gets two for goalie interference and two for roughing. The Canucks are going on the power play.
As Quinn skates to the box, his face still stormy, he looks over at you. You meet his eyes and give him a sharp, deliberate nod. A thank you. He nods back. An ‘anytime.’
The fight galvanizes the Canucks. They play the rest of the game with a ferocious energy. They kill off a late penalty with a desperation you haven’t seen all season. Every player on the ice is blocking shots, sacrificing their bodies. They are not letting this game slip away. Not tonight. Not your first start.
With ten seconds left, the Stars pull Oettinger for an extra attacker. A shot comes from the point. It’s deflected in front. You don’t see it, you just react, your body lunging to the side, your glove thrown out in desperation. You feel the puck hit the very tip of your glove, just enough to send it fluttering wide of the net.
The final horn sounds.
You’ve won. 1-0. Your first NHL start is your first NHL win is your first NHL shutout.
You’re immediately mobbed by your teammates. They swarm you, banging on your helmet, hugging you, their shouts of celebration a joyous, deafening roar. You feel Hronek’s arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ice in a bone-crushing hug. You see Garland’s ecstatic face, Pettersson’s rare, wide grin.
In the locker room, it’s euphoric. Foote comes into the center of the room.
“Hell of a win!” He yells over the music. “Hell of a gutsy, greasy, road win! That’s how we gotta play!” He looks over at you, a proud, almost fatherly look on his face. “And how about this one? Stood on her head. Unbelievable.” He tosses you the game puck. “Congrats on your first. Many more to come.”
The room erupts in stick taps and cheers. You hold the puck, the black rubber cool and heavy in your hand. It’s the single greatest object you’ve ever owned.
Later, after the media interviews and the chaos, when the room has mostly cleared out, you’re sitting in your stall, the puck on the bench beside you. You’re just staring into space, replaying the entire night in your head.
“You okay?”
You look up. It’s Quinn. He’s changed into a suit for the flight, but there’s a small, fresh cut above his right eye, a souvenir from his tangle with Benn.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice a little hoarse. “I’m okay. Are you okay?” You nod towards his cut.
He touches it gingerly. “It’s nothing. Just a love tap.” He sits down on the bench next to you. “You earned that one tonight. You were … incredible.”
“I had some help,” you say, looking at him meaningfully. “Thanks for … you know. Back there.”
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and serious. “No one touches our goalie. Ever. That’s the rule. I don’t care who it is. That’s my job.” He pauses, a small smile playing on his lips. “Especially when it’s you.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck, and you’re suddenly very grateful for the dim lighting of the locker room. You look down at the puck in your hand, then back up at him.
“Well,” you say, your voice softer than you intend. “It was nice of you to do your job.”
He just holds your gaze, his eyes warm and sincere. The noise of the world — the equipment managers packing bags, the distant sound of the bus engine starting — fades away. In the quiet aftermath of the battle, sitting on a bench in a locker room in Dallas, Texas, it feels like you’ve won more than just a hockey game. You’ve found your place. And you have a very strong feeling that the captain, the one with the cut above his eye, is a very big part of it.
***
The two months between your first start and the December road trip are a whirlwind of learning and adjustment. You settle into the rhythm of being an NHL goaltender, a rhythm that is both monotonous and exhilarating. You get ten more starts, winning six of them. You are no longer a curiosity, you are a reliable, effective number two goalie. You are part of the team.
The life is a series of airports, buses, hotels, and arenas. You learn which cities have the best coffee near the team hotel (Calgary) and which have the worst morning traffic (Los Angeles). You learn that Conor Garland is a fiend at cards, that Brock Boeser can sleep literally anywhere, and that Elias Pettersson analyzes crossword puzzles with the same intensity he uses to break down power-play footage.
And you learn Quinn Hughes. You learn him in the small moments. You learn that he hates losing more than he loves winning. You learn that he can be quiet and withdrawn after a bad game, but he’s the first one to crack a joke the next morning to reset the mood. You learn that he always asks the flight attendants their names and thanks them personally when he deplanes. You develop an easy rapport, a shorthand built on the ice that translates seamlessly to life off it. It’s a shared eye-roll during a boring team meeting, a quiet conversation in the back of the bus about a missed defensive assignment, a shared bag of peanut M&Ms on the plane. It’s simple. It’s comfortable. And it’s starting to feel like something you look for, something your day feels incomplete without.
The five-game East Coast swing in December is a notorious grind. New York, New Jersey, Long Island, Boston, and then Philadelphia. A ten-day sentence in the hockey gulag. The team is tired. You lose a sloppy game to the Devils. You grind out an overtime win against the Rangers.
The night before the game against the Islanders, you’re in your hotel room on Long Island, studying film, when your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Demko.
Demmer: Foote just told me I’m in tomorrow.
You stare at the message. Of course he is. The Islanders are a tough, veteran team. It’s the first half of a back-to-back. It’s the logical choice. But a knot of disappointment tightens in your gut anyway. The next game, the second half of the back-to-back, is in Boston.
You: Go get ‘em. Be great.
Demmer: Don’t you get it?
You: Get what?
Demmer: He’s giving you Boston. On purpose. Your homecoming.
You read the text again. And again. Demko is right. Foote could have easily started you here, against the Isles, and given Demko the more prestigious Saturday night game in Boston against the Bruins. But he didn't. He was giving you your stage. The city where you became a star. The city where you fought the NCAA and won.
A fresh wave of nerves, far more potent than anything you felt in Dallas, crashes over you.
The next day, you watch from the bench as the Canucks play a hard, heavy game against the Islanders, ultimately losing 2-1 in a shootout. Demko is brilliant, but the team looks gassed. After the game, on the short flight to Boston, the mood is subdued.
Quinn slides into the empty seat next to you. “You good?” He asks, his voice low.
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just tired.”
“Bullshit,” he says, not unkindly. “You’re thinking about tomorrow.”
You turn to look at him. He’s got that look on his face, the analytical one he gets when he’s reading a play. Right now, he’s reading you.
“It’s just another game,” you try, the words feeling hollow even to you.
“No, it’s not,” he counters gently. “It’s Boston. It’s where you played college. It’s where you became … you. Don’t pretend it’s not a big deal. It’s okay for it to be a big deal.”
His understanding, the simple act of him acknowledging the pressure you feel, makes the knot in your stomach loosen. “There’s going to be a lot of people there,” you admit quietly. “People I know.”
“Good,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Then we’d better put on a show for them.” He bumps his shoulder against yours. “Don’t worry. We’ve got your back.”
***
TD Garden is electric. From the moment you step onto the ice for warmups, you can feel it. It’s different from the hostility in Calgary or the nervous energy in Dallas. This is … love.
You see them immediately. Scattered throughout the lower bowl, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Boston University jerseys. Terrier red mixed in with the Bruins’ black and gold. You see signs. ‘WE STILL LOVE OUR GOALIE.’ ‘ONCE A TERRIER, ALWAYS A TERRIER.’ BOSTON, BE NICE TO HER!’
As you skate your laps, a chant starts, low at first, then growing in volume. It’s not a Canucks chant, or a Bruins chant. It’s your name. The sound echoes through the cavernous arena, a surreal, overwhelming wave of affection from a crowd that is supposed to be rooting against you. You tap your heart with your glove, a lump forming in your throat.
At the other end of the ice, Quinn is leaning against the boards, watching you, a curious smile on his face. He’s never seen anything like this. An opposing player being serenaded by the home crowd before the game has even started.
The game itself is a war. The Bruins are one of the best teams in the league, and they play a heavy, punishing style. The tired Canucks are on their heels from the opening faceoff. The first period is a siege. You face nineteen shots. Nineteen.
You are a wall.
You stone Fraser Minten on a breakaway, refusing to bite on his deke and smothering the puck with your pads. You make a lightning-fast glove save on a David Pastrnak one-timer from the circle, a shot that has beaten the best goalies in the world. The Bruins fans groan in frustration, but their groans are mixed with a loud, appreciative roar from your personal cheering section.
You get lucky, too. A shot rings off the post with a deafening PING that vibrates through your bones. A puck trickles through your five-hole, but Hronek is there to sweep it off the goal line at the last second.
You go into the first intermission tied 0-0. Your teammates skate by your net, tapping your pads, their expressions a mixture of relief and awe.
“Just hang in there,” Quinn says as you skate to the tunnel. “We’ll get our legs under us. You’re keeping us alive.”
In the locker room, Foote is calm. “They gave us their best punch, and we’re still standing,” he says, his eyes finding yours. “Because our goalie is a damn rock star. Now, let’s get our heads out of our asses and go play some hockey. Let’s reward her.”
The second period is a different story. The Canucks come out with a renewed energy. Five minutes in, Pettersson threads a perfect pass to Garland, who rips a shot past Jeremy Swayman. 1-0 Canucks. The building falls silent, except for the pocket of Terrier fans who erupt in joyous celebration.
The lead is short-lived. The Bruins come back with a vengeance. Elias Lindholm crashes the net, creating chaos. In the ensuing scramble, the puck squirts out to Pavel Zacha, who flips it over your outstretched pad. 1-1.
The game is a track meet from there. Brock Boeser scores on a wicked wrister. Charlie McAvoy ties it for the Bruins on a blast from the point that you never saw through a screen. It’s 2-2 heading into the third.
The third period is the most intense twenty minutes of your life. Every save feels like the most important save you’ve ever made. The crowd is a single, roaring entity, living and dying with every shot. With five minutes left, the Bruins get a power play. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the building. This is it. The breaking point.
They set up in the zone. Pastrnak with the puck on his stick is a terrifying sight. He winds up for a one-timer. You slide across, every fiber of your being focused on that puck. He fires. You get your blocker on it, the puck deflecting high up into the protective netting. Faceoff.
They win the draw. The puck goes back to the point, then over to Morgan Geekie. He fakes a shot, freezing you for a split second, and slides a pass across the royal road to a wide-open Pastrnak. The net is empty. It’s a sure goal.
You don’t think. You explode. You push off your right skate with all the force you have left, throwing your body, your glove, your entire existence across the crease. The puck is already on its way. You feel a sharp, stinging impact in the webbing of your glove, your arm fully extended, parallel to the ice.
You’ve got it.
The entire arena, Bruins fans and your fans alike, rises to its feet with a single, unified roar of disbelief. It’s the save of the year. It’s the save of your life.
The Canucks kill off the rest of the penalty, feeding off the energy. The horn sounds. 2-2. You’re going to overtime. You collapse onto your knees in the crease, head bowed, utterly spent.
Overtime is a frantic, chaotic blur of 3-on-3 hockey. There are chances at both ends. You stop a 2-on-1. Swayman stones Pettersson. Finally, Quinn gets the puck in his own end. He sees a seam and takes off. He flies through the neutral zone, his skates barely seeming to touch the ice. He cuts around a Bruins defenseman, the move so slick it looks like the other player is standing still. He’s in alone on Swayman. He fakes the shot, pulling the puck to his backhand and sliding it gently, perfectly, into the open net.
The Canucks win.
The bench empties, a wave of white jerseys flooding the ice and heading straight for Quinn. But he just skates past them, his arms raised in triumph, and comes directly to you. He crashes into your crease, wrapping you in a hug that lifts you off your skates.
“You did it!” He yells into your mask, his voice filled with pure, unadulterated joy. “You stole that game! You were unbelievable!”
The rest of the team piles on, a joyous scrum of exhaustion and victory. When they finally disperse, you’re named the first star of the game, to absolutely no one’s surprise. You skate your lap, saluting the crowd, your heart feeling like it’s going to burst.
As you head towards the tunnel, you see them. Pressed up against the glass is a sea of familiar faces. Your old BU teammates, the ones who are still on the team. They’re banging on the glass, their faces split with massive grins.
“Y/N!” Yells your old defenseman, a big kid named Mick. “Get over here!”
You skate over, a huge smile breaking across your face. “You guys came!”
“Are you kidding me?” Shouts your old backup goalie, Mathieu. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world! You were insane!”
You open the gate at the end of the bench and step out onto the walkway. You’re immediately swallowed by them. They’re all talking at once, a chaotic, loving cacophony.
“That save on Pastrnak! What was that?”
“You’re buying drinks for the whole team for the next year!”
“Coach watches every game from his office, he screams so loud I always think he’s gonna have a heart attack!”
Mick, who is about six-foot-two and built like a lumberjack, grabs you and lifts you effortlessly onto his shoulders. You yelp in surprise, your helmet still on, as the whole group cheers. They’re parading you around the small concrete walkway like you just won the national championship all over again. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, it’s ridiculous, and it’s the purest form of love you’ve ever felt.
You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, your body aching, your heart soaring. This is your family. The boys you went to war with for four years. The ones who saw you cry after a tough loss and who celebrated with you after a huge win. For a moment, you’re not an NHL goalie. You’re just their goalie.
***
Down the long, sterile tunnel that leads to the visitors’ locker room, Quinn is leaning against the concrete wall. He’s watching the scene unfold at the edge of the ice, a small, genuine smile on his face. He sees the joy, the friendship. He sees you, beaming, being hoisted onto some giant defenseman’s shoulders. He’s happy for you. Truly.
But there’s something else, too. A strange, unfamiliar pang in his chest. It’s a feeling of distance. He’s watching you be a part of a world he has no access to, a history he wasn’t there for. He sees the easy way they touch you, the inside jokes he can’t hear, the shared history that radiates from the group. And he feels … separate. An outsider.
“She’s not going to see you from all the way back here.”
Quinn jumps slightly. Petey has materialized beside him, silent as a ghost. He’s leaning against the wall in a similar pose, his intense eyes also fixed on the scene.
“I’m not trying to be seen,” Quinn says, trying to sound casual. “Just giving her a minute. It’s a big night for her.”
“Yes,” Petey says, his gaze unwavering. “She is very popular.”
Just then, Brock strolls up, a towel around his neck and a wide, easy-going grin on his face. “What are we lookin’ at, boys? Oh, wow. Look at that. They’re treating her like she’s the Stanley Cup.”
“She basically won it for us tonight,” Quinn mutters, his eyes still locked on you. He sees the big defenseman finally set you down, only for you to be pulled into a dozen different hugs.
“You have a funny look on your face,” Petey observes, his tone flat and analytical.
“I do not have a funny look on my face,” Quinn retorts, a little too quickly. “I’m happy for her. That’s my ‘happy for my teammate’ face.”
Brock snorts. “Dude, no offense, but that is not your ‘happy for your teammate’ face. That’s your ‘I just watched Garland take the last donut’ face.”
“I’m not …” Quinn starts, then stops, frowning. He can’t quite name the feeling himself. It’s a weird, protective, possessive knot in his stomach. He hates it.
“You look like a little puppy who has been left in the car,” Petey adds, with absolutely zero malice. It is a simple statement of fact, as he sees it.
“I do not look like a puppy!” Quinn snaps, finally tearing his gaze away from the celebration to glare at his teammates. “What is wrong with you two? I’m the captain. She’s my goalie. I’m just … watching out for her.”
Brock’s grin widens. He exchanges a look with Petey, who allows the barest hint of a smirk to touch his lips. They know. Oh, they know.
“Right. ‘Watching out for her’,” Brock says, making air quotes with his fingers. “From fifty feet away. Behind two security guards. Very effective protection, Cap.”
“You are jealous,” Petey says, the words landing with the simple finality of a judge’s gavel.
“I am not jealous!” Quinn insists, his face flushing. The accusation hits a little too close to home. “Jealous of what? A bunch of college kids? That’s ridiculous.”
“It is not ridiculous,” Petey counters, pushing off the wall. “They know a part of her you do not. They are lifting her up. You wish you were the one lifting her up.”
Quinn opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because, in a way the quiet Swede couldn't possibly understand the full scope of, he's right. It’s not about lifting you physically. It’s about being part of that inner circle, about being the one who gets to share in that uninhibited joy.
“Whatever, guys,” he finally mumbles, turning to head towards the locker room. “I’m gonna go shower.”
“Don’t want her to see your sad puppy face when she gets back?” Brock calls after him, laughing.
Just as Quinn is about to round the corner, he hears your voice, bright and breathless, echoing down the tunnel.
“Quinn! Wait up!”
He freezes, caught. He turns around as you jog to catch up, your face flushed and glowing, a smile so wide it looks like it hurts. Your old teammates are waving from the edge of the ice before being shooed away by security. Petey and Brock are standing there, identical looks of smug amusement on their faces.
“Did you see that?” You say, completely oblivious to the conversation that just took place. “That was my whole team! Mick put me on his shoulders! Can you believe it? I think my ribs are bruised.”
Quinn has to physically reset his face from ‘flustered and annoyed’ to ‘happy and supportive.’ He shoves the strange, confusing feelings down, deep down.
“Yeah, I saw,” he says, and he’s relieved to find his voice is normal. He even manages a genuine smile. “Looked like fun. You deserved it. You deserved every second of that tonight.”
“It was the best,” you say, still buzzing. You look up at him, your eyes shining with leftover adrenaline and pure happiness. “Thanks for scoring that goal, by the way. You kind of saved my butt.”
“Nah,” he says, his smile softening as he looks at you. “You saved ours about twenty times first.”
He gives a pointed look over your shoulder at Brock and Petey, who are failing to hide their laughter. “Come on. Let’s go. These two are weirdos.”
He puts a hand lightly on your back, guiding you towards the locker room, away from the prying eyes of his far-too-observant teammates. And as you walk beside him, still chattering excitedly about the game and your friends, he feels that strange, possessive pang in his chest again. But this time, it’s a little less confusing. And it feels a little more like home.
***
The months after the Boston game are a crucible. The easy comfort between you and Quinn deepens into something more charged, a low-voltage current that hums just beneath the surface of every interaction. It’s in the way his eyes find yours across a crowded locker room after a big win. It’s in the way you start saving the seat next to you for him on the plane without even thinking about it. It’s in the lingering moments after practice when you’re the last two on the ice, him feeding you pucks for one-timers, the only sound the scrape of your skates and the echo of the puck off the boards, a rhythm that feels more intimate than any conversation.
He imagines asking you out a thousand times.
He plays the scenarios in his head on a loop. A casual coffee on an off-day. A well-planned dinner during a road trip. A simple, direct question after a practice. Each version is smooth, confident, charming. Each version ends with you smiling and saying yes. And each version evaporates into a cloud of anxiety the moment he’s actually near you.
The timing is never right. The stakes are too high. What if you say no? What if it makes things weird? What if it messes with the delicate chemistry of a team that is, against all odds, scratching and clawing its way into playoff contention? So he says nothing, and the unspoken thing between you grows, a tangible presence in the room.
April arrives, cold and cruel. The final two weeks of the regular season are a gauntlet. Every game is a playoff game. The city of Vancouver is holding its collective breath. You, the surprising Canucks, are on the bubble, locked in a brutal three-way race for the final wild-card spot.
The second-to-last game of the season is at home, against the Vegas Golden Knights. The math is simple and devastating. A win, in any fashion, and you clinch a playoff spot. A loss, and you need a miracle on the final day. The pressure is a physical weight, pressing down on the entire city.
Demko gets the start. Of course he does. He’s the number one, the Vezina candidate, the man you trust with the season on the line. Your job is to be ready, to be the best teammate you can be from the bench, to open the door and have a towel ready.
The game is a masterpiece of tension. Rogers Arena is a shaking, roaring cauldron of blue and green. Every save Demko makes, every blocked shot, every hit, is met with a deafening roar. The first period ends 0-0. The second period is just as tight, a chess match played at a hundred miles per hour.
And then, disaster.
With three minutes left in the second, there’s a collision in the crease. A Vegas forward drives the net, gets tangled with Hronek, and they both go crashing into Demko. It doesn’t look malicious, just a hockey play gone wrong. But Demko stays down.
The arena falls silent. You’re on your feet, peering over the boards, your heart in your throat. He tries to get up, and his left leg buckles. The trainer is on the ice. After a tense few minutes, Demko is helped off, unable to put any weight on his leg. He gives you a grim nod as he passes the bench.
Ian Clark is at your side before Demko is even off the ice. “You’re in,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “Stay square. Breathe. You’ve done this a hundred times.”
Your blood runs cold. You have to go in. Cold. Into a 0-0 game, with the entire season on the line. Your mind is a screaming siren of panic, but your body goes on autopilot. You do the stretches, take the sips of water. You are a machine built for this, even if the ghost inside is terrified.
You step onto the ice. The crowd, which had been silent with worry, gives you a tentative, hopeful cheer. You skate to the net, give it a few taps with your stick.
You survive the final three minutes of the period. The horn sounds. In the locker room, the mood is grim. Demko is already in the trainer’s room. Foote is pacing.
“Listen up!” He barks. “Nothing changes! We feel for Demmer, but we’ve got a game to win. And we have all the confidence in the world in the person in that net.” He points his clipboard directly at you. “We’ve seen what she can do. Now let’s go out there and play our asses off for twenty minutes and get this goddamn thing done.”
The third period is the most intense, high-stakes hockey you have ever played. It’s a track meet. The Golden Knights, sensing blood in the water, come at you in waves. You make a save on Jack Eichel. You stop a point-blank shot from Mark Stone. You are no longer thinking, you are pure reaction, a vessel of instinct and muscle memory.
With ninety seconds left on the clock, the game is still tied 0-0. And then, a turnover. A bad pinch by a defenseman at the Vegas blue line. Suddenly, it’s a 2-on-0. William Karlsson and Mitch Marner are streaking down the ice, all alone, with only you between them and the Canucks’ playoff death.
Quinn is the lone man back, skating for his life, but he won’t get there in time. The arena holds its breath. This is it. This is the season.
Karlsson carries the puck, his eyes locked on Marner. He knows you have to respect his shot. You hold your ground, refusing to cheat to the pass. He slides it across at the last possible second. A perfect pass. A backdoor tap-in. Marner has the entire right side of the net empty, a gaping four-foot by six-foot invitation.
He one-touches it.
You have already pushed off. It’s not a calculated move, it’s an act of pure desperation. You throw your body across the crease, your stick fully extended along the ice, your glove hand reaching, reaching, reaching for something that seems impossibly far away.
You feel it before you see it. A faint vibration up the shaft of your stick. The puck, ticketed for the back of the net, hits the paddle of your outstretched stick and deflects up, over the crossbar, and out of play.
The buzzer for a TV timeout sounds a second later.
The sound that erupts from the crowd is not a cheer. It’s a sonic boom of disbelief. A primal roar of catharsis. Your teammates are staring, mouths agape. Quinn, who had dove in a last-ditch effort, just lifts his head from the ice and stares at you, his eyes wide.
You just lie there on the ice for a second, your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest. You did it. You saved it.
The team skates over to you, a jumble of white jerseys. They’re banging your helmet, screaming your name. “Unbelievable!” “Holy shit!” “You’re a maniac!”
Quinn is the last to arrive. He skates right up to your crease, his hair matted with sweat. He’s looking at you with an expression you’ve never seen before. It’s awe. It’s relief. It’s something so raw and open it makes your breath catch in your throat. He leans in close, his mouth right next to the earhole of your mask, the arena noise fading into a dull roar around his voice.
“That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” he breathes, his voice shaky with adrenaline. And then he says the words that shatter the world. “Go out with me.”
You freeze. The blood drains from your face. You are certain you misheard him. The roar of the crowd, the adrenaline, the exhaustion — it has to be a hallucination.
“What?” You manage to say, your voice a faint croak.
“After the season,” he says, his eyes, wide and intense, pleading with yours through the bars of your mask. “One date. Please.”
The referee is blowing his whistle, gesturing for the players to get ready for the faceoff. Foote is screaming from the bench. You have to finish the most important ninety seconds of your season, and your brain has just short-circuited.
You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to say. So you just give a single, tiny, bewildered nod.
He squeezes your shoulder, his eyes never leaving yours, and then he skates away to the faceoff circle. You’re left alone in your crease, your mind a complete blank. Did that just happen? Did the captain of the Vancouver Canucks just ask me out during a TV timeout after I made a save?
Somehow, you get through the rest of the game. You get through overtime. You get to a shootout. And you stop all three Vegas shooters stone cold. The Canucks win. They’re going to the playoffs. The arena is pure bedlam. You are mobbed, the hero, the savior. But all you can think about is him.
***
The locker room is a joyous, chaotic asylum. Champagne and beer are spraying everywhere. The music is so loud the walls are vibrating. Players are hugging, screaming, celebrating a hard-fought, year-long battle finally won. You are at the center of it, guys lifting you up, chanting your name.
But your eyes keep finding him across the room. He’s celebrating, too, but every few seconds, his gaze meets yours. There’s a question in his eyes. An apology. A hope.
An hour later, the room has finally cleared out. The music is off. The puddles of beer are being mopped up by the equipment staff. Most of the players have left to meet their families. It’s just you and him. You’re sitting in your stall, still in your undershirt and hockey pants. He’s sitting in his, a few stalls down. The silence is deafening.
He’s the first to break it. He gets up and walks over, pulling a rolling stool with him. He sits down in front of you, his knees almost touching yours.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper.
“I am so, so sorry,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice is overwhelming. “That was … I don’t know what that was. I didn’t plan it. I swear. It just … came out. My brain shut off and my mouth kept working. It was the stupidest possible time to do that, and I’m sorry.”
You just nod, looking down at your hands.
“I’ve wanted to ask you for months,” he continues, his voice low and earnest. “Since the fall. I kept trying to find the right time, the perfect moment, and I just … I kept chickening out. And then you made that save, and it was just … you were incredible. And I …” He trails off, running a hand through his damp hair. “I’m an idiot.”
You finally look up at him. You see the genuine remorse in his eyes, the nervousness. And you know you have to say what’s in your heart.
“Quinn,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. “You know what my life has been like. You know what I’ve had to fight for. The headlines, the lawsuit, the commentators … it was always ‘the girl goalie.’ For years, that’s all I was. I fought so hard, I worked so hard, for people to just see ‘the goalie.’ For my play to be the only thing that mattered.”
You take a shaky breath. “If I start dating the captain … I become a story again. A different story. A cliché. ‘The first woman in the NHL finds love with her captain.’ It sounds like the plot of a bad movie. It’s not fair, but it’s the truth. People will talk. They’ll say I didn’t earn my place, that I had a distraction. It threatens to undermine everything I’ve ever worked for.”
Tears well up in your eyes, and you hate it. You hate feeling this vulnerable.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just listens, his eyes never leaving yours. He doesn’t try to interrupt or argue. He just lets you speak your truth. When you’re finished, he reaches out and gently, tentatively, takes your hand. His touch is warm and steady.
“I hear you,” he says, his voice full of a quiet strength. “I get it. And it is completely and totally unfair that you have to carry that weight. That you have to even think about those things. What you’ve accomplished, what you’ve earned … it stands on its own. It’s historic. Nothing and no one can ever undermine that. Especially not me.”
He squeezes your hand. “But it’s also not fair for you to have to build a wall around your life because of what a bunch of idiots with microphones might say. We can’t let them write our story, Y/N. That’s their narrative. We have to be able to write our own.”
He looks at you, his expression so sincere it makes your heart ache.
“One date,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “That’s all I’m asking. After the playoffs are over. We’ll go somewhere quiet. No cameras. No jerseys. Just you and me. And if it’s weird, or if it feels wrong, or if it’s just not right for you, we go right back to being teammates and friends. And I will never, ever bring it up again. I swear on my life. But …” He hesitates, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “What if it’s not weird? What if it’s great?”
You look into his eyes, and you see your future. Not the one the reporters will write, but the one you want. A future where you can be the goalie, the trailblazer, and a person who gets to be happy. You see a future with this man, who waited, who respected you, who fought for you, and who just laid his heart at your feet.
A slow smile spreads across your face. The tears are gone, replaced by a feeling of profound, heart-stopping hope.
“Okay, Hughes,” you say, your voice clear and steady. “One date.”
The relief that washes over his face is so absolute it’s like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds. He breaks into a grin so wide and boyish it makes you laugh.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you confirm, laughing. “Now, are you going to let go of my hand, or are we going to sit here all night?”
He laughs, too, a sound of pure joy, and reluctantly lets go. You both stand up, the quiet locker room suddenly filled with a new, fragile, wonderful energy.
You walk out of the room together, side-by-side. As you step into the main hallway that leads to the players’ parking lot, you see a strange scene unfolding.
Clustered near the exit are Petey, Brock, Garland, Hronek, Joshua, and at least five other players. They’re all gathered around Demko, who is leaning against the wall with his injured leg propped up on a chair. And every single one of them is pulling out their wallet and handing cash to Demko, their faces a mixture of disgust and grudging respect.
Demko is raking in a pile of twenties and fifties, a smug, triumphant grin plastered on his face. “Pay up, boys,” he says cheerfully. “The bookie always wins. Told you it’d happen after a season-defining moment of emotional vulnerability.”
Quinn stops dead in his tracks. You stop with him, staring at the bizarre transaction.
“Are you kidding me?” Quinn says, his voice a mixture of disbelief and horror. “There was a betting pool?”
Demko looks up, completely unfazed. He gestures to Quinn with the wad of cash in his hand. “Of course, there was a pool. What do you think we talk about on road trips? Defensive pairings?”
Brock claps a dejected hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Don’t feel bad, man. I lost a hundred bucks. I had ‘day after the end-of-season party’.”
“I had ‘during bye week’,” Garland grumbles, handing a fifty to Demko. “I thought you had more game than this, Huggy.”
Petey shakes his head, his expression deadpan as he pays his debt. “I was logical. I predicted he would ask after the first playoff series win. I did not account for him being a complete lunatic.”
Demko points a thumb at Quinn. “That’s where you went wrong, Petey. You gotta factor in the crazy. I was the only one who bet on ‘in the middle of the most important game of the season immediately following an impossible save.’ High risk, high reward.”
You look at Quinn. His face is the color of a ripe tomato. He looks mortified. And then you start to laugh. Not a small chuckle, but a full, deep, belly laugh. The absurdity of it all, the tension of the last few hours, the ridiculous, supportive, wonderful stupidity of your team — it all comes bubbling out.
Your laughter is infectious. Quinn looks at you, then at his teammates, who are all grinning now, and a reluctant smile spreads across his face. He shakes his head, defeated but happy.
This is it. This is the story. Not the one the media will write. This one. The real one. Messy, and chaotic, and dramatic, and funny. It’s yours. And as Quinn takes your hand again, this time with no hesitation at all, you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that this is only the first chapter.
***
Two Years Later
The air in the arena is thick enough to breathe. It’s Game 6 of the second round of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. The weight of an entire city, desperate and dreaming, rests squarely on your shoulders. Two years ago, that pressure would have terrified you. Now, it’s just fuel.
The ‘you’ of today is not the same person who stepped onto the ice for that first start in Dallas. This version is etched from playoff wars and Vezina nominations. The ‘rookie sensation’ and ‘female phenom’ headlines have long since faded, replaced by simpler, more powerful words: ‘elite,’ ‘unflappable,’ ‘franchise goalie.’ You are the starter. The number one. The last line of defense for a team, and a captain, that you love.
Demko is still here, your partner and best friend, a formidable 1B in the best tandem in the league. But tonight, this series, this run — it’s your net.
The game against the Los Angeles Kings is a street fight on ice. It’s 2-1 for you in the third period, and every inch of ice is contested with a slash or a cross-check. They crash your net relentlessly, a swarm of orange and black, trying to break you through sheer force of will.
There’s a scramble in your crease. You make the initial save, but the rebound sits dangerously in the blue paint. You lunge, covering the puck with your glove a split second before a Kings forward can poke it home. The whistle blows, a shrill mercy in the chaos.
As you lie there, Joel Edmundson, a player who seems to exist purely to irritate, skates by and deliberately sprays you with a shower of ice shavings, right in the face. It’s a classic, infuriating act of disrespect.
The old you might have ignored it. The current you does not. You look up, your eyes locking with his through your mask, and you give him a slow, deliberate whack on the shin pads with the paddle of your stick. A clear message: Not in my house.
He snarls something at you. But he doesn't get to finish.
Because Quinn is there.
It’s not the frantic, furious rush of two years ago. This is something far more dangerous. It’s a cold, calculated arrival. He glides between you and Edmundson, a silent, blue-and-green wall. He doesn’t shove him at first. He just gets in his space, forcing him back, his eyes burning with an intensity that could peel paint.
“Are we doing this again, Joey?” Quinn’s voice is deceptively calm, a low rumble that cuts through the din. “You seem to forget the rules.”
“She’s a goalie, not the damn queen,” Edmundson spits back, trying to push past him.
Quinn’s hands come up, grabbing the front of Edmundson’s jersey. He shoves him back so hard the King stumbles. “She’s my goalie,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that’s more threatening than any shout. “And my only rule is that scum like you doesn’t get to breathe her air. Now get the hell out of the crease before I help you.”
A jolt, sharp and electric, goes through you. It’s not fear. It’s not even just gratitude anymore. It’s a dark, thrilling, proprietary feeling that is yours and his alone. Watching him, your captain, your partner, stand guard over you with that cold fire in his eyes … it’s a language only the two of you speak. Two years of this, of these moments, and it still lights a fuse deep inside you.
The referees move in, separating them before it can escalate further. As Quinn skates away from the scrum, he circles back past your net. He doesn't say a word. He just looks at you. His eyes, dark with leftover aggression and something else, something deeper, lock with yours. It’s a look that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the hotel room that awaits you both in a few hours. A silent, searing promise.
You just give him a slow, deliberate nod, your heart hammering against your ribs for an entirely new reason.
***
An hour later, the locker room is vibrating with the joy of a 2-1 series-clinching win. You’re advancing to the Western Conference Final. The music is blasting, players are celebrating, the weight of the game replaced by the giddy anticipation of what’s to come.
You’re sitting in your stall, peeling off your drenched gear, when Quinn comes over. He leans against the stall beside yours, a towel slung around his neck, that intense look still lingering in his eyes.
“You okay?” He asks, his voice a low murmur meant only for you.
“Never better,” you reply, your own voice dropping to match his. You meet his gaze, and the noisy, crowded locker room melts away. There’s only him, the promise in his eyes, and the echo of that on-ice fire.
You are so lost in the moment that you don’t notice the audience you’ve gathered.
“Uh oh,” Garland says, not even trying to be quiet. He’s sitting across from you, taking off his skates. “Everybody see that? They’re making the eyes.”
Brock, sitting next to him, grins. “Yep. That’s the ‘Quinn played knight in shining armor’ look. It’s got its own gravitational pull.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck, but you can’t bring yourself to look away from Quinn. He just rolls his eyes at his teammates, a small, private smile playing on his lips. He’s used to it. They all are.
Garland sighs, a loud, dramatic sound that cuts through the music. He stands up and stretches, making sure he has the attention of the entire room.
“Alright, boys,” he announces, his voice booming. “Just a friendly reminder for everyone on the leadership group’s floor at the hotel …” He pauses for dramatic effect.
“I certainly hope you all brought your earplugs.”
The room explodes. A wave of laughter, catcalls, and stick taps echoes off the walls. You finally break eye contact with Quinn, burying your hot face in a towel, your shoulders shaking with laughter. You feel mortified and ridiculously, incandescently happy all at once.
Across the way, Quinn just shakes his head, a huge, unbothered grin spreading across his face. He picks up a crumpled roll of sock tape and wings it at Garland’s head, who ducks it with a triumphant laugh.
The noise eventually dies down. You look up from your towel. Your eyes find his again across the room. The laughter is gone, replaced by that same, searing look from the ice. It’s a look of profound love, of shared history, of a fierce, protective partnership that transcends the game. And it’s a look that still holds the silent, thrilling promise of later.
This was the story. Not the one the reporters wrote, but the one you built together. The one with the fights, the saves, the bets, and the love that was forged in the fire of the NHL. And as he gives you a slow, deliberate wink, you know with every fiber of your being that the best chapters were still to come.
gummygunk
janainaart
theartofmadeline
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
tangentwithtanner
