pairing; nathan mackinnon x unnamed (female) reader.
summary; nate is married to reader who is gabe's childhood bestfriend but they are not in love. or so they think. why are they married? who knows.
bonus 1: the one where they get married (3.8k words). / masterlist.
notes: this was set after this game. if you haven't see the shootout goal that is the wonderfulness and greatness of nathan mackinnon, do check it out!
Gabriel Landeskog
HEY HEY HEY
YOU ARE HERE RIGHT
I KNOW YOU ARE
COME HERE
COME DOWN
You
what.
why are you writing in english AND all caps lock???
Gabriel Landeskog
COME HERE
WE ARE CELEBRATING!!!!
TONIGHT'S WIN
!!!!!!
You
are you drunk???
aren't you supposed to fly to la??
Gabriel Landeskog
FLIGHT IS LATE? LATER? SLOW?
DELAYED.
JUST COME DOWN HERE
SHOOTOUT WIN!!!! BEST NIGHT!!!!
You
you are making my head hurts seeing your text.
send me your location?
You walk into the club and immediately feel like your entire system is being assaulted with the loud noise and bright light. You have already showered for the night, all the sweat and stickiness that was clinging to your body, face and hair already being washed down into the drain. Somehow, only one second into the club and you are already feeling the sweat that is about to cling to your body.
What are you even doing here?
You are sure that a team of hockey players are probably grouped together in the VIP area, especially considering that they are not in their home city and they just defeated this city's hockey team. You look around, taking in the surroundings while trying to figure out where the VIP area is and then you wonder, would you be allowed to go in? Does security know you? Doubt so.
Maybe you should turn around, go back into the elevator, head back up, get in bed and sleep. Just like what you have been planning to do after the game just now. Your friend already said that she is not coming back to the room tonight so you will have it all for yourself and well, isn't that just a dream?
A light touch on your elbow ground you back to the present moment, to this chaotic place and you tilt your head up to meet the face of the stranger that turns out to be Cale Makar.
"I knew you look familiar. How are you here?" he asks, surprised.
"Yeah," you answer, subtly trying to move your elbow away from his light touch. "Vacation. Gabe texted me few minutes ago to come here."
Cale chuckles, nodding his head as he guides you to wherever he is heading to, most probably where the rest of his teammates are at. He asks questions about your vacation, about whether you went to tonight's game and when you said you did, his grin comes out, and you mirror them as you congratulate him for the win.
"Does it feel like forever?"
"The game?"
You nod and he laughs, both of you step into the private area at the same time and a huge breath of relief escapes you as the sound is less deafening here and the light is less blinding too.
"We won, so it doesn't feel like forever."
You hum, in way of agreeing
You notice few other players spread around the area, bottles of drink in hand as they chat. You don't know them enough to approach and sit down with them, so you stand close to Cale.
You hear loud laughter and instantly, your body gravitates to the familiar sound of Gabriel Landeskog. Cale notices it and he gestures you to come with him, both of you making your way to Gabriel who is talking to another player that looks somewhat familiar to you.
You have met almost the entire roster of this season's Avalanche during pre-season gathering that Gabriel and Melissa organized few months back, but you are not good at remembering names. You put on a polite, friendly smile at the half-familiar half-stranger man as you step into the conversation, Cale standing close beside you on one side and Gabriel on another.
"Martyyyy, you have met my best friend, right?"
Oh, yes, Marty. Necas. Number 88.
"Yeah," Marty nods, tipping his bottle of drink toward you as a way of greeting. You nod your head in return.
"What took you so long?" Gabriel asks, completely ignoring Marty now and the guy seems like he has no issue with that as he starts talking to Cale instead.
"You literally texted me 20 minutes ago. Did you expect me to appear by your side instantly?"
"Can you do that?"
You roll your eyes and elbows his waist lightly. "Don't be silly."
He laughs. All he does ever since you step inside is laugh, laugh and more laughing. It's infectious.
Gabriel throws one arm around your shoulder, and he excuses both of you from Marty and Cale, leading you to the bar area so that you can order a drink. On your way there, he asks about your holiday, he tells you things about his kids that you already know, and you let him.
Drink in hand, he walks you two to a booth and you sit down with him. Few players throw few nods at both of you, and you respond back with a small smile as Gabriel is still talking, mix of Swedish and English coming out.
"So," he says, a sign that he is about to change the topic. Again.
You parrot him, one eyebrow raising in curiosity. "So?"
"What did you think about that goal?"
Laughing, you lean back onto your seat and look at him in wonder. "You are asking me about goal now? So suddenly?"
You are not going to let Gabriel feel the satisfaction so easily so you just shrug, trying to feign nonchalance. Trying not to make it visible how you were so amazed, so hyped up when Nathan scored that goal. Collective groans from home fans didn't even dampen your joy when the jumbotron replayed the goal and showed the final score of the game.
"It was okay. Cool."
"Just cool?" Gabriel tries to prod for more and you ignore his question, kicking his shin gently.
He points his bottle of drink at you as a playful warning and suddenly, his face lights up as he looks behind you, face full on smiling, looking proud and happy as he has been all night long.
"Man of the hour!"
You turn around, and Nathan Mackinnon is there, walking to where both of you are. Even under this awful lighting of the club, he still looks good. He looks happy. After-effect of winning, perhaps. Post-shootout win glow, probably.
For the hundredth time, Gabriel asked another person in his life whether they have met you and sometimes, you know some of the people have and some haven't. Nathan nods, hovering close to the table as he says hi to you and you say hey back in return.
The server comes with another drink for you (you ordered them a couple of minutes ago when you realize that Gabriel is still in the mood to actively talking, asking, yapping and your drink is running out, and you need more of it).
You thank them and Nathan is still hovering close, unsure whether he should sit down with you both or leave and find his other teammates. You help him then, requesting the server to wait and you look at him, asking if he wants to order anything and he gives you a grateful smile in return before requesting his choice of drink with the server.
"I need to go to the toilet," Gabriel announces, standing up and offering his now vacant seat to Nathan as he looks at you both and you get the idea that he is just trying to escape and give you both alone time. "Take care of her for me, Mackinnon?"
"Uh, sure?" Nathan says, voice unsure although he does sit down. Gabriel pats his shoulder, saying thank you before skipping away.
You tell your best friend that you have a slight crush on someone, and they let their busybody ass run the matchmaking agenda.
The silence is awkward and there is only so many times you can try to twirl your glass of drink and risking the content to not spill over before it becomes boring. The server comes back with Nathan's choice of drink, and the person leaves shortly after making sure that both of you don't need anything else.
"Congratulations on tonight's win," you say, starting with something safe, something plain.
"Thank you," he grins, taking a sip of his drink and hand resting on the glass, as if it's his source of comfort. "You watched it?"
You nod, imitating his action and the glass feels sticky in your hand. "Yeah, my friend wanted to catch a hockey game while we were here so what's better than watching you guys humiliate the home team?"
Nathan laughs, grin sheepish as he tries not to make it obvious how your words delight him. "Well, I am glad we won then."
You smile and the conversation ends. Part of you wish Gabriel to come back but the other part of you want to keep on having this alone moment with Nathan, however awkward it is.
"Um," Nathan says, after a couple of seconds that feels like minutes, "so, what are you doing in Vegas?"
You feel like you have told this story before, to another person (Cale), but repeating it would be better than sitting in silence, so you tell him about this one-week Christmas-New Year's Vegas trip that you are currently enjoying.
You tell him that your friend flew in for a work conference and since your work is flexible enough that you could basically do it anywhere, you decided to join her. Her company pays for the accommodation so that was the major deciding factor why you come along. There is no way you could afford to stay at this 5-stars hotel other than that.
Besides, her company had an entertainment allowance allocated for her, so she spent it on tonight's game tickets, explaining how both of you get to watch it at such good seats.
Nathan asks a couple of questions about your work, and you answer him. He asks more questions about the trip, and you answer him.
You tell him about your decent luck with casino, grateful that you are not a chronic gambler because this place is insane, it is totally designed to make you spend, spend and spend without thinking about the consequences. You tell him about the sights that you see, places that you visit, activities that you did.
"I saw a few couples yesterday," you say, voice low as if it's a conspiracy. "They were wearing white wedding dresses, and their partners were wearing equally amazing suits. I forgot that you could get married here and it's totally legal, considering how this city feels and designed like a paradise, however fake it seems."
"Oh?" He looks at you, curious.
You nod and you tell him then, about the women and the men and the different kind of rings that people settle on, as far as you can tell from where you were.
"You like to observe people?"
"Sometimes," you shrug, nails tapping against the side of your glass as you look around the room. "It is interesting to see how other people live their life. Some are carefree, some are guarded. Some are reckless, chaos personified."
He looks like he wants to know more, he looks like he is curious about himself from your point of view. You can see the way he hesitates, holding himself back from asking and you don't want to start dissecting him in this room full of people who know him better and who spend time with him longer than you ever do.
"Saw a couple though," you continue, "they look reckless. Carefree to the point of not caring what tomorrow may bring. I'm pretty sure they walked into the club straight from chapel, never once letting one another hands' go and you know what kind of ring they have on their fingers?"
Interested, he leans forward and asks, "What kind?"
Chuckling, you imitate him and both of you inch closer, "Plastic ring! The kind that you get from claw machine."
"No way," he laughs, nose scrunching up slightly in delight.
"Yes way."
The laughter remains for a while before it dies but it doesn't feel awkward now, it doesn't feel uncomfortable.
Nathan looks at you again, gaze curious as he asks, "Do you think you will ever do that kind of thing?"
"What? Getting married?"
"Yeah. But, like, an impulsive kind of marriage."
You lean back to your seat, thinking and considering the question.
All your life, you are rarely impulsive. You have always been a planner, and you like to stick to your plan.
Your mother always says you are too strict with yourself, your father said he wishes you can be kinder to yourself. Plan is safe, plan is predictable, plan helps you to navigate life and stay away from chaos, from bad decisions.
However, sometimes, you yearn to just let loose and have a brain that is quiet, that is not constantly reminding you that life is this list of checklists that you need to tick, tick and tick.
You chose to answer the question by not answering it directly. "Sometimes, I wish I don't overthink stuff and just do it."
"Nike's tagline," Nathan jokes and you laugh.
"Shut up."
"I wonder what it would feel like," he says.
You repeat his earlier question back at him. "What? Getting married?"
He nods, "Impulsively too. My life has always been a structure that I curate with precision, with firmness. To let a wild decision slip in... hmm."
You understand what he is saying. It feels like both are you strict with yourself, rigid in kind of way that helps you to be where you are today. Impulsive, reckless marriage is never in the structure, in the checklist of your life.
But, when you meet his eyes, you know that both of you have this kind of craziness sleeping deep inside that is waiting to be awakened.
"This might be crazy," you start, wishing he will understand the unspoken words.
"It is," he agrees, "but. Why not?"
"True," you nod, "why not."
As if you could read each other's mind, both of you take out your phone at once and you start to type onto the Google search bar.
What do you need to do to get married in Vegas.
"We need to get a marriage license," he voices out and your eyes are reading exactly that on this webpage you just found.
You nod your head and immediately get up from your seat, Nathan doing the same and it's a wonder if you both are co-sharing the same mind as both of you head out to the exit with matching steps, ignoring any teammates of his that look at you both curiously.
"Uber will be here in 5 minutes," he says, eyes fixating on the screen as you both reach the pickup area and you hum in response, brain already creating list of checkboxes to be ticked for this plan.
"Do you have your passport with you?" you ask, thankful that you never leave your passport away from your person.
Nathan nods and you start filling up the pre-application online. Name, date of birth, marital history, parent information. Whatever the empty box requires you to fill in. You pass your phone to Nathan for him to fill in his part, and you realize that other than knowing he is Nathan Mackinnon and he plays for Colorado Avalanche, you know nothing about him.
This is too insane, too crazy and yet, you can't deny how exciting this is.
You get in the Uber, Nathan following you after and while you wait for the car to drive you both to the bureau, you look out the window and look at this city that never sleeps. The sidewalks are still full of people; the area is still full of life as you leave it behind.
The drive isn't that long, and you arrive there not too long after. Both of you head straight to the counter, the clerk verifies your identity, checking your passport against the detail in the pre-application form, making sure the photo in your ID match with your face. She does the same with Nathan and the whole process feels unrealistic as it goes so fast and so easy, but you are not the one to complain.
When the clerk requests for the marriage license payment, he takes out his credit card and swipes it so quickly that you don't have any room to argue, to banter that you guys should split.
"My treat," he jokes, as if he is paying for dinner, as if he is paying for something that is not as serious as a marriage license.
"I will pay for our next Uber then," you tease and the clerk hands over the marriage license to both of you and she explains the same thing that you read on the webpage earlier.
The license expires one year after the issuance date, you can have your wedding ceremony anytime before that. The license authorizes a ceremony anywhere within Nevada, so you thank her while your mind is already thinking of the next destination.
Chapel.
You search for the chapel, comparing the distance between the bureau and the chapel and the chapel and the club you were both at earlier and the chapel and the... airport.
Your finger hovers on the screen as you suddenly remember the fact that Nathan has flight to catch tonight. In few hours. In few minutes, maybe. Who knows when is the actual time of his flight to LA? Not you, definitely.
"What time is your flight?" you ask, brain already thinking of the possibility of you both not being able to get married in Vegas.
He takes out his phone with the same realization that you are currently having, and he breathes out in relief as he answers, "Two hours from now."
"Okay, cool," you nod and book an Uber to a chapel that is located right in between this bureau and the club. Very convenient. "5 minutes."
He leads you both to the pickup area and you follow him from behind, right hand clutching onto your phone and left hand holding on the document that you would have never thought would be in your possession tonight. You read through them and your eyebrows rise at the sight of his full name.
"Raymond? Your middle name is Raymond?"
"Yeah," he confirms and you laugh. Nothing is funny but fixating on how his full name is Nathan Raymond Mackinnon is better than thinking about how crazy this past one hour has been. The uber arrives then and you let him get in the car first, follow him after and when the driver confirms with you on your name and destination, you nod your head and realize something.
"Do I need to take your last name?"
He immediately looks more serious than before, as if this question should be put so much thought onto it and he carefully answers, "I will let you decide?"
You nod in agreement, mouthing out your first name and his last name while thinking if it sounds good. You try to mush your last name with his and you voice out to him, joking that he should change his jersey and replace Mackinnon with the hyphenated last names of you both.
Both of you cackle and tonight feel so carefree, so exciting that you don't want it to end.
After that, the night moves like a video montage that was recorded with childlike excitement. You arrive at the chapel and both of you are dress in decent enough clothes that when they ask if you want to rent any wedding dress or suit, you both deny it and head straight into the chapel once you are done with the registration.
The officiant stands in front of you both, smiling with the joy of being able to unite two people, no matter whether you both are strangers to him, strangers to each other even.
Nathan laughs harder than he already does in the span of this one night when you blurt out a "yeah, sure" when the officiant asks you: do you take this man, Nathan Raymond Mackinnon, as your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, to love, honor, obey and whatever it is that they said.
"I do," Nathan says when he is asked the same question and the officiant smiles wider than before and just like that, both of you are declared married. In this 4.9 Google stars reviewed Chapel, with a random stranger as a witness.
He takes you in his arms when the officiant says you may kiss the bride and you don't even feel disappointed that you both settle with a hug instead of a kiss.
The witness looks at you both curiously, but she offers you her congratulations anyway and you thank her, you thank the officiant and you both pose for a quick photograph and then, the whole ceremony is over.
This time, you are quicker than him when you pay for the chapel fees and you look at him, at your husband, smugly.
Husband.
Suddenly, it feels like a bucket of water just get splashed right onto your face as you realize what has been happening for the past hour. Uber, marriage license bureau, another uber, chapel, wedding ceremony. You, Nathan Mackinnon. Married.
How is this real?
"I need to leave," Nathan says apologetically, interrupting this sudden clarity that you experience, and you look at him, feeling kind of dumbfounded so suddenly. "My flight."
"Oh, yes," you nod, agreeing and okay, what do you do now? Do you even have his phone number? What is the next step? The webpage. You need to look at the webpage again and figure out your next step. Alone. Since he is leaving for LA tonight and you still have 2 days left in Vegas.
"Talk to you later?" he offers and you nod again, waving him off with the hand that is not holding onto the marriage license.
He gives you a side hug before getting in an Uber that is probably going to take him directly to the airport. You stare at the car until it is gone from your sight and suddenly, everything feels too reckless, too carefree, too not you.
You take out your phone again and this time, you type another question into Google search bar and wonder if anyone has ever typed out the same thing right after stepping out from their wedding ceremony, in Vegas, with a husband that is more a stranger than a friend.
When can I get divorced if I get married in Vegas and can I get divorced in another state?
Been a minute since I posted accountability sentences so have some fingers in his mouth friday-wednesday-sunday
"Tanger, your turn deal."
"Give me—" he shifts, trying to work his fingers out of Tristan's mouth. "Give me a second."
He wrinkles his nose at the drool coating the digits as he finally manages to free his hand. He attempts to wipes it off against Tristan's hoodie. It's not like Tristan will notice.
"Here." Kris looks up. Lars is holding out a napkin with an amused look on his face. Kris takes it gratefully, wiping off the last of the drool.
Tristan breaths deep, and without opening his eyes, licks his lips. As he does so, he must realize there's no longer anything in his mouth because he lets out a whine.
His free hand goes to Tristan's hair, carding through his curls, trying to wrack his brain for what Tristan could suck on that wasn't him or one of their very nice gags that were currently in the luggage compartment. Tristan leans forward, still asleep but seeking something to fill his mouth. If they weren't on the damn plane Kris would feed Tristan his cock and be done with it. The glee with which Karl would spread the news across the plane wasn't worth it. Not combined with the smirk tugging at Geno's lips that promised a hefty fine if he even thought about it. It was a shame. Tristan looks gorgeous on his cock, no matter the angle.
Tristan finds Kris's other thigh, teeth nipping at his inseam and mouthing at his pants. There's not enough give in this outfit for Tristan to really get a mouthful of the fabric and Kris laments that he's not in sweatpants. He could endure the come jokes at the wet spot on his thigh if it would sooth Tristan. His pants may not be loose enough— an idea forms and Kris's hand goes to his waist, reaching for the ends of his belt. His other hand tightens in Tristan's hair, pulling his head back and attempting to make space in his crowded lap.
He's almost got his belt buckle undone and the end free when Karl decides he's done watching and is ready to make a nuisance of himself.
"Oooo Tanger, feeling showy?" [some other crack about getting his dick out on the plane].
Karl leans forward to poke teasingly at him, his hand hovering just outside Kris's personal space but not crossing the boundary. Kris growls under his breath, muttering another curse as he tries to do this one handed. He struggles for another moment, determined to ignore the laughter of the other Doms around the table. Most of Kris's focus is on his belt and the needy sub between his legs, ignoring the annoying Dom next to him.
It works for less than a second. In that time Karl gets dangerously close to actually touching him right as Tristan opens his mouth to once more sleepily protest Kris's many transgressions. Kris sees an opportunity and seizes it, letting Tristan go to grab Karl's pestering fingers and shove them into Tristan's open mouth. Tristan's mouth closes around the digits instantly, sucking instinctively like a good sub. Kris can feel the tension ease from Tristan's frame as he relaxes further into his leg.
The tableau is surprisingly hot. Kris's free hand is wrapped half around Karl's, his own thick fingers a contrast against Karl's thinner, tattoo-stained hand. Tristan's chapped lips are a bright spot of color where they're wrapped around Karl's strong fingers. The sight is so familiar to Kris, but different— good different— in a way that he doesn't have time to think about.
Karl stiffens at the dual touches of Dom and sub, but doesn't pull away. Kris lets go, glancing sideways at his face to gauge his reaction. He's a little slack jawed, his mouth hanging open the slightest bit and his eyes zeroed in on the sub wrapped around his fingers. Kris glances back down and watches as Karl's thumb, not currently in Tristan's mouth, comes around to gently stroke Tristan's jaw.
Good, Kris thinks, Karl knows how to take care of a sub.
Kris takes advantage of having both hands free, feeding the end of his belt through belt loops until the whole thing is off. He picks it up, winding it carefully until just an end is free. He can feel Geno and Lars' eyes the entire time, but he ignores them, saying a quick prayer to any higher power that might be listening that Karl is still distracted.
Once ready, he takes Tristan's chin carefully in his hands, pressing lightly to get him to release Karl. Karl withdraws his hand slowly, still silent. Kris doesn't take his eyes off Tristan to see how the other Dom is doing, focusing all his attention on the sub literally in his hands. He takes the free end of the belt and feeds it into Tristan's mouth until he bites down, chewing lightly at the leather once, twice, a third time before settling down once again.
Tristan lets out a pleased hum and Kris resigns himself to bite marks on another one of his belts. He would prefer to use one of their very expensive gags or Tristan's stim toys to soothe Tristan's oral fixation, that is what they are there for, but needs must. Bite marks are still better than losing the use of his hand for the rest of the flight. Kris pets Tristan's hair, threading his fingers through his curls. After a couple of passes he drags his hand down until he can cup Tristan's nape, tightening his grip until the only thing he can feel is Tristan solid and real under his hand. He stays like that for a brief second, using the feeling to center himself before pulling away.
Kris turns an appraising eye to the rest of the table. Geno is laughing at him, silently thankfully, but his expression is one Kris knows well. Lars looks equally amused at the show Kris and Tristan are providing, though how much is visible with the table in the way, Kris doesn't know. Kris turns his gaze to Karl, but he can't tell what the usually expressive dom is thinking. The slack expression is gone, but he can't read the one that's replaced it. Kris voices a quick thanks his way, knowing his maman would not abide an impolite son.
"Legend no get drool on cards." Geno says once the moment has passed. Kris grumbles and grabs the napkin to do another pass of his hand before belatedly passing it to Karl to wipe his hand off as well.
"Let's see you keep everything drool-free in my situation," Kris grumbles.
"Sid!" Geno shouts down the plane, not even bothering to stand up. "You drool on cards?"
"What? No!" Sid squawks back from where he is reading a couple rows away.
"See!" Geno says.
Kris grumbles under his breath about Doms dating other Doms who don't have to worry about subs drooling all over them as he gathers the cards and takes his turn dealing.
summary: A fake PR relationship between Andrei Svechnikov and global pop star Y/N starts as damage control for both of their images, but behind staged dates and public appearances, they begin to see the real, softer sides of each other. When the contract ends, they’re forced to break up just as Y/N leaves for tour.
wc: 28k divided in two parts (i've been writting this nonstop an this is the result 👀)
PART 2
The first thing Andrei Svechnikov noticed about Y/N L/N was that she looked tired.
Not in the way people usually meant when they talked about celebrities, not in the kind of polished exhaustion that still came with perfect lighting and a designer coat draped over one shoulder. She looked tired in a way he recognized. The kind that settled behind the eyes after too many people wanted too many pieces of you.
She sat across from him in a private conference room at PNC Arena, one leg crossed over the other, a baseball cap pulled low over her face even though everyone in the room already knew who she was. Her hair was tucked into the collar of an oversized black sweater, sunglasses resting on top of her head, and there was a paper cup of coffee between her hands that she hadn’t touched once.
There were too many people in the room.
Her manager. His agent. A representative from the Hurricanes’ media department. Someone from her label. Someone from her publicist’s office. A lawyer. Another lawyer. Andrei had stopped trying to remember names after the third handshake.
Y/N hadn’t offered him one.
Not rudely. She had simply looked up when he walked in, met his eyes for half a second, and given him the smallest nod.
Andrei appreciated it more than he expected.
No performance. No squeal of excitement. No fake, glittering, oh my god, I’m such a huge hockey fan smile. Just a tired nod from one person stuck in a room full of people making decisions about their lives to another.
“This is mutually beneficial,” her publicist said, sliding a folder across the table like she was announcing a trade. “Y/N has been dealing with… heightened scrutiny regarding her dating history.”
Y/N’s mouth twitched.
Andrei saw it.
Not a smile. Not really.
More like she had heard that sentence so many times it had become a joke no one else realized was cruel.
“Andrei,” his agent continued smoothly, “has an image that could use a little more public warmth. He’s respected, obviously. Talented. Focused. But he’s seen as quiet, closed-off. Hard to read.”
Andrei leaned back in his chair.
“I am quiet,” he said.
That earned the smallest sound from Y/N.
Almost a laugh.
Her manager shot her a look.
She pressed her lips together and stared down at her coffee.
The Hurricanes representative cleared his throat. “The idea is simple. Controlled public appearances. A few confirmed sightings. Nothing overly invasive. We establish a relationship narrative that works for both parties.”
“A relationship narrative,” Y/N repeated.
Her voice was softer than Andrei expected. Lower, too. The kind of voice that made stadiums go silent in anticipation, but in this room, without a microphone, it sounded almost fragile.
Her publicist ignored the bite in it.
“You two are both young, attractive, high-profile in different circles. It introduces Andrei to a broader audience and grounds Y/N’s image with someone stable, private, respected. It shifts the conversation.”
“From me being a serial dater to me being redeemed by a hockey player?” Y/N asked.
The room went still.
Andrei’s eyes moved to her again.
She didn’t look angry. That was the strange part. She looked bored. Like she had already had this fight and lost it before walking through the door.
Her manager sighed. “Y/N.”
“No, I understand,” she said, finally lifting the coffee to her mouth. She didn’t drink it. “I’m just translating.”
Andrei looked down at the folder in front of him. There were pages of terms, guidelines, timelines. Public appearances. Social media limitations. Non-disclosure clauses. Exit strategy.
The phrase made his stomach tighten.
Exit strategy.
As if heartbreak could be scheduled between a concert tour and the playoffs, not that there would be heartbreak, he reminded himself.
This was business. Three months. Maybe four.
Appear together a few times. Let cameras catch them at dinner. Let her wear his jersey once. Let him stand backstage at one of her shows with a neutral expression while her fans lost their minds online.
Then, when the contract ended, they would break up quietly.
Andrei had no interest in pretending to be in love, but he understood why his team wanted it. He was private to the point of mystery. He didn’t give the media much beyond hockey. He didn’t like posting his life. He didn’t like strangers knowing where he ate dinner or who he called after games or what he did on the rare mornings when he could sleep past eight.
Y/N L/N lived on the opposite end of that spectrum.
Everyone knew everything about her, or at least they thought they did.
Andrei had seen her name online. It was impossible not to. She was on billboards, award shows, magazine covers, stadium screens. Her songs played in restaurants, locker rooms, airports. She had the kind of fame that made people feel entitled to an opinion about her sadness.
Her last breakup had been everywhere.
So had the one before that.
And the one before that.
Andrei didn’t follow celebrity gossip, but even he had heard the jokes. The headlines. The think pieces about whether she loved too easily, whether she used men for music, whether she was too emotional, too calculating, too much.
Sitting across from her now, all he could think was that she looked smaller than the world made her seem.
“All public contact will be coordinated,” one of the lawyers said. “No unscheduled couple content unless approved by both teams.”
Y/N hummed. “So romantic.”
Andrei glanced at her, this time, she looked back.
There was something guarded in her expression, but there was humor there too. Dry and sharp and hidden beneath layers of professional obedience.
He wondered how often people missed it.
His agent tapped the folder. “You’ll have a soft launch in two weeks. Dinner in Raleigh. Visible enough to be photographed, private enough to feel accidental.”
“Accidental,” Y/N murmured.
“After that,” her publicist continued, “Y/N attends one Hurricanes home game. Andrei attends one concert when her tour stops in Charlotte. No kissing at first. Hand-holding only if natural.”
“If natural,” Andrei repeated, his accent thickening around the words.
Y/N looked down quickly, this time, he was sure she was trying not to laugh, something in his chest loosened.
The meeting went on for another hour. They talked about boundaries like they were writing safety instructions. They talked about physical affection, family disclosure, media questions, social media engagement. They talked about what to say if someone asked how they met.
“Charity event?” someone suggested.
“Too generic,” Y/N’s manager said.
“Mutual friends?”
“Hard to track.”
“A private dinner?”
“Sounds like a hookup.”
Y/N stared at the ceiling.
Andrei looked at her for a long second before saying, “Maybe we say we met here.”
Everyone turned to him.
He shrugged. “At game. She came to game. We talked after.”
Her publicist blinked. “That could work.”
Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly, not suspicious, just curious.
“You want our fake relationship to start at your job?” she asked.
“It is better than fake charity event.”
Another almost-laugh.
He was starting to like that sound.
Not because he wanted to like her. Not because he wanted any part of this to feel real. But because everyone in the room seemed committed to treating her like a product with a pulse, and Andrei found himself wanting to remind them she was a person.
A person who made quiet jokes when she was uncomfortable.
A person who looked tired.
A person who hadn’t touched her coffee because her hands were shaking too badly whenever she lifted it.
The realization settled uneasily in him.
He looked away.
At the end of the meeting, everyone stood at once. Chairs moved. Papers shuffled. Phones came out. Her publicist was already discussing the timing of the first “leak.”
Y/N remained seated for a moment, staring at the contract in front of her.
Then she picked up the pen.
Andrei watched her sign first.
Her signature was quick and practiced, a version of her name that probably existed on thousands of posters and album inserts and legal documents. Y/N L/N, global pop star, America’s favorite disaster, the girl everyone loved until she loved someone back.
Then the folder came to him.
Andrei signed.
Simple.
Done.
Fake.
When he looked up, Y/N was watching him.
“So,” she said quietly, once the others were distracted, “I guess you’re my boyfriend now.”
Andrei capped the pen.
“For business,” he said.
“For business,” she agreed.
There was a pause.
Then she held out her hand.
This time, he took it.
Her hand was cold.
His was warm.
And for some reason, neither of them let go as quickly as they should have.
The first photographs came out exactly when they were supposed to.
Y/N L/N and Andrei Svechnikov were seen leaving a quiet restaurant in Raleigh on a Thursday night, walking close enough to be interesting but not close enough to be undeniable. She wore jeans, boots, and a long coat that made her look almost anonymous until the flash caught her face. He wore black slacks and a dark sweater, his hand hovering carefully near the small of her back but never touching.
The internet did the rest.
By morning, her name was trending beside his.
"Y/N L/N spotted with NHL star Andrei Svechnikov."
"New couple alert?"
"Y/N moves on again?"
"Who is Andrei Svechnikov?"
Hurricanes fans wake up to chaos.
Andrei saw most of it because Sebastian sent screenshots to the team group chat before morning skate.
SEBASTIAN: Is this why you were dressed nice yesterday?
JARVIS: ANDREI HAS A POP STAR GIRLFRIEND?????
KK: I thought he was married to hockey.
BURNS: Kid’s got secrets.
Andrei stared at his phone in the locker room, expression flat.
“Not girlfriend,” he muttered.
Seth, unfortunately, heard him “Oh, sorry,” Seth said loudly. “Your internationally famous, totally casual, contractually obligated dinner companion.”
A few of the guys started laughing, Andrei shoved his phone into his stall. “Shut up.”
That only made it worse.
The problem with hockey players, Andrei had learned over the years, was that they could smell embarrassment like blood in the water. He could take chirps about missed nets, bad suits, even his English when they were feeling brave, but this was different. This was Y/N L/N. This was the kind of name that made even grown men act like teenagers.
By the time Rod walked into the room, Seth was pretending to sing into a tape roll while Brent Burns asked Andrei if he needed security now that he was “dating royalty.”
Andrei took all of it silently.
He was good at silence, it was one of the reasons his team liked this arrangement so much.
By noon, his agent texted him: Good first reaction, keep it subtle. No direct comment yet.
As if Andrei had planned on saying anything, across the city, Y/N was having a much worse morning.
She sat in the back of an SUV outside a radio station, knees drawn to her chest, sunglasses covering half her face while her phone exploded with notifications. Her manager, Mia, sat beside her, scrolling through headlines with the calm focus of someone checking stock prices.
“This is good,” Mia said. “Mostly curiosity. Some skepticism, obviously, but curiosity is better than hostility.”
Y/N gave her a dry look. “That’s where the bar is now?” Mia didn’t answer, Y/N looked back down at her phone.
There were already edits of her and Andrei set to her songs. Someone had made a thread explaining his career. Someone else had posted a picture of him smiling during warmups and captioned it, Oh she won.
Then came the other comments.
She’ll write an album about him by Christmas.
Girl cannot be single for five minutes.
How long until she ruins this man?
He seems too normal for her.
Y/N locked her phone and dropped it facedown on the seat, for one second she let herself close her eyes.
She had agreed to this. She had signed the contract. She understood the purpose. Her team needed the narrative to change before her world tour. His team wanted him softened, humanized, made less untouchable to casual fans.
It was supposed to be easy, smile, walk beside him, let the cameras see what they needed to see. Move on.
She had done harder things.
She had sung through food poisoning in Tokyo. She had walked red carpets three days after a breakup while reporters shouted his name. She had learned to keep smiling while strangers decided she was either too heartbroken or not heartbroken enough.
But something about Andrei made the whole thing feel harder.
Maybe because he didn’t seem excited by it.
Not annoyed, exactly. Not rude. Just serious. Careful. Like he was treating the fake relationship with the same discipline he treated a penalty kill.
He had opened her car door the night before without looking at the cameras. He had asked if she was cold before anyone could photograph it. He hadn’t touched her waist even though their teams had said he could. When the paparazzi shouted her ex’s name, Andrei’s jaw had tightened so sharply that she noticed.
He didn’t say anything, he just moved half a step closer to her that had been the first unscripted thing, she hated that she remembered it.
“You have the hockey game next week,” Mia said, still scrolling. “Your team and his team agreed on a suite. You’ll arrive after puck drop to avoid too much attention.”
Y/N opened her eyes. “Do I have to sit in the suite?”
“Yes.”
“Can I at least watch the game?” Mia finally looked at her. “That is why you’re going.”
“No, I mean actually watch it.” Her manager blinked, Y/N sat up a little. “Not just sit there and look pretty in his jersey. I want to watch.”
Mia stared at her like she had said she wanted to perform surgery during intermission “What?” Y/N asked.
“I forgot you know hockey.” Y/N made a face. “My brothers would disown me if I didn’t.”
It was one of the few pieces of herself the world had never really picked apart because she had kept it small, tucked away behind stadium tours and award shows. Her older brothers had played college hockey. Her youngest brother was still in juniors and called her after almost every game to complain about refs, coaches, and whatever defenseman had annoyed him that week.
She knew what icing was. She knew what a bad change looked like. She knew enough to recognize when a power play was moving too slowly and when a goalie was saving a team from embarrassment.
She also knew enough to understand Andrei Svechnikov was not just handsome in the way the internet had suddenly discovered.
He was dangerous on the ice.
Big, skilled, physical, creative. The kind of player who made defenders panic half a second before the mistake happened.
She had watched highlights after the meeting, for research or that was what she told herself, Research.
The first Hurricanes game she attended was against the Rangers.
The plan was simple. She would arrive halfway through the first period, wearing something neutral but flattering, sit in the suite with a few approved people, and leave before the media crush got too aggressive.
The plan lasted approximately six minutes because Y/N L/N did not know how to be invisible.
The second she stepped into the suite, someone in the lower bowl turned around. Then someone else. Then phones started lifting. The sound moved through the arena in a strange wave, whispers turning into shouts, shouts turning into a roar when the jumbotron operator, either brave or deeply reckless, found her during a stoppage.
Her face appeared above center ice for one second, she froze and then she smiled.
Not the red carpet smile. Not the award show smile. Not the careful, practiced expression designed to survive zoom lenses and body-language experts.
A real smile, a slightly embarrassed, caught-off-guard smile as the crowd lost its mind around her.
She lifted one hand and waved, the arena got louder and on the ice, Andrei looked up.
He had known she was coming. Of course he had known. It had been written into the schedule, discussed in emails, approved by too many people.
Still, seeing her there was different.
She wasn’t wearing his jersey. Not officially. That would come later, according to the plan. Instead, she wore a black leather jacket over a white shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders, gold hoops catching the arena lights.
But there was a Hurricanes cap on her head, his stomach did something stupid “Eyes on the draw,” Sebastian muttered beside him.
Andrei snapped his gaze back to the ice.
The puck dropped.
He played the rest of the period like he was trying to prove something to someone who had not asked.
He hit harder. Skated faster. Took the puck wide around a defenseman and nearly scored off the rush. The crowd buzzed every time he touched the puck, and he told himself it had nothing to do with her.
Then he scored in the second.
A one-timer from the circle, clean and violent, the kind of shot that made the net snap before the goalie fully reacted.
The arena erupted.
Andrei turned toward the glass, teammates crashing into him, and for half a second his eyes found the suite.
Y/N was standing.
Not politely clapping. Not giving some delicate celebrity reaction for cameras.
Standing, both hands in the air, yelling something he couldn’t hear.
She knew.
That was his first thought.
Not she’s happy.
Not she’s acting well.
She knew that shot had mattered. She knew where the pass came from. She knew it had been a power-play setup they had probably run a hundred times. She knew enough to celebrate before the goal horn even finished.
Andrei stared a second too long.
Seth slammed into his side. “Bro, if you don’t stop looking at your fake girlfriend like that, people are gonna think she’s your real one.”
Andrei shoved him away.
But he was smiling.
After the game, Y/N was supposed to leave through a private exit.
Instead, she ended up waiting in a hallway near the family area because someone from her team had misunderstood where the SUV was parked. She stood with her arms crossed, cap pulled low again, trying not to look like a global superstar trapped beside a vending machine.
A little girl in a Hurricanes jersey spotted her first.
Y/N saw it happen.
The recognition.
The widening eyes.
The hand tugging on her mother’s sleeve.
For a brief second, security shifted closer. Y/N subtly shook her head, the girl approached with a phone clutched nervously in both hands. “Are you Y/N?”
Y/N bent slightly, putting herself closer to the girl’s height. “I am.”
The girl’s face crumpled with emotion so quickly Andrei, stepping into the hall with damp hair and a suit jacket over his arm, stopped walking.
“I listened to your song when my dad was sick,” the girl said. Her voice shook. “The one about being brave even when you’re scared.”
Y/N’s expression changed, everything public about her disappeared. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered.
The girl started crying, embarrassed by it, and Y/N didn’t hesitate. She opened her arms, and the girl stepped into them like she had been waiting for permission.
Andrei stood still.
He had seen famous people interact with fans before. He had seen smiles, signatures, quick pictures, sweet gestures. But this was different. Y/N held that little girl like the hallway had narrowed down to only the two of them. She didn’t look around to see who was filming. She didn’t angle her face toward better light. She didn’t rush.
She listened.
The girl’s mother apologized twice, y/n shook her head both times. “Never apologize for this,” she said gently. “I’m really glad you told me.”
When the girl asked for a picture, Y/N crouched beside her and smiled softly, wiping under the girl’s eyes first with her thumb.
Only after they walked away did Y/N straighten and only then did she notice Andrei and for some reason, she looked embarrassed. “You saw that?”
He nodded, her shoulders lifted a little, defensive. “She was sweet.”
“I know.”
Y/N studied his face, maybe searching for judgment, maybe expecting him to make some comment about optics or fans or the cameras that had inevitably caught pieces of it.
He didn’t, instead, Andrei said, “You are good with people.”
She huffed a quiet laugh and looked away. “Depends who you ask.”
“I ask me.”
That made her go still.
The hallway was loud around them. Staff moving equipment. Families waiting. Players calling for each other. Somewhere nearby, Seth Jarvis was laughing too loudly.
But Y/N looked at him like the words had landed somewhere tender.
Before she could answer, her manager appeared with apologies and instructions and the location of the SUV. The moment slipped back into professionalism.
Andrei walked her out because he was supposed to because cameras might be outside, because it was part of the arrangement.
At least that was what he told himself. When they reached the exit, the night air cut cold against them. Flashes started immediately from behind the barrier.
“Y/N! Over here!”
“Andrei, did you score for her?”
“Y/N, is this serious?”
“How long have you been dating?”
Someone shouted the name of her ex, Andrei felt her flinch before he saw it, it was tiny. Almost nothing.
But he was close enough to notice. This time, he did touch her, his hand settled at her back, broad and warm, guiding her toward the car. Not possessive. Not dramatic. Just steady.
Y/N looked up at him and the cameras went wild.
He opened the door for her, waited until she was inside, then leaned down slightly “You okay?” he asked.
It was not in the contract, Her face softened. “Yeah,” she said. “Thank you.”
He nodded once and stepped back.
The SUV door closed, as it pulled away, Y/N looked through the tinted window at him standing there beneath the arena lights, tall and quiet and painfully unreadable.
Her phone buzzed in her lap, it was a message from her youngest brother.
I know this is fake or whatever but Svech’s one-timer was gross. Also tell him their neutral zone entries need work.
Y/N laughed before she could stop herself.
Then, after a second, she saved Andrei’s number from the group contact sheet. She stared at the empty message box for too long, finally, she typed.
My brother says your one-timer was gross. That means good.
She almost left it there, then added:
He also says your neutral zone entries need work.
She hit send before she could overthink it. Across the parking lot, Andrei was getting into his own car when his phone buzzed.
He read the message once, then again, a slow smile pulled at his mouth You know hockey? he wrote back.
Y/N smiled down at her phone, for reasons she had no interest in examining, her heart felt lighter than it had all day.
Wouldn’t you like to know, fake boyfriend.
Andrei sat in his car for a long moment, grinning like an idiot in the dark, Then he typed back.
Yes. I would.
Y/N told herself she was watching Hurricanes highlights for research purposes.
That was the official explanation.
It was reasonable, responsible, and professional. If she was going to pretend to date an NHL player, she should know enough about his team not to embarrass herself. She should understand his schedule, his stats, his role, the way fans talked about him, the way commentators described him when he was at his best.
So yes, technically, she was in bed at one in the morning, wrapped in a hotel robe, eating room service fries, watching a twelve-minute compilation titled Andrei Svechnikov Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight.
For research purposes.
Strictly, her phone buzzed on the pillow beside her.
ANDREI: Your brother still thinks neutral zone is bad?
Y/N smiled before she even picked up the phone, that was becoming a problem.
She had only texted him once after the game. Once should have been safe. A small joke. A harmless follow-up to a public appearance they had both survived. But then he had replied, and she had replied, and somehow, two days later, there was a conversation thread full of hockey chirps, dry humor, and Andrei sending her a picture of Seth Jarvis looking furious in the background of the locker room because Y/N’s youngest brother had apparently called him “that fast little chaos guy.”
Y/N had not meant to learn that Andrei was funny.
Quiet men were not supposed to be funny. That was the whole thing. Quiet men were supposed to be mysterious and emotionally unavailable and probably bad at texting.
Andrei texted like he spoke—simple, blunt, weirdly charming.
Y/N: My brother has many thoughts. Unfortunately, he is sixteen and therefore believes he could coach an NHL power play.
ANDREI: Sixteen?
Y/N: Juniors. Terrifying confidence. Bad haircut. Smells like equipment and ego.
ANDREI: Sounds like hockey player.
Y/N: He says you’re his favorite Cane though, so don’t be mean.
There was a pause. Then:
ANDREI: Favorite?
Y/N could practically hear the smugness, she rolled her eyes.
Y/N: Don’t make me regret telling you.
ANDREI: Too late.
She laughed quietly into the empty hotel room.
Then the video on her laptop replayed his lacrosse-style goal, and she glanced back at the screen.
She had seen it before, obviously. Everyone had. Her brothers had sent it to the family group chat years ago with about forty-seven exclamation points and one very dramatic voice memo from her youngest brother declaring that hockey had changed forever.
But it was different now.
Now she knew the hands that had pulled off that move. The voice behind the dry texts. The man who had stood between her and the paparazzi without making it look like some heroic public performance.
Her phone buzzed again.
ANDREI: Why are you awake?
Y/N looked at the time: 1:17 a.m.
She hesitated, there were many answers she could give.
Because her body was still running on stage adrenaline from the private corporate set she had performed that evening.
Because she hated hotel rooms after midnight.
Because the internet had decided that her coat at the Hurricanes game meant she was copying one of Andrei’s exes, even though she was fairly sure he didn’t have any public exes for them to compare her to.
Because she was watching videos of him and telling herself it was work.
She typed instead:
Y/N: Time zones are fake.
His reply came almost immediately.
ANDREI: Sleep is real.
She stared at the message for a second, there it was again, that softness he seemed to hide inside practical sentences. She set her fries aside and typed:
Y/N: Yes, Dad.
Three dots appeared, disappeared and appeared again.
ANDREI: I am not dad.
Y/N bit her lip to keep from smiling too hard.
Y/N: That’s exactly what a dad would say.
ANDREI: Go to sleep.
Y/N: Bossy.
ANDREI: Yes.
She laughed again and because she was apparently determined to ruin her own life, she sent:
Y/N: Goodnight, fake boyfriend.
For a moment, there was nothing, then:
ANDREI: Goodnight, trouble.
Y/N put the phone facedown, she did not sleep for another hour.
Not because of him, definitely not because of him, for research purposes, she watched one more highlight video. Across the country, Andrei sat on the edge of his bed in his apartment, staring at the last message he had sent with mild horror.
Trouble.
He had called her trouble.
That was not professional.
That was not contractual, that was not what his agent had meant when he said, keep the tone friendly but controlled.
Andrei dragged a hand down his face, this was Seth’s fault somehow. He didn’t know how, but it was.
The next day, Y/N’s Charlotte concert became their second public test.
Andrei was supposed to attend with a small group from the Hurricanes. Not the whole team, because that would look too staged. Not alone, because that would look too serious. He was supposed to be seen entering through a side door, watch from a VIP area, maybe be photographed backstage afterward if the energy felt right.
Everything was planned, everything except the moment he actually heard her sing.
Andrei had heard her music before. It was impossible not to. Her songs played in stores, on radio, in restaurants, in the background of videos his teammates watched too loudly on planes. He knew the hooks. He knew the famous choruses. He knew which song was supposedly about which ex because the internet made sure everyone knew.
But he had never stood beneath the heat of a stadium full of people screaming her name and watched her command every inch of the stage like she had been born from sound and light.
She was different there. Not tired. Not guarded.
Not the woman in the conference room with cold hands and a contract in front of her.
On stage, Y/N was impossible to look away from.
She moved like the music belonged to her because it did. She laughed between songs, teasing fans in the front row, accepting bracelets and flags and one aggressively sparkly cowboy hat. She noticed everything. A girl crying during the second ballad. A little boy on his father’s shoulders wearing her merch. A fan holding a sign that said YOUR MUSIC GOT ME THROUGH CHEMO, which made her stop before the next song and press a hand to her heart.
Andrei watched her from the VIP section, arms crossed, trying to ignore the cameras that turned toward him every few minutes, Seth stood beside him, wearing sunglasses indoors because he claimed it was “concert culture.”
“This is insane,” Seth shouted over the music, Andrei nodded. “No, seriously,” Seth continued. “I thought people liked hockey players. They don’t. Not like this. This is terrifying.”
Andrei looked around at the crowd, tens of thousands of people singing every word back to her, terrifying was one word for it.
Lonely was another.
Because from the outside, it looked like worship. Like love. Like the kind of attention most people would dream of. But Andrei watched the way security shifted every time she walked too close to the edge of the stage. He watched how she scanned the crowd with a smile that never dropped, even when someone threw something soft toward her feet. He watched her give herself away in pieces and wondered what was left when she walked off stage.
Near the end of the show, she sang one of her biggest songs, A breakup song aftertaste
The one everyone knew.
The entire stadium screamed the lyrics, turning her pain into a celebration.
"You left lipstick on the glassThen called me crazy when I askedHow did I become the headlineWhen you were the one who made it crash?
Now every room still knows your nameBut I’m the one who wears the blameI got over you completelyBut you still have an aftertaste"
Andrei had heard the song before. He had never thought much about it. Now he listened to the words and felt something uncomfortable twist low in his chest.
Not jealousy, he had no right to jealousy.
The men she had loved before him—pretended before him, been hurt by before him, whatever the truth was—had nothing to do with him.
But he hated the thought of people treating her heartbreak like a public souvenir.
When the song ended, Y/N stood still for a moment, breathing hard, her face glowing under the stage lights.
Then she smiled “Charlotte,” she said, voice echoing through the stadium, “you’ve been unbelievable.”
The crowd roared, she laughed, and the sound rolled warm and bright through the speakers. “I have a very special guest here tonight,” she continued.
Andrei’s entire body went still, Seth slowly turned his head. “Oh no,” Seth said.
Y/N looked toward the VIP section, the screens followed and suddenly Andrei’s face was forty feet tall on every side of the stadium.
The scream that followed was so loud he genuinely forgot English for a second. Y/N grinned.
Not professionally Evilly. “He’s going to pretend he hates this,” she said into the microphone, “but I think he secretly loves attention.”
Andrei stared at her, Seth doubled over laughing.
The fans screamed louder, Andrei shook his head once, very slowly.
Y/N put one hand over her heart in fake innocence. “Everyone say hi, Andrei.”
The entire stadium screamed his name, he had played playoff games. He had been booed in hostile arenas. He had heard crowds chant after goals, fights, bad calls. He knew noise.
This was different.
This was chaos dipped in glitter.
He lifted one hand in a stiff wave.
The fans lost their minds.
Y/N laughed so hard she had to turn away from the mic, Andrei tried to glare at her, but even from the stage, even under all those lights, she could see the corner of his mouth fighting not to lift.
It made something in her chest go soft.
That wasn’t part of the script.
She had planned to acknowledge him. Her team had approved it. It was good PR. Cute. Playful. Viral.
But she hadn’t planned for the warmth that spread through her when he waved despite clearly wanting the floor to swallow him whole.
She hadn’t planned to think he looked sweet standing there with his broad shoulders tense, trying to survive her world for five seconds.
She definitely hadn’t planned to dedicate the next song without saying his name.
“This one,” she said, turning back to the crowd, “is for anyone who makes you feel safe when everything else feels very loud.”
The stadium softened before erupting again.
Andrei stopped smiling.
The song was not one of the angry ones.
It was not sharp or glittering or made for screaming in a car after midnight. It was quieter. A love song, technically, though not one she had ever confirmed was about anyone. Her voice dropped into something intimate, almost private, even with thousands of people listening.
"I know I said I’d keep it quiet
No names, no proof, no midnight likes
But baby, I’m not good at hiding
When you look at me like that under city lights"
Andrei didn’t know where to put his hands, he stood there while she sang about finding stillness in chaos, about someone who didn’t ask for the shiny version, about being seen without being studied.
Seth leaned toward him, voice lower now. “Dude.”
Andrei didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Because Y/N was looking at him.
Only for a second. Maybe less.
But he felt it.
After the show, backstage was a blur of people, flowers, towels, crew members, security, label representatives, and Y/N’s team moving with the practiced urgency of people trying to keep a machine alive.
Andrei waited near a hallway with Seth and two of the team’s media staff. He told himself he was calm. He was not. He felt more nervous than he did before games, which was ridiculous because this was not real.
Fake boyfriend. Business.
Friendly but controlled.
Then Y/N appeared.
Her stage makeup was still on, but her hair had been pulled back messily. She wore an oversized tour hoodie now, swallowing her frame, and there was a sheen of exhaustion over her that reminded him of the conference room.
Except when she saw him, she smiled, A real one.
“Hi,” she said, such a small word. It hit him anyway. “Hi,” Andrei said.
Seth looked between them, then immediately found an excuse to leave.
“I’m gonna go touch expensive-looking equipment I’m not supposed to touch,” he announced.
Neither of them responded.
Y/N stepped closer, tilting her head. “You survived.”
“Barely.”
“You waved.”
“You forced me.”
“You loved it.”
“No.”
She laughed softly, then her expression shifted, uncertainty slipping in through the cracks. “Was that okay?” she asked.
Andrei frowned. “What?”
“The shoutout. The song. I know it was approved, but I—” She stopped, glancing away. “Sometimes I forget that not everyone likes being pulled into my orbit.”
There was something practiced about the sentence, but not because it was fake. Because it was a wound she had learned how to describe cleanly.
Andrei’s chest tightened. “You did not pull me,” he said.
She looked back at him.
He searched for the right words. English sometimes failed him when things mattered. It was easier on the ice, easier in Russian, easier with his family, easier when emotion did not have to pass through grammar before becoming real.
So he kept it simple “I came.”
Y/N’s face changed, Tte hallway noise seemed to fade, he held her gaze and added, quieter, “I wanted to see.”
Her lips parted slightly. for one insane second, he thought about kissing her.
Not for cameras.
Not for her team.
Not because it would trend or soften his image or make her seem stable and loved and less like the villain people kept trying to write her as.
Just because she was standing close to him in an oversized hoodie, looking at him like he had said something much bigger than he meant to.
Or maybe exactly as big as he meant to, then her manager rounded the corner. “There you are,” Mia said, phone already in hand. “We need a photo before Andrei leaves.”
The moment snapped.
Y/N stepped back first “Right,” she said, voice shifting into the version of herself that knew how to survive rooms full of people. “Of course.”
The photo was simple, Approved.
Y/N beside him, smiling up at the camera. Andrei next to her, one hand at her waist because her publicist suggested it and his agent nodded and the photographer waited.
He placed his hand carefully.
Too carefully, Y/N leaned in just enough for it to look natural.
The photographer took six pictures, In the third one, Y/N laughed because Seth yelled from somewhere down the hall, “Svech, put some emotion into it!”
In the fourth one, Andrei looked at her instead of the camera.
That was the one they posted.
The internet imploded within minutes.
Y/N L/N and Andrei Svechnikov go backstage official.
The way he looks at her???
This is so fake but why am I giggling.
PR or not, he’s down bad.
She finally found someone who doesn’t look like he wants her fame.
He looks like he’d fight a building for her.
Y/N read the comments in her dressing room after everyone left.
She should not have, She knew better. But she did.
Most of them were harmless. Some were sweet. A few were cruel in the predictable ways. Then she saw one that made her stop.
He’s too private for this. She’s going to ruin him.
Her throat tightened, she locked her phone, a knock came at the door. Y/N wiped under her eyes quickly even though she wasn’t crying “Yeah?”
The door opened slightly, Andrei stood there.
His suit jacket was back on, hair still a little messy from running his hand through it too many times. He looked too big for the doorway, too quiet for the chaos of her world “You leave soon?” he asked.
“In the morning,” she said. “New York for press. Then Atlanta.”
He nodded, for a moment, neither of them spoke Then Andrei held something out.
A puck.
Y/N blinked. “What is this?”
“From game,” he said. “The one I scored.” She stared at him “The one-timer?” He nodded once, Her voice went soft. “Andrei.”
“I was going to give after game,” he said, looking briefly embarrassed. “But there were many people. And your car.”
Y/N took it carefully, It was heavier than she expected. Cold against her palm. Scuffed along one side. Real in a way so little of this had been. “You kept this for me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at her like the answer was obvious “You cheered like it was real.” Y/N forgot how to breathe for a second, because it had been.
That was the dangerous part.
She had cheered because she understood the game, yes. Because the goal was beautiful. Because her brother would have screamed if he had seen it live.
But also because it was him.
Because she had wanted him to score.
Because seeing his face turn toward her after the goal had made something inside her light up so fast she hadn’t known what to do with it.
She closed her fingers around the puck “Thank you,” she whispered.
Andrei nodded Then, after a pause, he said, “Your song tonight.” Her stomach flipped, “What about it?” He looked down for a second, then back at her. “It was good.”
Y/N laughed once, shaky and soft. “That’s all?”
“I am not music critic.”
“No, you’re apparently a man of very few words.”
“Yes.”
She smiled, he took a breth and then he said, “But I understood.”
The smile faded, Y/N looked at him, heart suddenly beating too hard.
Andrei’s expression was serious, open in a way she had not expected from him this soon. Maybe not ever.
“I understood what you meant,” he said.
She swallowed.
“And what did I mean?” He stepped a little closer, not enough to touch but enough to make the room feel smaller “That sometimes loud things hurt,” he said. “And sometimes quiet is safe.”
Y/N stared at him, nobody said anything for a long moment.
Outside the dressing room, people moved through the hallway. Someone laughed. A radio crackled. The tour continued breathing around them like a giant machine.
Inside, Y/N held a game puck against her chest and looked at the man she was being paid to pretend to love.
And for the first time, she was afraid.
Not of the cameras. Not of the headlines.
Not of what people would say if they believed it or didn’t.
She was afraid because Andrei Svechnikov was standing in front of her, quiet and steady, understanding the song beneath the song.
And she had no idea how to keep pretending after that.
Y/N kept the puck in her bag.
She told herself it was because she didn’t want to lose it.
That was technically true.
The problem was that her bag went everywhere with her. Hotel rooms. Private planes. Dressing rooms. Recording studios. Press junkets. Late-night radio interviews where people smiled too brightly and asked questions they already knew would hurt her.
Which meant Andrei’s puck went everywhere too.
It sat wrapped in a soft black sock between her lip balm, a half-empty packet of throat lozenges, three pairs of sunglasses, and a small notebook full of lyrics she refused to show anyone. Every once in a while, when the world got too loud, she would reach inside and touch it with her fingertips.
Cold. Solid. Scuffed.
Real.
It was embarrassing.
It was also the only thing that seemed to calm her down.
“You know,” Mia said one morning, watching Y/N dig through her bag before a television appearance in New York, “most girls keep jewelry from boys.”
Y/N froze with her hand still inside her purse, Mia arched an eyebrow, Y/N pulled out her lip balm with as much dignity as possible. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re carrying around a hockey puck like it’s a Victorian locket.”
“It’s for PR.”
“Ah, yes. The sacred PR puck.” Y/N rolled her eyes, but she could feel heat rising in her cheeks.
Mia’s expression softened slightly. She had been with Y/N for six years, long enough to know the difference between a publicity smile and the dangerous little quiet one that appeared when Y/N was trying not to hope.
“That photo of you two backstage is still performing well,” Mia said carefully. “Your team is happy. His team is happy.”
“Great.”
“People are calling him grounding.” Y/N looked down at the vanity.
There was foundation on the back of her hand, false lashes sitting in a tray, a stylist on the other side of the room debating between two pairs of boots. Everything around her was glittering and expensive and temporary.
“Is that what I needed?” she asked quietly. “Grounding?”
Mia didn’t answer immediately. Y/N looked at her through the mirror, her manager sighed. “You needed the public to stop treating you like a punchline.”
Y/N smiled faintly, that hurt more because it was true.
For years, people had consumed her love life like entertainment. They danced to the songs, cried to them, screamed them back at her, then mocked the fact that she had lived through something deep enough to write them. Every relationship became a countdown. Every breakup became proof. Every man became a clue. Every lyric became evidence.
And now Andrei Svechnikov, quiet Carolina Hurricanes forward, was supposed to be the reset button.
Stable. Serious. Private.
The kind of man who made the world say, Maybe she’s different now.
Except Y/N didn’t feel different, she felt seen and for her that was much worse.
Her phone buzzed against the vanity. She looked down.
ANDREI: Your brother watched game?
Y/N smiled before she could stop herself, Mia saw it, Y/N ignored her.
Y/N: Yes. He said you looked slow in the first period but “locked in later.” He’s very generous.
ANDREI: He is mean.
Y/N: He’s sixteen. That’s his whole personality.
ANDREI: Did you watch?
Y/N stared at the question, a simple question.
Five words. Dangerous.
She had watched, of course she had watched. She had watched from her hotel bed after the television taping, face scrubbed clean, hair still stiff with leftover spray, room service untouched beside her. She had watched the whole game, not just his shifts. She had noticed Carolina’s forecheck looked better in the second. She had noticed Andrei took a hit along the boards and got up slowly enough that she sat forward before the broadcast cut away.
She had noticed he looked angry after missing the empty net, she had noticed he smiled only after the final horn.
She typed:
Y/N: Some of it.
A lie, his response came after a minute.
ANDREI: Which part?
She narrowed her eyes at the phone, he knew, somehow, annoyingly, he knew.
Y/N: The part where you missed the empty net.
ANDREI: I regret asking.
Y/N: You should.
ANDREI: I hit post.
Y/N: That is what people say when they miss.
The reply took longer this time, then:
ANDREI: Your brother write this?
Y/N laughed, her makeup artist glanced over with a smile, Y/N turned slightly away, pressing her lips together.
Y/N: No. That one was all me.
Three dots appeared.
ANDREI: You watched whole game.
She stared at the message, her heart did something humiliating.
Before she could respond, one of her publicists stepped into the room with a tablet “Interview prep,” she said. “They’re going to ask about Andrei.”
Y/N locked her phone too fast “Of course they are.”
“Keep it light. Say you’re enjoying getting to know him. Say you respect his privacy. Do not confirm seriousness. Do not deny seriousness. No labels yet.”
No labels yet, y/n wanted to laugh, they were surrounded by labels. Every part of this had one. Publicity. Contract. Narrative. Strategy. Optics.
The only thing without a label was the way her chest tightened whenever his name appeared on her phone.
The interview was bright, polished, and exhausting.
She sat on a cream-colored couch under studio lights while the host smiled at her like they were old friends and asked about the album, the tour, the fans, the pressure, the rumors. Y/N answered exactly the way she was supposed to.
Funny. Charming. Open, but not too open.
Then came the question. “So,” the host said, leaning forward with theatrical excitement, “we have to talk about a certain hockey player.”
The audience cheered, Y/N smiled into her coffee mug.
There it was, time for the performance
“Andrei Svechnikov,” the host continued. “The internet is obsessed with you two. I mean, the backstage photo? Come on. How did this happen?”
Y/N had been given an answer, they had practiced it.
She knew every word, but for some reason, when she opened her mouth, she didn’t say the polished version. “We met through work, actually,” she said.
Technically true, the host laughed. “That sounds very mysterious.”
“It was not mysterious,” Y/N said, smiling. “It was actually very unromantic.”
The audience laughed, she glanced down at her hands. “But he’s…” She paused, her publicist, standing off camera, went very still, Y/N knew she should stop. She knew where the safe line was.
She crossed it anyway. “He’s very kind,” she said softly. “In a way that doesn’t ask for attention.”
The studio quieted just a little. Y/N looked back up and smiled like she hadn’t given anything away. “And he lets me bully him about hockey, which is important.”
The audience laughed again, the host clutched her cards. “Wait, you know hockey?”
“Oh, I know enough.”
“Enough?”
“My older brothers played in college,” Y/N said. “And my youngest brother plays juniors, so unfortunately I’ve had hockey opinions screamed at me across dinner tables my entire life.”
The host gasped. “Andrei knows this?” Y/N’s smile froze for half a second.
Because no. Not really.
He knew about her youngest brother now, but not the rest. Not that she had grown up freezing in rinks with coffee that tasted like melted plastic. Not that she could tape a stick passably because her brothers had made her learn when she was nine. Not that her first ever national anthem had been at one of her older brother’s college games because the scheduled singer got sick and someone’s mom remembered Y/N could sing.
Not that hockey had been part of her life before fame had swallowed everything else.
“He knows some of it,” she said.
The host’s eyes gleamed. “So you’ve been hiding your hockey knowledge from your hockey boyfriend?”
Y/N laughed, but her pulse jumped at the word. Boyfriend. Fake boyfriend. Business boyfriend. Not boyfriend.
“I have to keep some mysteries,” she said.
The clip went viral before she had even left the building and by the time Andrei finished practice, his entire team knew Y/N knew hockey.
This was because Seth had watched the interview on his phone in the locker room at full volume “Hold on,” Seth said, pausing the clip dramatically. “Her older brothers played college? Her youngest brother plays juniors? Svech, how did you not know this?”
Andrei pulled his practice jersey over his head. “I knew youngest.”
“You knew one brother. There are apparently multiple hockey brothers.”
“Congratulations,” Seb said dryly. “You fake-dated the one pop star who can explain a neutral zone trap.”
“Honestly,” Burns added, “that’s hotter than the concert thing.”
Andrei ignored them, badly, he took his phone from his stall and opened the clip Seth had already sent to the team group chat.
Y/N sat under soft studio lighting, hair styled perfectly, makeup flawless, smile controlled. He had seen that version of her before. The version the world knew.
Then he watched her say his name, he watched her pause before calling him kind, not handsome. Not talented. Not funny. Not anything useful for PR.
Kind.
His throat tightened in a way he did not like.
Then the hockey part played, and his eyebrows pulled together.
Older brothers. College hockey. Youngest brother in juniors.
Andrei stared at the screen, she had been chirping him for weeks with actual hockey knowledge and had let him think it was all secondhand from her brother.
Something warm and amused spread through him.
Also something else, a strange feeling that there were entire rooms inside Y/N L/N that the world had not been allowed to enter.
He wanted to know them, that was a bad thought.
A very bad thought.
His agent called fifteen minutes later “Great interview,” his agent said immediately. “Really great. Her calling you kind is excellent. Fans are eating it up.”
Andrei sat in his car outside the practice facility, phone pressed to his ear, watching rain bead against the windshield “Good,” he said.
“You’ll need to post something soon. Not a full couple photo yet. Maybe a story. Her concert. Something simple.”
“No.” His agent paused. “No?”
“I do not post private things.”
“This isn’t private, Andrei. It’s part of the campaign.”
Andrei looked down at the video still of Y/N smiling on his phone, the lines were starting to blur, and everyone around them seemed much more comfortable with that than he was. “I will think,” he said.
“Andrei—”
“I said I will think.” He hung up before his agent could answer.
Then he opened his messages.
ANDREI: You have hockey brothers.
The reply came three minutes later.
Y/N: Who told you?
ANDREI: You. On television.
Y/N: In my defense, they asked.
ANDREI: You did not tell me.
Y/N: You didn’t ask.
ANDREI: I asked “you know hockey?”
Y/N: That is not the same as “please provide your complete family hockey history.”
Andrei smiled despite himself.
ANDREI: Tell me now.
There was a longer pause, then his phone rang, noot because of a text, it was a call, he stared at her name for two full seconds before answering.
“Hello?”
“You are very demanding,” Y/N said.
Her voice sounded different over the phone. Less polished. A little tired. Closer. “You called me,” Andrei said.
“Yes, because texting my complete family hockey history felt weird.”
“So you call.”
“Exactly.” He leaned back in his seat, rain tapping gently against the car. “I listen,” he said.
Y/N sighed, but he could hear the smile in it.
“Okay. My oldest brother, Daniel, played at Boston College. Defenseman. Very boring. Very responsible. Blocks shots for fun and thinks that’s a personality.”
Andrei huffed a laugh.
“My second brother, Mateo, played at Michigan. Forward. Thought he was much more skilled than he was. Don’t tell him I said that. He had good hands but zero defensive interest.”
“Sounds like forward.”
“Rude but fair.”
“And youngest?”
“Luca,” she said, and her voice softened immediately. “He’s sixteen. Plays juniors in a team in Michigan. Thinks he’s invincible. My parents are convinced he’s a genius. My brothers are convinced he needs to be humbled. I’m just trying to survive the group chat.”
Andrei listened, really listened.
As she talked about early mornings at cold rinks, bad concession stand hot chocolate, her mother sewing name bars onto jackets, her father losing his voice during tournaments, her brothers making her sit through endless driveway shooting sessions because she was the only one willing to retrieve pucks if they bribed her with ice cream.
She told him she used to sing the anthem at school games.
She told him hockey arenas felt weirdly comforting because, before the fame, they had just been where her family spent weekends.
She told him she still got nervous when Luca went hard into the boards.
Andrei said very little.
But every word she gave him settled somewhere deep.
This was not Y/N L/N, global pop star.
This was Y/N, little sister. Rink kid. Someone who knew the smell of wet equipment and the sound of skates being sharpened. Someone whose life had not always belonged to the world “You miss it,” he said after a while.
Y/N went quiet.
“What?”
“Hockey family,” he said. “You miss being just sister.”
The silence that followed was so long he wondered if he had said the wrong thing, then Y/N exhaled “Yeah,” she whispered. “I think I do.”
Andrei closed his eyes briefly.
He understood missing a version of yourself that existed before everyone decided who you were.
He understood leaving home young. He understood being known for one thing until people forgot there was a person beneath it. He understood loving your family so much it hurt because they were the only people who could still make you feel like yourself. “You come to game again,” he said.
She laughed softly, but there was emotion underneath it. “Is that an invitation or a PR obligation?”
Andrei opened his eyes, the rain blurred the lights outside his windshield “Invitation,” he said.
Y/N didn’t answer right away, when she did, her voice was quieter. “Okay.”
That one word stayed with him for the rest of the day, the second game Y/N attended was not scheduled.
At least, not officially.
There was no announcement. No arranged arrival. No publicist-approved outfit. No suite full of handpicked people. No jumbotron plan. No photographer waiting by the private exit.
She came in through a side entrance with Mia and one security guard, wearing an oversized hoodie, leggings, and a baseball cap pulled low over her face. Not a Hurricanes cap this time.
A Svechnikov one.
She had bought it herself online at two in the morning and then panicked when it arrived because it felt ridiculous and intimate and far too real for someone whose relationship had an end date printed in a legal document.
Still, she wore it.
She sat in a lower suite tucked away near the corner, mostly hidden from the crowd. For the first period, nobody noticed her.
It was perfect.
She could just watch.
Andrei didn’t know she was there until warmups were over.
He was skating toward the tunnel when Seth, who apparently had the eyes of a gossip columnist and the subtlety of a fire alarm, slammed into his shoulder.
“Don’t look now,” Seth said, which obviously meant Andrei immediately looked.
There she was, not on the big screen. Not under flashing cameras. Not performing girlfriend for a stadium.
Just there.
Leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, watching the ice like she actually cared.
Wearing his name on her head, Andrei nearly missed the tunnel. Seb muttered something in Finnish that sounded judgmental.
The game was ugly.
Carolina went down two goals early. The power play looked flat. The passing was off. Andrei took a bad penalty in the second and came out of the box looking like he wanted to hit everything in red, white, and blue.
Y/N watched him get angrier shift by shift, she knew enough to see it.
He played best with edge, but this was different. This was frustration getting too close to recklessness.
Late in the second, he got shoved after the whistle and shoved back harder. A small scrum formed. The crowd roared. Y/N stood without meaning to “Don’t,” she whispered, as if he could hear her.
Andrei’s head turned slightly, for one strange second, through the glass and distance and noise, his eyes found hers.
She shook her head once. Tiny.
Almost invisible.
His jaw worked.
Then he backed away.
Seth, standing nearby, stared at him. “What the hell was that?”
“What?”
“You just listened to her from across the arena?”
Andrei skated away. “Shut up.”
Carolina came back in the third, Aho scored first. Jarvis tied it. Then, with three minutes left, Andrei drove hard to the net, fought through a defenseman’s stick, and buried the rebound.
The building exploded, Y/N screamed so loudly Mia grabbed her arm “You are supposed to be undercover,” Mia hissed.
“I forgot,” Y/N shouted back, still clapping.
The goal horn blared, Andrei was swallowed by his teammates, but he looked up, he found her again.
This time, he smiled.
Not big. Not showy. Not for the cameras.
For her.
After the game, she waited in the same hallway as last time, but everything felt different now, no staged exit.
No paparazzi tipped off by either team.
No one telling them where to stand or when to smile.
Just Y/N in his hat, holding a cup of terrible arena coffee, trying not to look nervous.
When Andrei came out, his hair was wet, tie loose around his neck, a faint bruise already blooming near his cheekbone. Her stomach twisted, "You okay?” she asked immediately.
He looked amused. “I score game-winner and you ask if I’m okay?”
“You also tried to fight a guy for breathing near you.”
“He deserved.”
“He barely touched you.”
“He looked annoying.”
Y/N tried not to smile. “That’s not a penalty.”
“It should be.”
She laughed, and he looked pleased with himself, then his eyes dropped to the cap.
Her heart stopped “You have my hat,” he said.
Y/N lifted her chin. “It’s technically team merchandise.”
“It has my name.”
“Lots of things have your name.”
“On your head.” She narrowed her eyes. “Careful, Svechnikov. You sound smug.”
“I am.”
“At least you’re honest.”
He stepped closer, Not too close. But close enough that she could smell soap and clean laundry and the faint cold scent of the rink still clinging to him. “Why did you come?” he asked.
Y/N looked up at him.
There were several safe answers.
Because it was good for the narrative.
Because she had a free night.
Because her team thought another appearance might help.
None of them were true, so she said, “You invited me.” Andrei’s expression changed.
Softened.
Like that mattered more than she expected it to, before he could answer, a voice behind them cut through the hallway.
“Andrei?” Both of them turned.
A woman stood near the family area, elegant and warm-faced, with familiar eyes that immediately told Y/N who she was before Andrei said anything.
His mother.
Beside her was his father, broader, quieter, watching the scene with an expression Y/N couldn’t read.
Andrei went still, not embarrassed, exactly.
Something more complicated.
“Mama,” he said.
Y/N felt every muscle in her body tighten, his family was not supposed to be part of this yet. Their contract had specifically delayed family involvement to avoid making the relationship seem too serious too quickly. Public sightings were one thing. Family introductions were another.
But here they were.
And Y/N, global pop star, supposedly effortless in every room, suddenly forgot what to do with her hands.
Andrei’s mother looked between them.
Then at the hat, Y/N resisted the urge to rip it off her head.
“Andrei,” his mother said slowly, her accent thick and familiar around his name. “You did not say she comes tonight.”
“I did not know,” Andrei said.
That did not help, his father’s eyebrows rose slightly.
Y/N stepped forward because silence felt worse “Hi,” she said, voice gentler than she expected. “I’m Y/N.”
His mother smiled politely, but there was caution in it. “We know,” she said.
Of course they did, everyone knew.
That was the problem.
Y/N held out her hand, Andrei’s mother took it, her grip was warm but reserved “It’s really nice to meet you,” Y/N said. “I’m sorry if this is unexpected.”
His mother looked at her carefully.
Y/N was used to being examined. By photographers. By stylists. By fans. By people who wanted to find proof of whatever they already believed about her.
This felt different.
This was a mother looking at the woman standing beside her son and trying to decide if she was real or dangerous.
Y/N could not blame her “I came to watch the game,” she added, because somehow that felt important. “Not for cameras. Just… to watch.”
Andrei glanced at her, his father noticed.
His mother noticed too.
The air shifted “You like hockey?” his father asked Y/N smiled, relieved by the safer ground. “I do. My brothers played. My youngest still does.”
His father’s expression warmed first. “Ah.”
Andrei’s mother looked surprised “You know hockey?” she asked, Andrei muttered, “Apparently everyone knows except me.”
Y/N gave him a look. “That’s because you don’t ask detailed follow-up questions.”
His father laughed, a real laugh, Andrei’s mother smiled despite herself.
Something loosened in Y/N’s chest, they talked for only a few minutes. His mother asked where her brother played. His father asked what position. Y/N answered easily, falling into the language of hockey families without thinking. Rinks, schedules, tournaments, injuries, superstitions.
Andrei stood beside her, quieter than usual, watching, at one point, his mother said something to him in Russian, Y/N didn’t understand the words, but she understood the tone.
A question, A warning or maybe both.
Andrei answered softly, his mother’s eyes flicked to Y/N again, this time, the caution was still there, but something else had joined it. Curiosity.
When his parents finally stepped away to speak with someone else, Y/N exhaled “Oh my god,” she whispered. “That was not in the contract.”
Andrei looked down at her. “You did good.”
“That is such a hockey player compliment.”
“It is true.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Do they hate me?”
“No.”
“You answered too fast.” He frowned. “Because no.”
“Andrei.” He looked toward where his parents had gone, then back at her “They think it is PR.” Her heart dipped.
Of course they did “Right,” she said.
His expression sharpened slightly. “They do not know you.” Y/N swallowed, the hallway felt too bright.
“And you do?” she asked, trying to sound teasing, but it came out too soft.
Too honest, andrei didn’t smile, “Some,” he said, her breath caught, he stepped a little closer “I want more.”
The words were quiet.Simple.Devastating.
Y/N looked up at him, suddenly aware of every camera that could appear, every person who could turn a corner, every clause in a contract that said this was temporary.
Her voice barely came out “Andrei…”
His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth, neither of them moved.
They had almost kissed backstage in Charlotte because the song had made the air too heavy, this was different.
This was not stage lights and adrenaline. This was not the afterglow of a concert or the strange intimacy of understanding a lyric.
This was a hallway in an arena after a messy comeback win, with his family a few yards away and her security guard pretending not to watch.
This was worse, because it felt normal, because she could imagine doing this again.
Waiting after games. Talking to his parents. Wearing his name because she wanted to. Chirping him about penalties and empty nets and pretending not to worry when he got hit.
She could imagine a life that had nothing to do with strategy, that was the scariest part.
Her phone buzzed, the sound snapped them both back.
Y/N looked down.
Mia.
We need to leave. Someone noticed you. Back exit now.
Y/N closed her eyes for a second, then she looked at Andrei.
“I have to go.” His jaw tightened, but he nodded “Okay.”
She hated how careful he was. How he never made her feel guilty for the things she couldn’t control.
That made her want to stay even more “Andrei?”
“Yeah?” She reached up before she could think better of it and took off the cap, His eyes followed the movement.
For one second, he looked almost disappointed, then she held it out “I should probably give this back before your mom thinks I’m insane.”
He did not take it “No,” he said, Y/N blinked. “No?”
“You keep.”
“It’s your name.”
“Yes.” Her fingers tightened around the brim, a smile tugged at her mouth even though her chest hurt. “You’re very bold for someone who barely speaks.”
Andrei’s eyes softened “You make me bold.” Y/N stared at him.
There was no way to make that sentence fake, no way to fold it neatly into a PR strategy, no way to pretend it had been said for cameras, because there were none.
Her phone buzzed again, this time, she stepped back.
“I’ll text you,” she said, He nodded once.
She turned before she could do something stupid, like kiss him in front of his parents, her manager, and possibly half the arena staff.
Andrei watched her walk away, the cap stayed in her hand and halfway down the hall, she put it back on, his heart did something stupid.
Behind him, his mother appeared quietly at his side “She is very famous,” she said.
Andrei did not look away from the end of the hallway “Yes.”
“She is used to people looking.”
“Yes.”
His mother was silent for a moment, then she said, carefully, “Are you?”
Andrei finally looked at her, he knew what she was asking.
Are you ready for this?
For cameras. Headlines. Strangers. Chaos. Her world pressing against his quiet one until there was no room left to breathe.
But that was not the question that scared him, the question that scared him was whether he was ready for what would happen when all of that ended, because the contract had an expiration date.
Because she had a world tour waiting, because this thing between them had been designed to disappear.
Andrei looked back toward the hallway where Y/N had gone. “No,” he said honestly.
His mother’s expression softened “But?” she asked, Andrei swallowed “But I think maybe she is worth it.”
His mother said nothing, she only reached up, touched his cheek gently, and left him standing there with a bruise under her thumb and a feeling in his chest he no longer knew how to name.
That night, Y/N sat in the back of her SUV with the cap still on her head and the puck in her bag.
Her phone lit up.
ANDREI: My mom asks if your brother is good skater.
Y/N smiled so hard it hurt.
Then she typed back:
Y/N: Tell your mom my brother thinks he is. Big difference.
A second later:
ANDREI: She laughs.
Y/N pressed the phone against her chest.
Outside, cameras flashed against the tinted windows as the SUV turned out of the arena parking lot, for once, she didn’t look
note: hey y'all! This ones a bit of a long one, it took me a lot longer to finish than I though it would (plus, ya know, having babies kinda got in the way) but I'm really happy I got it done and I hope you all love it. Happy reading!🩵
note 2: just a reminder that there is now a taglist for this series and it will remain open for the foreseeable future. So if you want to be added (or removed) let me know
single dad!Gabe Landeskog x nanny!reader
wc: 6.1k (est. reading time: 24 minutes)
warnings: bit of a time jump (I think ~1 month), light angst, pining (so bad it'll make you wanna pull your hair out), mentions of food
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February doesn’t feel like the start of anything.
You’d think it would, considering it’s around the point in the season where everything really starts to ramp up, but no. It feels like the middle. That awful stretch in the middle where you’ve already done the uphill part and think you’re done, but you actually have a massive uphill stretch still to go.
It’s the stretch where the season stops being new and starts being heavy—where every single game matters just that little bit more, every single practice is run a little sharper than earlier in the season, and every conversation outside of the rink starts circling the same words. Standings. Positioning. Momentum. You hear it from the commentators during the broadcasts while the game highlights play in the background as you make dinner. You hear it when strangers in jerseys talk about it a little too loudly in the cereal aisle. You see it in the way the calendar updates from Hayley come a lot faster now—small adjustments that make the weeks look more like a colourful brick wall than a schedule.
And, most of all, you see it in Gabe. Not because he’s louder. It’s the opposite. He’s quieter, more controlled. Like he’s narrowed himself down to a version where he fits the expectations of everyone else—captain, leader, steady, strong, focused—the margins for anything else, almost non-existent.
The rule, the same one he’d proposed at the beginning of your employment, and the same one he’d been using as a loose excuse, still exists. And since the last date you went on, and Christmas, it’s been different.
Lately it’s felt less like a boundary and more like a lifeline he keeps white-knuckling in his grip.
_________________________
Monday morning arrives with a muted sky, and the kind of cold that makes the kitchen windows look frosted at the edges.
Charlotte, ever the early bird, had woken you up slightly before your alarm was set to go off, and after a good 15 minutes of early morning snuggles, she demanded breakfast in her usual way—patting your cheek ‘gently’, pointing to her mouth and saying ‘nana’. Now, she’s perched in her high chair with a determined grip on her second chunk of banana, smearing it across the tray like she’s painting.
Clara had joined you and her sister in the kitchen not too long after you came down, gave you a sleepy hug, and now she’s sitting in the breakfast nook in her sparkly pyjamas, book open, flipping through the pages slowly, finger tracing over the words with careful precision.
Cato joined the three of you downstairs a little while later. After a brusque ‘good morning,’ he runs over to the living room, immediately grabbing his hockey stick and narrating to himself. You could hear it in the relatively quiet house.
“Okay, okay—pass—shoot—goal—”
You’re in the middle of whisking eggs when you hear his footsteps behind you. Not rushed. Not heavy. Just…early. Earlier than usual. You turn slightly. Gabe’s standing in the doorway, hair damp, sweatshirt in hand, phone in the other like it’s glued there.
He doesn’t do the doorway pause in the same way he used to. He walks straight to the coffee pot, pours a mug, and takes a sip. Fuel. Then his gaze moves over the kitchen. First to Charlotte.
She squeals as soon as she spots him. “Da!”
He leans in, kisses the top of her head, and she immediately grabs his sleeve with banana-coated fingers like she couldn’t resist.
Then he glances at Clara.
“Morning, Småglin,” He says softly.
Clara looks over at him, eyes calm.
“Hi,” she whispers, then goes back to her book.
Cato bursts through the entrance of the kitchen just minutes later, like he’d been waiting for his dad to enter.
“Dad! Watch—watch—” he lifts his hockey stick and demonstrates some overly dramatic wrist shot mid-air.”that’s my new move.”
Gabe’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile. “Looks dangerous, Busfrö.”
“It is,” Cato declares proudly.
Gabe nods once, taking another sip of coffee. Then his phone buzzes in his hand, lighting up. He looks down immediately.
The tension’s been living in the little things like that, the way his focus snaps away. The way he never lets the day fully stop.
You slide the scrambled eggs onto plates and set them down. Charlotte bangs her hands on the highchair tray in approval. The minute you set Cato’s plate down in front of him, he’s got his fork in hand, and he’s inhaling the food like it’s a competitive sport. Clara eats slower, more careful, almost methodical.
Gabe stays leaning against the kitchen counter—his seat in the nook noticeably empty for someone supposedly present—half-eating, half-reading something on his phone.
Cato starts talking through a story about school—something about a math game on Friday and a kid who “didn’t know hockey teams,” horrified. Halfway through his story, Cato asks his dad a question.
“Dad, can I be captain one day?”
No answer.
It feels like the air stales, the kitchen moving to an almost-standstill.
Cato stares and asks again. "Dad?”
Gabe looks up, looking for the source of his name-calling.
“What?”
Cato’s face pinches for a second, the disappointment rising before he swallows it down fast. Too fast for a five-year-old.
“You didn’t hear me.”
Gabe’s jaw works once.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his tone soft. “What’d you say?”
Cato repeats his question, but it’s softer this time, a lot of the excited energy from the earlier question missing.
You watch Gabe’s expression change—the faint guilt, the way his shoulders tighten and his gaze flicks to the phone again like it was the reason he missed the moment, like it is the thing that stole him away.
“You can,” he says finally, walking over and bending down so he’s eye level with his son, resting his hand briefly on Cato’s shoulder. “If you work for it.”
Cato brightens back up immediately at his dad's encouraging words, like the moment just seconds earlier hadn’t happened at all.
Clara’s eyes move from the book in front of her over to you. She noticed. Just like she always does.
Charlotte drops a piece of banana on the floor and laughs, breaking the somewhat tense kitchen atmosphere.
The house keeps moving. But the shift, that stays.
Gabe puts his phone down—face down—on the counter, forcing himself to turn his attention to the people in front of him. Then he looks at you. Not fully. It’s just a brief glance. But you catch it anyway. There’s something quiet lingering in it, like he’s checking something, confirming the house is still steady. That you’re still steady.
You don’t say anything. You don’t do anything. You just keep moving through breakfast.
By the time backpacks are packed and shoes are on, Gabe’s tightened back up again. Bag by the door. Keys in hand. Phone in his other hand. He crouches down to zip Clara’s jacket, his movements gentle.
Cato, not one to wait for anyone, shoves his backpack on and bounces in place, absolutely ready to see his friends.
Charlotte reaches for her dad, whining.
He lifts her, movements automatic, and kisses her cheek once.
Then Charlotte twists in his hold, reaching for you too, grabbing at your sleeve like she doesn’t want the moment to end in anyone’s arms except the both of you.
Gabe notices. His eyes flick to Charlotte’s hands, one on him, one on you. The look that crosses his face is quick. Not frustration. Not even surprise anymore. Something softer. Something he doesn’t know where to put or what to do with. He hands Charlotte back to you carefully.
She settles instantly against your shoulder.
His shoulders ease like he’s been holding onto tension you weren’t seeing.
“You good today?” He asks.
“Yes,” you say. “Same routine as usual.”
He nods once. Then hesitates. It’s just a fraction of a pause at the door, but it’s not the old doorway pause. It’s something new. Like he wants to say something that doesn’t fit inside the schedule. But all he manages is a short ‘thanks’ before he’s gone out the door.
The day runs exactly the same as pretty much all the rest of the Mondays have.
Drop-offs.
Pickups.
Snacks.
Homework.
Clara playing with her Barbies quietly in the living room while Cato tries—to no avail—to convince you his math worksheet is “ruining his future.”
Charlotte stays clingy for an hour, then suddenly she’s fine the second you sit down on the floor with her and let her crawl into your lap like it’s the solution she’d been waiting for all along.
The house stays steady.
The kids stay okay.
You stay busy.
And still, your phone buzzed at 11:03 that morning with a text from Gabe.
Gabe
did Cato remember his reading log?
You stare at the screen.
You
yes
it’s in his backpack
The three dots appear, then disappear, then appear before a new text floats onto the screen.
Gabe
okay
good
thanks
That should’ve been nothing. But it’s not. Because it’s not a captain checking a schedule. It’s a father trying to anchor himself to home from wherever the day had dragged him. And for Gabe, you’re the anchor point.
He makes it home just before dinner. Not early by any means, but early enough that he walks into noise. Into life. Cato’s laughter. Clara’s soft humming. Charlotte’s babbling to her Burnie stuffy as she drags him around. He stops in the entryway and just listens for a second, letting it all wash over him. Like it was the only thing all day that didn’t demand something from him.
When he steps into the kitchen, his eyes go straight to you. Not long. Not dramatic. Just immediate. Another check, same as this morning. Then he exhales, long and tired, almost too quiet to hear. And something in his shoulders loosens.
The change in Gabe isn’t super obvious at first. There aren’t any big conversations or moments where he says he needs help. No shift in tone or expectation. If anything, he gets even quieter than before. More controlled. More careful. But he starts staying. That’s the difference.
It begins in the kitchen. The same place where almost everything between you seems to materialize. Dinner’s halfway finished when he comes in, jacket already off, sleeves pushed up like he’d come straight from the car without stopping.
Cato’s sitting at the table working on homework with the intensity of someone who believes that sighing loudly might make the work easier (or just disappear altogether). Clara sits in the seat next to him, colouring, tongue poking out slightly as she concentrates, her Barbies positioned carefully in front of her. Charlotte’s standing at your feet holding onto your leg and narrating the most serious story in toddler language.
Gabe pauses in the doorway. Again. The familiar movement almost a comfort. But instead of moving through, he steps in and leans against the counter, same as he did that morning. Watching. Not hovering. Just…there.
“Did it go okay today?” You ask without turning to look at him.
He nods.
“Yeah.” He pauses, just for a second, mulling it over before continuing. “Clara seemed tired this morning.”
You turn your head in his direction, glancing over. He’s looking toward the table, watching as she colours with slow, careful movements.
“She didn’t sleep well,” you say. “Growth spurt, I think. She’ll probably crash early tonight.”
He nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t question you. He just trusts your judgment of the situation, trusts that you can handle it, and follows your lead.
You notice.
The next night, it happens again. He comes into the kitchen while you’re cutting fruit. And this time, he doesn’t even pretend he has a reason to be in the kitchen. He grabs a glass of water. Then stays.
“Cato seemed to be really frustrated after practice,” he says after a minute.
The knife hitting the cutting board echoes in the otherwise quiet kitchen.
“He’s been comparing himself to the older kids,” you reply, your focus not breaking. “He’ll settle. He just needs a few good shifts. A few successful drills.”
Gabe nods slowly. Then glances toward the living room where Cato had already picked up his stick-handling drill from the morning like the frustration had never existed.
“You’re right,” he says.
There’s relief in it. It’s subtle, but it’s definitely there.
By Thursday, it’d become routine. Gabe would come home, drop his bag (usually by the front door, sometimes in the laundry or mudroom), and then end up in the kitchen. Sometimes he asks you something. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he just stands there while you move through dinner prep, Charlotte orbiting your legs and Clara reading or colouring nearby. It isn’t a conversation. It’s presence. And the longer it goes on, the more you realize something you hadn’t thought about before.
Gabe doesn’t just come into the kitchen.
He looks for you.
Every single time.
Friday tests the routine. Not intentionally. Just one of those normal things that happens in any household.
You have an appointment that afternoon—not anything major, just something that’d been rescheduled one too many times and really shouldn’t be put off any longer. It’ll be an hour max. Maybe two with bad traffic. Gabe knew. Hayley knew too, just in case anything went wrong. You made absolutely sure that the schedule would be covered while you’re out. And you left a detailed note, with instructions for the routines, just in case. Snacks were prepped. Homework packets laid out on the table. Dinner mostly prepped.
This isn’t the first time you’ve had to step out on a workday. It probably won’t be the last. It really shouldn’t have mattered.
When you come back, the house isn’t chaotic, but it doesn’t feel settled either. The difference is subtle.
Clara is sitting on the couch with one of her books, but she keeps glancing toward the foyer.
Cato’s in the living room too, but instead of his usual drills or games, he’s building something aggressive with his blocks.
Charlotte is standing in the foyer when you come in. The second she sees you, her entire body relaxes. She toddles straight toward you, arms up.
You lift her.
She presses her face into the crook of your neck and stays there.
From the kitchen, you hear his voice drift out.
“You’re back.”
You turn and walk over to the kitchen with Charlotte still cradled in your hold.
He’s standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up again, a cutting board in front of him with fruit that looks…uneven. He isn’t really smiling. But the tightness in his shoulders seems to have eased once you’re in the room too.
“How’d it go?” You ask.
He shrugs.
“Fine.”
Cato appears beside you, giving you a side hug before separating again.
“We did homework,” he reports immediately. “And Dad cut the apples weird.”
“I cut them normally,” Gabe interjects; you can hear the slight defensiveness in his tone.
“They’re squares,” Cato says, nose upturned in offence.
Clara slips her hand into your free one. “They’re crunchy.”
Apparently that’s approval.
You turn your focus back to Gabe.
“Everything okay?”
He hesitates then nods. “Yeah. They were a little…off, though.”
You wait.
“Just the routine,” he continues. “They kept asking when you were coming back. Charlotte kept hurrying to the front door at every little sound outside.”
The words settle softly. But they still land. Charlotte’s arms tighten around you like she’s in agreement. Cato already drifted closer to you again. And Clara hasn’t let go of your hand.
You swallow.
“They’re used to the rhythm,” you say.
He nods. Then looks around the kitchen. At the lunches you’d prepped and the notes you’d left and the space that has felt slightly misaligned without you moving through it.
After a moment, he says something so quietly you almost miss it:
“House feels really different when you’re not here.”
The sentence really isn’t much of anything. It’s not dramatic. Not emotional. Just honest.
You don’t answer right away, because you’re pretty sure the second you open your mouth, your voice would betray you. Your voice would probably waver more than it should, definitely carry more than it should.
Charlotte finally relaxes enough in your hold to reach for the counter. Clara carefully disentangles her hand from yours, going back to her book. Cato starts explaining to you why apple squares are “upsetting.”
The house settles. And the rhythm returns.
You look at Gabe.
He’s watching you again. Not intensely. Not the same charged way he had before. Something quieter. Something steadier. Like he’s not just looking at you as the nanny. But like he’s looking at you like the person who keeps everything balanced. The person the house leans toward. After a moment, he exhales. Almost imperceptible. Then he reaches for the knife resting against the cutting board again.
“Show me how you cut them,” he says. “Please.”
You lower Charlotte to the floor before stepping beside him. Closer than you’ve been to him all week. Your hand brushes his as you reposition the apple. Neither of you pulls away immediately. It’s not romantic nor is it dramatic, but it’s not nothing either. Because this time, maybe for the first time, the closeness doesn’t feel like a distraction. It feels like alignment. Like the house has finally shifted back into place.
—————————————————
The plan wasn’t to be out of the house long. Another appointment, same problem as before; you’d just been putting off too long because there was always going to be a better day for it. A less busy week, a time when the schedule wouldn’t be packed so tight. And Gabe usually reminded you to take time for yourself, but lately he’s been distracted—knowing you had the household battened down—allowing himself to almost disappear into hockey. But Hayley, she’d noticed and took care to remind you—gently but firmly—that you are allowed to take time for yourself, even take a full day off.
There seemed to be a break in the schedule, a day where he would have more free time (a day where you feel less guilty taking the time off). He would be home in the afternoon. It finally made sense. You’d told him the night before.
“Tomorrow afternoon I’m going to be out for a few hours,” you’d said while packing lunches. “I’ll make sure everything is ready before I go.”
He’d nodded.
Said, “okay.”
Just a single word. No hesitation. No questions. But his eyes, they stayed on you a second longer than they usually would.
The morning runs about as smooth as it usually does. Breakfast chaos. School drop-offs. Charlotte refusing her nap for twenty minutes before finally settling down.
By early afternoon, you’d done every possible thing you could think of to make the rest of the day easier on them. Snacks were prepped. Homework packets and after-school activities laid out on the table. Dinner ingredients prepped. Schedule updated on the fridge in your usual neat writing.
You find him in the kitchen on your way out, reviewing something on his phone.
“I’m heading out,” you say.
Gabe looks up immediately.
Too quickly.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ve got it.”
You nod.
“I prepped snacks and laid out all the after-school stuff. Dinner is also all prepped, just needs to be heated up. Charlotte needs to be up from her nap by two-thirty otherwise pickups will be a nightmare and she won’t sleep tonight.”
He listens. Really listens. Like he’s committing your voice to memory.
“Okay,” he says again.
You grab your bag.
Charlotte stirs on the monitor beside him.
He glances at it as soon as he registers the sound, then back over to you.
“How long?” He asks.
“I don’t know. A few hours. I should probably be back around dinner.”
He nods, but he doesn’t go back to his phone right away. He just stands there, the barstool he was sitting on moments ago now empty, watching as you walk to the door.
——————————
The first hour you’re gone goes fine. Almost the same as last time. Charlotte wakes, he gets her up, changes her, manages a snack. Then school pick up. Cato and Clara come home, backpacks are hung up—not thrown carelessly on the floor, shoes are kicked off wildly, then the kids run further into the house. It’s all routine. Normal. But the rhythm is off. Not wrong, just…uneven. Cato asked the three times what was for dinner before remembering you weren’t home—even though Gabe could’ve answered—and walking off to play. Clara frequently got up from the table, pausing her colouring, to stand in the kitchen entryway, hovering, and staring at the front door just waiting for you to appear. Charlotte fussing more than usual for her now, climbing up Gabe’s leg repeatedly looking for something she can’t quite find.
Gabe moves through it. Handles everything with an ease that can only be developed in high-stress situations (being a single dad to 3 under 6, for example). Homework and after-school activity packets started. Snacks distributed. Charlotte on his hip, clinging to his sweatshirt while he tries to check Cato’s math. But it all feels like juggling. Like everything needs attention at once, and none of it stays settled for long.
By late afternoon, the house is louder. Not really louder in a good way. Cato is frustrated with an exercise on his worksheet. Clara asking questions, softly like she usually does, that he doesn’t quite hear. Charlotte crying every single time he tried to put her down. Gabe tries to keep his voice calm. Tries to keep the structure you’d laid out to him, the same structure that you keep for them every day. But the timing gets away from him. It splits.
Snacks a little too late.
Homework and worksheets dragging on a lot longer than usual.
Charlotte super clingy and extremely overtired.
When the timer for the oven dings, and he reaches to put dinner in, he realizes that he’d never preheated it. He stares at the controls for longer than necessary. Not fully overwhelmed. Definitely aware. Aware that the house hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Aware that the house usually runs a lot smoother. Quieter. Easier.
———————————
You make it back to the house just before six.
Charlotte is the first to hear the door open. Her head snaps up, and she removes herself from clinging to Gabe’s leg, launching herself toward the hallway.
“Hi,” you call as you step further into the entryway.
Charlotte reaches you in seconds, arms up, relief immediate and overwhelming.
You lift her.
She buries her face in your neck like she’d been holding her breath the entire time you were gone.
“Hi, sweetpea,” you murmur softly into her downy locks, “I guess you missed me huh?”
She tries to nuzzle further into your hold—not that that’s really possible.
Gabe ambles out of the kitchen into the foyer slowly, movements not rushed. He doesn’t look stressed or upset, but the moment his eyes land on you, you see the way his posture changes. See the way his shoulders drop, just a fraction, but noticeable enough.
“How’d it go?” You ask.
He shrugs, “fine.”
The word is barely out of his mouth when Cato runs out of the kitchen.
“You were gone fooooreverrrrrrr…”
“Buddy,” you say, “it was one afternoon.”
“Was long,” Clara adds quietly, already slipping her hand into yours.
You glance at Gabe.
He’s watching the three of them cluster around you. Charlotte still clinging. Clara pressed close. Cato talking over both of them—though that’s not hard.
The house feels different already.
Quieter.
Settled.
Like the volume’s been adjusted without anyone touching a dial.
Dinner goes smoothly. The routine falls back into place almost immediately. Homework and activities finished faster. Charlotte calmer. Clara back to her quiet reading spot. Cato explaining something about his school day, without the edge that was present earlier.
You’re clearing the last of the dinner plates when he comes into the kitchen. He stops beside the counter, not leaning this time, standing closer than last time.
“They were fine,” he says, breaking the calm silence between you.
You nod. “I knew they would be.”
“…it was just…louder.”
You glance up at him.
His expression isn’t frustrated or critical, just thoughtful.
“Transitions are harder when the routine changes,” you say, adding on as an afterthought, “as I’m sure you know.”
He nods slowly. Then he looks around the kitchen. At the lunch bags you’ve laid out for tomorrow. At the newly updated schedule that you’d manage to print out at some point tonight, already posted up on the fridge. At Charlotte’s nighttime bottle, prepped and ready to go. Then back at you.
“They kept asking me when you were coming back,” he says.
The sentence tugs at something deep in your chest. You don’t quite know what to do with that, because honestly, you’ve been feeling it too. The pull back to the house. Back to them. Back to this.
Charlotte toddles into the kitchen, immediately latching onto your leg. Clara follows close behind her sister, and Cato hovers in the doorway, not quite as close as his siblings but still keeping you in his sights.
The same quiet.
Gabe watches it happen. He watches the way the room settles around you. The way the noise levels out. The way the faint undercurrent of tension disappears without anyone saying anything or talking about it.
A long moment passes before he says anything.
“I thought I had your routine down,” he says.
“You did, Gabe,” you reply, your tone gentle.
He shakes his head once.
“It’s not just a routine.”
His eyes meet yours. This time, there’s no ‘Captain’ mask. No professional distance. Just quiet honesty.
“It’s you.”
The kitchen air stills.
Not heavy.
Not charged.
Real.
Gabe doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t soften it. Doesn’t turn it into something overly emotional. But he doesn’t take it back either.
Charlotte tugs at your hand. Clara leans further into your side. Cato asks a question about tomorrow.
The house keeps moving.
But the words, they stay. They linger. Because this is the first time he’d said it out loud—at least with anyone around to hear it.
The house doesn’t just run smoothly because of the routine; it runs smoother because of you.
———————————————————
By the time mid-February actually rolls around, game nights have settled into their own unique rhythm.
Cato wears his jersey; it’s on before you can even ask him to get ready for the day. Clara insists on her sparkly clips, whichever shape she feels matches the day, in the team colours because "it’s a special night.” Charlotte gets overwhelmed by the noise without fail, but refuses to miss anything as soon as she realizes her siblings are excited.
And you pack the bag the same way every time. Snacks. Water. Headphones for Charlotte. An extra sweater (or blanket) for Clara.
The routine became automatic. The same exact way the house has.
Ball Arena is loud before you even make it fully inside the building, the excited crowd noise flooding well around the building. By the time you wrangle the kids through security and through the crowd to your section, the noise levels have only increased.
Cato insists on watching warm-ups so you herd them down to the glass. As soon as it’s within your sights—and more importantly, Cato’s—he plasters himself as close to the boards as he can get, hands pressed against the plexiglass, eyes wide, waiting excitedly like it still amazes him every time.
Clara stays close to your side, taking in everything quietly, observantly, the same way she usually is at the games.
Charlotte is in your arms, back to your chest, small fingers gripping onto the arm secured around her middle as she takes in the ice.
Once the players start skating onto the ice, the volume goes up again. And when Gabe skates out onto the ice, the crowd volume spikes exponentially.
Cato immediately starts waving, and you have to remind him to watch his hands and be mindful of other people around him. He nods at you once, then continues waving, slightly more restrained.
“Dad! Dad! Over here!”
It takes a moment. And you doubt he is actually able to hear Cato’s calls over the arena noise, but he turns his head. Finds the section. Spots Cato first, who lights up under his Father’s gaze. Then Clara. Then Charlotte. Then you. He skates over, taps his stick against the glass—once in front of each kid—then turns his focus back to the drills, still on the ice in front of where you’re standing with the kids. Cato practically explodes.
“He saw me! He saw me!”
“I saw that buddy. How exciting,” you say with a gentle smile.
Clara waves back carefully when Gabe catches her eye.
Charlotte slaps her hands against the glass, like she thought maybe if she hit it hard enough she’d be able to reach him.
He turns around again. This time, his eyes linger longer than before. Not dramatic. Not obvious—unless someone was really looking for it. But definitely longer than a quick acknowledgment, or a quick thanks.
Then he pushes off and joins the rest of the team warmup.
The game itself is fast and extremely physical. Close score. A taste of playoff energy, with the possible matchup, even if it’s not technically close to playoffs yet.
Cato stands for half of it. Clara follows her brother, and the crowd cues, for when to cheer and clap. Charlotte falls asleep against your shoulder midway through the second period, the weight of her body warm and steady against yours.
During a timeout, the arena camera does a sweep through the family section, paying specific tribute to another WAG, and you don’t notice it’s landed on you and the kids until the crowd cheers louder and Tracy discreetly nudges you in the ribs. Then the big screen flashes, momentarily, and there you are. Charlotte asleep against you, Clara tucked close to your side, and Cato waving both arms proudly like he’d been preparing his whole life for this moment in particular. The shot holds for a few seconds. It’s more than long enough. Then it cuts back to the ice. You try not to think about just how much that looked like an actual family shot.
The guys win the game.
As expected, the arena erupts with noise.
Cato shouts himself hoarse.
Clara claps, smiling, mirroring her brother's excitement the best she can.
Charlotte wakes up with a start as the horn goes off, looks around, then slowly starts clapping because everyone else is too.
You let the crowd thin out a little bit before heading down to the family room; Hayley meets you there not long after.
“Gabe will be down in a few,” she says, smiling slightly at the kids. “He just has a few post-games to finish.”
The hallway is buzzing with other kids, partners, and staff. By the time he actually makes it down to where you’re waiting with the kids, the majority of the people have left. The energy in the hall shifts the same way it tends to when he walks into a room—people notice. The reminder of them notice; they nod, clap his shoulder, call his name.
Captain.
Leader.
But the moment, the moment he sees the kids, his focus shifts.
Cato runs to him first.
“We won!”
“We did, Busfrö,” Gabe says, crouching to catch him in his arms.
Clara follows close behind her brother, pressing into her dad's side.
And Charlotte twists in your arms, reaching for her dad.
You pass her over.
This time, she stays, curling into his shoulder.
His eyes rest on Cato, then Clara, then Charlotte.
Then he lifts his gaze.
To you.
“Thanks for bringing them tonight,” he says, holding your gaze.
The words themselves are simple. Ones he’s said to you probably more than a dozen times since you’d started working with the family. But the look that accompanies them this time is steady.
Grounded.
Like seeing them—seeing you there with them—mattered to him more than the win.
Barely a moment later, Nate walks by with Cale. He slows down, glancing at your group.
“Good game, Cap,” Nate says, a lilt in his voice that you can’t quite decipher. And as he looks at you and the kids, his expression changes just slightly enough that the guys catch it and Cale gives him a well-placed elbow to the ribs. “Nice to see the whole family out tonight.”
The word hangs in the stale arena air.
Family.
You wait for the correction. Or a clarification. Or even just an easy, professional explanation. But it never comes. He just nods. Once.
“Yeah,” he says.
The conversation moves along, but you feel like you’re still stuck in that moment.
On the walk back to the car, the kids are loud and energized. Pre-bedtime zooms coming in full force. Cato is recounting the game with all the muster of a colour commentator. Clara’s small hand clutching onto her dad’s larger one, hands swinging between them. Charlotte is resting against his shoulder, sticky hand patting his cheek as she enthusiastically relays something in her playful toddler babble.
You’re walking behind them, slightly delayed.
A staff member walks by, smiling warmly.
“Great atmosphere tonight,” she says. Then she turns to look at you, “you must be proud.”
You open your mouth to respond, but Gabe beats you to it.
“They keep me grounded,” he says.
The words aren’t directed at the staff member. You can tell. They’re directed at you.
You feel the look without even turning.
The parking lot air is cold. Slightly colder than the arena air, not unlike the usual for a late February night. The lot is mostly empty by now, just a smattering of cars remaining.
Cato runs ahead, still careful, and making sure to stay in view.
Clara stays close to you and Gabe.
Charlotte has since fallen back asleep. Gabe shifts her carefully in his arms, then glances over at you.
“Cold?” He asks.
“I’m okay.”
He doesn’t say anything, but if you were to look over at his face, you’d see by his expression that he doesn’t fully believe you.
Then he moves slightly closer as you walk to the car. Not touching. Just closing the space between you. Instinctive. Protective. Easy.
When you get back to the house, the routine settles quickly.
Shoes off.
Kids changed.
Charlotte changed and transferred to her crib.
Cato still narrating the game and the final goal, even though you’d all been there to see it.
Clara, yawning wide as her mouth would open, feet shuffling across the floor in slow tired movements.
You move through the kitchen filling water bottles for the night and packing lunches for the next day, with what could only be described as comfortable ease.
Gabe comes in a few minutes later and stops at the counter, just watching you for a moment.
“She assumed you were family,” he says. “Nate called you family too.”
You look up.
“It happens sometimes. Does that bother you?”
He pauses.
“Does it bother you?”
His echoing of your question is more a deflection than an actual answer.
You don’t say anything else; neither does Gabe. He nods slowly. Lingers in the kitchen just a few seconds longer. Then leaves to check on the kids.
Later that night, after the house had gone quiet, Gabe walks through the hallway the way he always does.
Checks all the doors.
Nightlights.
Charlotte’s monitor.
All routine.
At the end of the hall, he pauses in front of your door.
Closed.
Quiet.
Temporary.
All still part of the plan. Still the agreement. Still the safer version of this. But earlier—at the arena, in the hallway, with the kids clustered around you, it hadn’t felt temporary the same way.
It felt right.
And for the first time since whatever this is had started, the word family didn't feel like something that needed to be corrected.
"i'd be willing and able
if you're willing, i'm able"
warnings: language.
summary: it'll all work out.
request: yes
song: willing and able - noah kahan
word count: 11.7k
a/n: final part of this one!!! unless.... ;)
previous part | part one
~
Sidney left your parents' house and went straight to his own parents' house because he felt like crying and he felt like he needed to tell someone. Someone who would understand, or at least try to. He needed to tell someone about the fact that he was a father. That he had this little boy named Beau who didn't need him, who'd been doing just fine without him for years, but Sidney needed him. Needed to know him, needed to be part of his life, needed to make up for all the time he'd lost.
It was late. Nearly ten at night, and he'd just been at his parents' house for dinner a few hours ago and now he was back, pulling into the driveway again, and he could see the confusion on his mom's face through the front window as she spotted his car.
She met him at the door before he could even knock. "Sid? Is everything okay?"
His dad appeared behind her. "What's wrong?"
Sidney walked past them into the house, into the living room where he'd grown up, where he'd spent countless hours as a kid dreaming about the NHL. The walls were covered in photos. Him at different ages, holding hockey sticks, wearing team jerseys. Him with his parents, with his sister, with friends. A timeline of his life, carefully documented and displayed but there were four years missing now. Four years of a little boy who was learning to skate and play hockey and grow up without him.
"I need to ask you something," Sidney said, turning to face his parents. His voice was shaking. He couldn't make it stop. "About the draft. The week of the draft. The time between leaving here and going to Ottawa. All of it."
His parents exchanged a glance.
"Okay," his mom said slowly, coming to sit on the couch. "What do you want to know?"
"My phone," Sidney said. "I lost it. In Ottawa, or maybe before. I don't remember exactly when. Do you remember anything about that?"
His dad's jaw tightened just slightly. "You were always losing things back then. Your phone, your wallet, your keys. We had to buy you three new phones that year alone."
"But do you remember that specific time? During the draft?"
"Sidney, what is this about?" his mom asked, and she sounded almost afraid.
"She was pregnant," he said, and his voice didn’t even try to be steady. "During the draft. She texted me to tell me she was pregnant, and someone responded. Someone with my phone told her to get rid of it. Told her I didn't want the baby. I have a son," Sidney continued, and the tears were coming now. "I have a three year old son named Beau, and I only just found out tonight. And she thinks I told her to get rid him. She thinks I abandoned her."
His parents got this guilty look on their faces. Simultaneously, like they'd rehearsed it. And in that moment, Sidney knew. He knew that everyone who was supposed to love him and support him had done the exact opposite.
"Oh my God," he breathed, taking a step back. "You knew."
"Sidney–" his mom started, reaching for him.
"You knew," he said again, louder this time. "You knew she was pregnant and you didn't tell me."
"We were trying to protect you," his dad said, standing up now. "You were eighteen years old. You had your entire future ahead of you."
"Who else?" Sidney demanded, his hands clenching into fists. "Who else knew? Who helped you do this?"
"Do what?" his dad said defensively. "We didn't do anything except make sure you didn't throw your life away for some girl."
"Who. Else." Sidney bit out each word separately, his voice shaking with rage.
His mom's voice was gentle when she answered, which somehow made it worse. "Mario. And Pat."
Sidney felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Mario, the man who'd taken him under his wing and into his family when he'd arrived in Pittsburgh overwhelmed. The man who'd let Sidney live in his house, who'd treated him like family, who'd taught him what it meant to be a professional. And Pat. His agent, the man who was supposed to have Sidney's best interests at heart, who was supposed to advocate for him, protect him. They'd all known.
"I can't believe this," Sidney said, and his voice sounded fake even to his own ears. "I can't fucking believe this."
"We did what we thought was best," his mom said, and she was crying now too. "Sidney, you have to understand. You were so young, and this was such a huge opportunity, and we didn't want you to have regrets."
"Regrets?" Sidney repeated. "You think I'd regret my own child?"
"We thought you'd regret giving up hockey," his dad said firmly. "Giving up everything you'd worked for your entire life. For a girl you'd known for three years."
"A girl?" Sidney's voice rose. "A girl? She's not just a girl. She was everything to me. She IS everything to me."
"You were eighteen," his dad said, his own voice getting louder. "You didn't know what you were saying when you talked about a future with her."
"I knew exactly what I was saying!"
"You were a child!"
"And what was she?" Sidney shot back. "She was eighteen too. Just a kid. But you forced a decision on her. Made her think I didn't want our baby. Made her go through that pregnancy alone. Made her raise our son by herself while I was off playing a stupid fucking kids game."
"We gave you a chance at your dreams," his mom said, her voice pleading now. "Sidney, look at everything you've accomplished. Would you have any of that if you'd stayed here to play house with your high school girlfriend?"
Playing house. Like what you'd gone through, what you'd survived, was some kind of game. Some childish fantasy.
"You don't get it," Sidney said, shaking his head. "You don't understand what you took from me."
"We took nothing from you," his dad said. "We gave you everything. We sacrificed everything so you could have this career. We gave up our lives for your dreams."
"And I never asked you to!" Sidney shouted. "I never asked for any of that!"
"You didn't have to ask. You're our son. We wanted you to have the best."
"The best?" Sidney laughed bitterly. "The best would've been knowing I had a child. The best would've been getting to make my own choices about my own life. The best would've been you trusting me enough to tell me the truth."
"She was a girl you knew for three years," his dad responded, his face red now. "Three years, Sidney. Hockey existed for you before her and it exists after her. She was never really an important factor in your life."
"How can you say that?" Sidney yelled. "How can you possibly think you know what was important to me?"
"Because I know you. You lived and breathed hockey from the time you started walking. You slept with your stick, you practiced until your hands bled, you sacrificed everything for this sport. And we were supposed to let you throw it all away for a high school crush?"
"She wasn't a crush! I loved her!"
"You were eighteen," his dad repeated, like that explained everything. "You don't know the first thing about loving another person."
"And you do?" Sidney shot back. "Is this what love looks like?"
"We made a hard decision," his mom said, stepping between them. "We thought she'd move on, that you'd move on, that it would be better for everyone."
"Better for everyone?" Sidney stared at her in disbelief. "She had to raise our baby alone. Do you have any idea what that must have been like for her? How scared she must have been? How hurt?"
"We didn't know she'd keep it," his mom said quietly. "We thought–"
"You thought she'd get rid of it.”
"Son, you have to understand–"
"No, you have to understand," Sidney pointed at his dad, and his whole body trembling with rage and grief. "I have a three year old son who I know nothing about. I have a lifetime of firsts I'll never get back. I lost everything that mattered."
"You have hockey," his dad said. "You have the Cup. You have everything you ever dreamed of."
"What good is hockey if everything I ever loved was taken from me?" Sidney's voice broke. "What good is winning if I lost her? If I lost him?"
"You're romanticizing it," his dad said dismissively. "The truth is, you would've resented her eventually. Resented being tied down so young, resented missing out on your career. We saved you from making a mistake."
"She wasn't a mistake!" Sidney snapped. "My son isn't a mistake!"
"We didn't want you to risk your future for a girl," his mom said. "We didn't want you to wake up in ten years and hate us for not stopping you."
"How could you be so selfish?" Sidney accused. "How could you make that choice for me?"
"We're your parents," his dad said. "It's our job to protect you. Even from yourself."
"I didn't need protection! I needed support! I needed you to trust that I knew my own heart, my own mind!"
"You were a kid," his dad said again, and it made Sidney wanted to scream. "You didn't know what you wanted."
"I knew I wanted her. I've always known that."
"And look where that got you, standing here four years later, crying over some girl who's clearly moved on with her life. She's doing fine without you Sidney. She's raised that boy on her own. She doesn't need you."
That hurt him more than anything. Because his dad was right, in a way. You had moved on. You had Beau, you had your job, you had your independence. You'd survived something that would have broken most people, and you'd come out stronger.
But that didn't make what they'd done okay.
"It's so convenient, isn't it?" his dad continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "This girl just happens to get pregnant the moment you go first overall in the draft. The moment you're about to sign your first big contract."
"Don't you dare. She loved me. She would never–"
"You don't know what she would or wouldn't do," his dad interrupted. "You were just a kid. You both were. And kids make mistakes."
"I was just a kid," Sidney agreed, his voice shaking. "But so was she. Only she was a kid you manipulated and lied to. And I was a kid you trusted to sign multimillion dollar contracts. You can't have it both ways. Either I was old enough to make my own choices, or I wasn't."
His mom looked overwhelmed. "We were trying to do what was best–"
"For who? Not for me. Not for her. Not for Beau. So who? Who were you really protecting?"
They didn’t answer that question.
"You ruined my life," Sidney said finally. "You took everything from me. My son, the woman I love, four years I can never get back. And I'll never forgive you for that. Never."
"Sidney–" his mom reached for him again, but he stepped back. "We thought you'd thank us one day. We thought you'd understand."
"Understand what? That you cared more about my career than my happiness? That you valued hockey more than you valued me as a person?" Sidney shook his head. "I don't understand that. I never will."
His dad was still standing there, jaw clenched, refusing to back down. Refusing to admit that maybe, just maybe, they'd made a catastrophic mistake.
"You would've thrown everything away for her," his dad said finally. "You would've given up hockey, given up your dreams, stayed in this place. We couldn't let that happen."
"You're right," Sidney said, and his voice was eerily calm now. "I would have thrown away everything for her. My dreams, my career, all of it. I would've thrown it all away in a heartbeat if it meant being with her. If it meant being a father to my son. And you know what? It was the least you could do to let me make that choice. It was my choice to make. Not yours."
"We were your parents," his mom said desperately. "We knew better."
"You knew nothing," Sidney said. "You still know nothing. About me, about her, about what we could have had."
He turned to leave, needing to get out of this house before he said something he really regretted. Before he broke down completely.
"Where are you going?" his mom called after him.
"Away from you," Sidney said without turning around.
"Sidney, please. Can't we just talk about this?"
"There's nothing to talk about. You made your choice four years ago. Now I have to live with it."
He walked out the door, got in his car, and just drove. He had no destination in mind, no plan. He just needed to move, needed to do something with the energy that probably wouldn’t let him sleep.
Nothing had been resolved with his parents. Nothing was fixed, nothing was better. If anything, it was worse, because now he knew. Now he had names. People he'd trusted, people he'd loved, people who were supposed to have his back. And they'd all lied to him.
He wanted to go to you immediately. Wanted to drive straight to your parents' house, bang on the door, explain everything. He could apologize, could promise to spend the rest of his life making it up to you. Could meet his son properly, start building a relationship, start making up for lost time.
But it was late. You'd be asleep, Beau would be asleep, and showing up at your parents' house in the middle of the night would only make things worse. Would make you think he was unstable, dangerous even. So instead, he drove around. Visiting all of your old spots, the places that held memories of when things were good.
He drove past the rink where you'd first met, where you'd watched him practice and waited for him after games. It was dark now, locked up for the night, but he could see it so clearly in his mind. You in the stands cheering louder than anyone else.
He drove past the waterfront where you'd spent that perfect summer day before the draft, lying in the sand and talking about the future. You'd built sandcastles together, splashed in the water like kids, kissed as the sun set and painted the sky orange and pink.
He drove past the spot where you'd had your first date, where he'd been so nervous he'd barely been able to eat. You'd ordered a milkshake and let him have sips of it, and he'd thought you were the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.
He drove past your old high school, where he'd walked you to class and carried your books and kissed you against your locker when no one was looking.
Every street, every building, every corner held a memory. And now they all felt tainted, poisoned by the knowledge of what he'd lost. He didn't sleep. He blinked away tears when he thought too hard about something. About Beau's first birthday, which Sidney had missed. About his first Christmas, his first Halloween, his first day of daycare. About you, alone and pregnant and scared.
He got angry. And then he got sad. And then he got angry again. At himself for not trying harder to find you. For accepting your mom's rejection so easily, for moving on when he should have fought. For being so consumed by hockey that he'd convinced himself you'd stopped caring about him. And then sad again. Sad for the boy he'd been at eighteen, who'd loved you so completely and lost you so suddenly. Sad for the man he was now, who'd achieved everything he'd ever dreamed of career-wise and felt emptier than ever.
The cycle repeated, over and over, as the hours passed and the sky started to lighten with the first hints of dawn. By the time the sun came up, Sidney was exhausted.
He knew what he had to do. Because you were worth it. You'd always been worth it. And his son, that beautiful little boy he'd only glimpsed sleeping in the backseat of a car, was worth it too.
~
You didn't know where Sid went after that night.
That was the thing you hated most. Not that he left, because of course he left. He had been leaving in one way or another for almost four years, even when he hadn't known he was doing it. He'd left in Ottawa. He'd left when the texts came through. He'd left when your phone stopped ringing. He'd left in every memory you had of him because every memory now had an ending attached to it. A boy kissing you on your parents' porch, then a man sitting behind the wheel of his car, staring at your son in the rearview mirror like he'd just been shown the inside of his own heart.
But he asked for five minutes. Just five. It shouldn't have mattered. You should've been able to shrug it off, roll your eyes, tell yourself that was Sidney Crosby all over again. Good at saying the right thing. Bad at staying. Except he had looked so destroyed when he'd asked. He had said he needed five minutes. Just five. He had said it like five minutes was all he deserved, like he knew he couldn't ask for a lifetime when he hadn't earned even the smallest piece of your evening.
And then he never came back.
Your dad drove you and Beau back to Halifax the next morning. Your mom sat in the passenger seat, too quiet, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Beau slept for most of the ride. You sat in the back beside him because you couldn't bear the front seat. Because the front seat felt too much like Sid's car. Because if you stared through a windshield for too long, you'd see his hands on the steering wheel again.
Your parents didn't push. Your mom kept glancing at you like she wanted to say something and didn't trust herself not to make it worse. Your dad only asked if you wanted the radio on, and when you shook your head, he didn't ask again.
They knew. Of course they knew. They knew you had wanted him to come back. You hated that they knew it. You hated that your face had probably given you away. You hated that after four years of being strong, four years of building a spine out of anger, one night with Sidney Crosby had turned you back into the girl who used to wait by the phone.
You had waited until midnight before you stopped pretending you weren't waiting. Your parents' house had gone quiet. Beau was tucked up in the little room that used to be yours. Your mom had gone to bed. Your dad had fallen asleep in his recliner with the TV muted. And you had sat at the kitchen table, staring at the front door. You told yourself you weren't waiting for him. You were just awake. You were just thinking. You were just overwhelmed. You were just trying to make sense of a conversation that didn't make any fucking sense.
But every time headlights passed by the window you looked. Every time a car slowed down outside you almost got up. And every time it wasn't him, some humiliating little part of you broke again.
By two in the morning, you went upstairs and got into bed beside Beau because you couldn't stand being alone. He was sprawled out sideways, one sock missing, one hand tucked under his cheek. He smelled like campfire smoke and baby shampoo. You curled around him without waking him, placed your hand lightly on his stomach, and let the weight of him breathing keep you from falling apart completely.
"He didn't come back, baby," you breathed, so quietly that even you barely heard it.
Beau snuffled in his sleep and shifted closer to you.
You closed your eyes.
"Yeah," you said, your throat tight. "I know."
Life went back to normal because it had to. Monday still came. Groceries still needed buying. Laundry still piled up. Beau still needed breakfast, still needed baths, still needed to be reminded not to put crayons in the couch cushions. Rent was still due. Appointments still had to be kept.
You went back to Halifax and tried to make your body understand that nothing had changed. Except everything had. The landline never rang. Your mother never called with news. Your dad didn't show up with that look on his face. No unfamiliar car pulled up outside your apartment. No letter arrived. No message. Nothing.
Sidney vanished again. Only this time you couldn't even hate him properly because there was a terrible, terrible chance he had told the truth. That was what fucked with you most. Not the fact that he might have lied, but the fact that he might not have.
August began letting up into September. The air changed. The mornings grew cooler. The light got softer. The leaves had not quite turned yet, but they were thinking about it. You could feel it in the trees, in the way the wind moved through the street outside your apartment, in the way Beau started asking if he could wear his hoodie to daycare even though he'd get too warm by lunch.
On the first Saturday of September, you woke up at six in the morning for no reason.
You didn't have to work. You had traded shifts with Marcy at the salon because Beau's daycare was closed for some staff training thing, and you had decided that the two of you were going to have a lazy day at home. Pancakes, cartoons, maybe a walk to the park if the weather held. Nothing big. Just you and your boy, the way it had been for years.
You were already awake when the knock came. You froze under the blanket. For a second you thought you imagined it. It was early enough that the whole building still felt asleep, early enough that the hallway outside your apartment was quiet except for the occasional creak of old floors and someone taking their dog out.
Then it came again. Three soft knocks. You sat up slowly, pushing your hair out of your face. You were wearing an old oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, your legs bare, your feet cold against the floor when you slipped out of bed. You moved quietly, because Beau was still asleep and the last thing you wanted was for him to wake up before you knew who was at the door.
Your first thought was your parents.
It always was.
They had a habit of showing up too early with muffins or coffee or some bag of clothes your mom found on sale and couldn't resist buying for Beau. They also had a key, which made the knocking weird. Your parents didn't knock. They might tap once while already turning the lock, calling out your name like the apartment belonged to all of you collectively.
You walked to the living room and peeked through the small gap in the curtain. Your parents’ car was idling on the curb. Their usual spot. You could see two shapes in the front seats. Your mom in the passenger seat. Your dad behind the wheel.
But that made no sense. Why hadn't they just come up? Why knock?
You glanced toward Beau's room, then back at the door.
"Shit," you whispered.
You unlocked the door carefully, chain first, then deadbolt, then the little lock on the knob that always stuck if you turned it too fast.
It wasn't your parents. It was Sidney.
It was a version of Sidney you'd never met. A broken down version of him that should've never even existed.
Neither of you said anything at first. You held the door with one hand. He stood on the other side of it, looking at you like he'd walked through fire and you were the only thing left standing. Your first instinct was anger. He didn't come back. He asked for five minutes and disappeared for weeks. He left you waiting again. Your second instinct was to reach for him.
"Sidney," you said, and his name barely came out. "Are you okay?"
The question left your mouth before you could stop it. You almost wanted to take it back. Because who were you to ask him that now? Who was he to be standing there needing comfort from you after everything? You shouldn't have cared if he was okay. You shouldn't have noticed the way his hands were shaking. You shouldn't have wanted to smooth the frown out of his mouth with your thumb.
"No," he said. His voice was rough. "I'm not."
That was all it took.
You stepped forward and hugged him. There was no thought in it. Your body moved before your pride could stop it, before four years of hurt could stand in the doorway and tell you not to be stupid. You wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you possibly could and pressed your cheek to his chest.
Part of it was for him. Part of it was for you. Because he'd been gone. Because he'd come back. Because he smelled like Sid. Because he felt like Sid too. Because your body remembered him in ways your brain had tried to beat out of itself. Because four years should've changed everything, but somehow, somehow, your hands still knew where to go.
His arms closed around you hard. He held on like something in him had been waiting for permission to collapse and your arms were the only place he could do it. One hand spread wide between your shoulder blades. The other curled at the back of your sweatshirt, fist tight in the fabric. His head dropped until his face was buried near your hair, and then he made this sound.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
You closed your eyes. You didn't respond because he obviously knew something you didn't. Something more than what had been said in the car. Something that had taken him away from you after promising five minutes and brought him back looking like this. You didn't have the heart to ask. Not yet. Asking meant opening the door to answers, and answers changed things.
And you were so tired of things changing. So you just held him. He shook once in your arms and tried to hide it by pulling you closer. You knew that trick. You knew him. Even now, even after all of it, you knew him.
"Sid," you whispered.
He sucked in a breath.
"I tried," he said against your hair. "I tried to come back. I swear I tried. I just couldn't, I couldn't pull myself together. I couldn't be strong for you, and you needed me to be strong, and I couldn't even do that."
You didn't say anything.
Your hand moved on its own, sliding up his back once. Comforting him. You didn't know where you stood. Didn't know if you were allowed to touch him like this. Didn't know if he was allowed to need you like this. Still, when he trembled again, you held on tighter.
"My parents brought you?" you asked quietly.
He nodded, his face still tucked close. "Yeah."
"My mom?"
Sidney hesitated. You pulled back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were wet. He looked away for a second, toward the hallway, toward anywhere that wasn't your face.
"Your dad," he said.
"My dad?"
Sidney nodded again. "He convinced your mom. She didn't want to. I don't blame her. I wouldn't have wanted to either. But he, uh..." Sidney's mouth twitched, not a smile, not even close. "He said if I was gonna show up looking like I crawled out of a ditch, I was gonna do it before Beau woke up and before you had enough time to slam the door in my face."
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It was almost nothing but Sidney heard it. His eyes snapped back to you, and for one second, there he was. Your Sid. The boy who used to act like getting a laugh out of you was better than scoring. The boy who'd grin so big if you gave him even the smallest piece of joy.
Then it vanished. His face fell again.
"I'm sorry," he said, like he couldn't stop saying it now that he'd started. "I know that doesn't mean anything. I know it's not enough. I know I keep saying it, and it's just words, and you deserved more than words. You deserved everything. You deserved me there. Beau deserved me there."
Your throat tightened. The hallway was cold around you. Too exposed. Too early. Too much of this belonged behind a closed door, somewhere private, somewhere your neighbors wouldn't stumble out in slippers and witness the last four years bleeding all over the floor.
"Come in," you said.
Sidney went still and you could see him trying not to look too hopeful.
"Are you sure?"
"No," you said honestly. "But come in."
He nodded once and stepped inside. You closed the door behind him as quietly as you could. The apartment felt different with him in it. Smaller. Or maybe fuller. He stood just inside the entryway, looking around with careful eyes. Just taking it in. The little shoes by the door. Beau's raincoat hanging on a low hook. The toy cars scattered near the couch. The folded blanket over the armchair. The life you'd made without him.
You watched him see it. You watched him hurt over it.
"He's still asleep," you said quietly, nodding toward the hallway.
Sidney looked toward it instantly.
"Beau?" he asked.
You nodded.
He swallowed again. "Okay."
"He usually wakes up around seven."
"Okay," he repeated.
"Do you want coffee?"
The question was absurd. It was so normal it almost made you laugh again. Sidney standing in your apartment after four years of grief, after finding out he had a son, after disappearing for weeks, and you were offering him coffee like he was one of your parents stopping by before work.
"Yeah," he said, voice soft. "Please."
You went to the kitchen because you needed something to do with your hands. Sidney followed only as far as the edge of the living room, like he didn't want to cross too far into your home without permission. That hurt too. His hesitation. The way he seemed to understand that everything here belonged to you and Beau, and he had not earned the right to move through it freely.
You poured him coffee in the only clean mug left in the cabinet, the one with a chipped handle and a faded print of a cartoon whale on it because Beau had picked it out at a thrift store and declared it your fancy cup. You didn't ask how he took it. You just poured it and called it good.
You could feel him watching you.
"You remembered," he said softly.
You didn't turn around.
"Don't make it a thing."
"Okay."
But his voice had cracked on the word. Damn him. Damn him for still being so easy to hurt. You carried the mug to him, and he took it with both hands. His fingers brushed yours. Barely. A ghost of a touch but you still felt it like an electric spark.
"Thank you," he said.
You nodded and wrapped both hands around your own mug. For a minute, neither of you spoke.
The silence was crowded. It had every version of you in it. Fifteen in a rink. Sixteen on your parents' porch. Seventeen in his bed, whispering futures you had no business believing in. Eighteen with a phone in your hand. Nineteen with a baby you didn't know how to love yet. Twenty, packing boxes for Halifax. Twenty one, watching him lift the Cup on television and hating him because it was easier than missing him. Twenty two, standing in your own apartment with Sidney Crosby drinking from your chipped whale mug while your son slept down the hall.
Finally, you said, "Where did you go?"
Sidney closed his eyes.
"I went to my parents' house."
You looked at him but he didn't open his eyes right away.
"That night?" you asked.
"Yeah."
"I thought you said five minutes."
"I did."
"Must've been a long five minutes."
"I know," he said. "I know. I fucked that up too."
"You didn't come back."
"I know."
"You dropped me off and asked me to wait, and then you didn't come back."
"I know."
"I would've waited," you said, and there it was, the thing you hadn't wanted to admit. Your voice went smaller. "That morning I waited."
"I know," he whispered. "That's why I couldn't."
That made you look back.
"What?"
"I knew you'd wait," he said. "I knew if I came back like that, if I showed up at your parents' door completely out of my mind, you'd try to take care of me. And I didn't want that to be the first thing I asked from you again."
Your grip tightened on your mug.
"Again?"
He nodded once.
"I already took so much. Even if I didn't know I was taking it, I did. I took four years by not knowing. I took your belief in me. I took..." He stopped and looked down, jaw clenching hard. "I took the version of us that should've existed. And when I found out, all I wanted was to come back to you and fall apart. I wanted you to make it better, and that's not fair. It wasn't fair to ask you for comfort when you were the one who'd been hurt."
You stared at him. There were things you wanted to say. That he was right. That he was wrong. That you had wanted him to come back anyway. That you hated him for not coming. That you hated how badly you'd wanted to comfort him. That you would've opened the door. That maybe some foolish part of you had been waiting to.
Instead, you said, "So what happened?"
Sidney took a shaky breath.
"My parents knew."
"What?"
"They knew," he said, and his voice went rough again. "My parents knew you were pregnant. They knew about the text. They knew."
"Who?"
Sidney shook his head once, eyes wet. "I don't know who physically typed it. Not for sure. I don't know if it was my dad or Pat or someone else, but they were all part of it. My parents. Mario. Pat. They all knew. They all kept it from me."
His parents, you could understand in a horrible, nightmare kind of way. You had imagined that before. You had imagined some adult stepping in, deciding you were inconvenient. But Mario? Pat? Men you didn’t even know, men who were part of Sidney's future, men who had looked at him and seen a franchise, a career, a machine that couldn't be slowed down by something as human as love.
You leaned back against the back of the sofa.
"Oh my God."
"I went there because I needed to ask about the draft," Sidney said. "About my phone. About what happened. And their faces, baby, they just..."
He stopped.
Baby.
You hadn't been anybody's baby in four years. Not like that. Your parents loved you, Beau loved you, your friends loved you, but nobody had held that word in their mouth with you in mind. Like you were something cherished. Something to come home to.
Sidney heard himself say it and you saw the panic move across his face.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I shouldn't, I don't have the right to call you that."
He looked wrecked by the mistake. And the worst part was, you wanted him to say it again. You wanted it so badly it made you angry.
"Just keep talking," you said, because that was safer.
Sidney nodded, swallowing hard.
"Their faces gave it away," he continued. "They looked guilty. My mom tried to explain. My dad..." He huffed a bitter laugh and looked away. "My dad kept saying they were trying to protect me. That I was eighteen. That I had my whole future ahead of me. That they couldn't let me throw my life away for some girl."
Some girl. You had been reduced to that so many times in your own head but hearing it from him was different. Some girl. As if you hadn't loved him with everything your teenage heart had. As if you hadn't carried his child. As if you hadn't built a life out of what they left behind.
"I lost it," he said. "I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever been more angry in my life you know? I yelled at them. I said things..." He stopped, his eyes dropping to the floor. "I don't regret most of it."
"What did they say?"
He breathed out slowly.
"They said they thought you'd move on. They said they didn't know you'd keep the baby. They said they thought I'd thank them someday.”
"They thought I'd get rid of him?"
Sidney's face crumpled.
"Yeah," he whispered. "I think they did."
You remembered being eighteen in your bedroom, sitting on the floor with your back against the bed, one hand on your stomach because you didn't know what else to do with it. You remembered reading those words over and over until they stopped being sentences and became something carved into your bones. Take care of it. Don't contact me. We're done.
You remembered thinking Sidney hated you. You remembered thinking you had been stupid enough to love a boy who saw you as a problem. You remembered wanting your mother and not wanting your mother because she kept insisting it had to be a misunderstanding, and you couldn't survive believing that. You needed him to be cruel because cruelty meant you could hate him and keep moving.
But if it was a lie? If he hadn't known? If he would've come? What were you supposed to do with all those years?
Sidney set the mug down on your little table, untouched except for one sip.
"I don't expect you to believe me," he said.
His voice was so defeated that it pulled you back into the room. He stood there with his shoulders slightly hunched, hands empty now, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides like he needed something to hold and didn't dare reach for you.
"I wouldn't believe me," he said. "If I were you. I wouldn't. I know how convenient it sounds. I know it sounds like I'm trying to save my own ass. Like I'm blaming everyone else so you don't hate me anymore."
You didn't speak.
"But I didn't know," he said, and tears slid down his face again. "I swear I didn't know. I never got your text. I never told you to get rid of him. I never would've told you not to contact me. I never would've left you alone like that if I'd known."
He took one small step toward you and stopped himself almost immediately.
"I would've been there," he said. "You need to know that. Even if you never forgive me, even if you never want me in your life the way I want to be, you need to know I would've been there."
You looked down at the floor.
"I would've chosen you."
You closed your eyes.
"And I would've chosen Beau," he said. "I would've chosen both of you. Every time. I don't care what anyone says. I don't care what my dad thinks I would've done or what my agent thought was best for my career. You were always what was important. You were never some girl to me. You were never a distraction. You were..." He stopped, pressing the heel of his hand to his chest like his heart was actually breaking. "You were my whole fucking life. You still are, and I know I don't get to say that. I know that's not fair to you. But it's true."
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. You wiped it quickly, angry with yourself. Sidney noticed anyway. He always noticed. His face twisted like your tears hurt him more than his own.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again.
You laughed shakily, wiping at your face. "You say that a lot now."
"I know."
"It's annoying."
"I know."
"And it makes me want to punch you a little."
"That's fair."
You looked at him. The tired eyes. That frown. The boy inside the man, still standing in front of you asking for something he didn't think he deserved. You searched his face for a lie. You wanted to find one. Part of you needed to find one because if he was lying, then nothing had to change.
But you knew him. Damn it, you knew him. You knew how he lied, which wasn't well. You knew how guilt sat on him. You knew how shame looked in his eyes. This wasn't that. This was grief. This was a man who had found out his life had been stolen from him and didn't know how to get it back without you.
"I hated you," you said.
"I know."
"No, you don't," you said, and now your tears were coming faster, too many to wipe away without looking pathetic. "You don't know what that felt like. You don't know what it was like to love you and hate you at the same time. To have your baby and see your face every time I looked at him. To sit there while he learned how to smile and think wow he smiles like Sidney. To watch him pick up a hockey stick before he could even say full sentences and think, of course of course he loves the one thing that took you from me."
Sidney's face crumbled. He took another step forward, then stopped again.
"You don't know how lonely I was," you said, voice shaking hard now. "You don't know how embarrassed I was. How stupid I felt. How everyone got to be proud of you while I was in hiding. You were on TV, and people were cheering for you, and I was trying to learn how to be a mother when I still wanted my mom every fucking day."
"I know," he whispered, then immediately shook his head. "No. I don't know. You're right. I don't know."
"I didn't love him right away," you said, and the confession tore out of you before you could stop it.
You covered your mouth for a second, horrified at yourself, but it was already out. The ugliest truth. The one you punished yourself for even now, even though Beau had no memory of those first months when you had moved through motherhood like a ghost.
"I mean, I took care of him," you said quickly, crying now. "I fed him. I changed him. I held him when he cried. I did everything I was supposed to do. But I was so angry, Sid. I was so angry and sad and tired and he was just this baby who needed me all the time and I couldn't stop thinking that I had ruined my life. And then I'd look at him and feel like the worst person alive because none of it was his fault."
You couldn't look at him, so you looked at the table, at the whale mug, at the tiny scratch in the wood where Beau had once tried to "fix" it with a toy screwdriver.
"It took me a year," you whispered. "It took me a year to feel like his mom and I have spent every day since then trying to make up for that first year. Every single day."
You wished you could take it back, and at the same time you felt lighter than you had in years. Sidney moved then. He came closer slowly, giving you every chance to step away. When you didn't, he stopped in front of you with barely any space between your bodies.
"I am so proud of you," he said.
"No."
"Yes."
"Don't."
"I am," he said, voice firm even through his tears. "I'm so fucking proud of you."
That made you cry harder.
"No, you don't get to say that."
"I know I don't," he said. "I'm saying it anyway because it's true. You were a kid. You were alone. You were hurt worse than you ever deserved and you still raised him. You became his whole world. You did that without me. You did that when you thought I didn't want either of you."
You shook your head, but he kept going.
"And maybe you didn't feel it right away. Maybe it took time. But you're his mom. You're his mama. I saw it that night in the car, the second he made a sound, your whole face changed. You love him so much it's like the world moves around it."
You covered your face with both hands and still a sob slipped out from your lips.
"Can I?" he asked.
You didn't answer because you knew you didn't have to. He just stepped in and wrapped his arms around you again. This time, you broke. You broke the way you should've broken four years ago, but couldn't because there had been too much to do and too many people watching and a baby who needed you to survive. You sobbed into his hoodie with your hands fisted against his chest, and Sidney held you like he wished he could crawl between you and every single thing that had ever hurt you.
"I'm sorry," he kept saying. "I'm sorry, baby. I would've been there. I swear I would've been there. You weren't alone because I wanted you alone. You weren't. You weren't."
You hated how much you needed to hear it from him. You hated that it helped. You hated that it didn't fix anything and still stitched something tiny together inside you.
"You didn't call," you cried.
"I tried."
"My mom told you not to."
"I know."
"And you stopped."
"I know," he said, voice breaking. "I know I should've tried harder. I should've driven home. I should've written. I should've asked more questions. I was hurt and so so so stupid an-and I thought you didn't want me but I should've fought for you anyway. I know that now."
You pressed your forehead harder into him.
"I thought you hated me."
"I never hated you."
"I thought you looked at my text and decided I wasn't worth it."
"No," he said fiercely. "No. Never."
"I would've never forced you to choose," you said, pulling back just enough to look at him. "You know that right? I would've been scared. I would've cried. I would've probably yelled at you and told you I couldn't do it alone. But I wouldn't have forced you to give anything up. I wouldn't have made you choose between hockey and us."
"I know."
"Do you? Because I really loved you, Sid. I loved you so much and I knew what hockey meant to you."
"I know."
"I would've figured it out with you," you said. "Whatever that looked like. Pittsburgh, Halifax, your parents, my parents, I don't know. We were kids, and it would've been hard and maybe we would've fucked it up a hundred different ways, but I wouldn't have trapped you. I wasn't trying to ruin you."
His eyes squeezed shut.
"I know," he said. "I know you weren't. You would've given me the choice even if it broke your heart and they couldn't even give you the chance."
You stared at him through tears.
"I wish you had the chance to ask me," he said. "I wish you had the chance to yell at me for real. I wish you had the chance to throw the test at my head and tell me to figure my shit out. I wish I had the chance to be scared with you. I wish I had been there for the appointments and the cravings and the mornings you felt sick. I wish I had been there when he was born."
His voice broke completely. You reached for him again, your hand coming up to his cheek. He froze under your touch. You nearly pulled away, but he turned his face into your palm so tenderly.
"I wish I saw him," he admitted. "When he was tiny. I wish I knew what he sounded like when he cried. I wish I knew how he slept. I wish I knew if he liked being rocked or if he hated it. I wish I knew his first word. I wish I knew what he looked like on Christmas morning. I wish I knew everything."
"He hated being swaddled," you said before you could think better of it.
Sidney opened his eyes.
You looked down at your hand on his face, then back at him.
"He'd scream," you said, voice thick. "Like, full red faced kinda thing. My mom kept saying babies liked being wrapped up, and Beau absolutely did not."
A laugh broke out of Sidney.
"He liked sleeping on my dad's chest," you said. "Only my dad's for a while. Which was annoying because my dad would get this smug little look on his face like he was the favorite."
Sidney smiled through tears.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Your mouth trembled. "His first word was mama. Kind of. He babbled it before, but on his birthday, he meant it."
Sidney's eyes filled again. You brushed a tear off his cheek with your thumb before you remembered you maybe shouldn't but neither of you moved away.
"He loves gummy bears," you said. "And he thinks thunder is clouds bowling. He calls graham crackers cracker things even though he knows the word graham now. He has this little blue blanket he says is magic, but only when he doesn't want to go to bed. He hates peas. He loves hockey, which is rude as hell of him."
Sidney laughed again, and this one sounded more real. You smiled at him.
"He uses anything as a stick," you continued. "Brooms. Wooden spoons. Wrapping paper tubes. My hairbrush once. I had to take that away because he was trying to shoot a sock into the laundry basket and almost took out a lamp."
"He sounds perfect.”
"He is," you said. "He's also a menace."
"That tracks."
You gave him a look.
He lifted one shoulder weakly. "What? I was a menace."
"You still are."
A small silence followed. Sidney's eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize the person you’d become.
"You look tired," he said.
You laughed under your breath. "Yeah, well."
"I hate that."
"I have a three year old. Tired is part of the job."
"I still hate it."
You looked at him and he looked back. There it was again. The way you could stand this close and not need to fill every second. The way his eyes still knew how to soften on you. The way your body still wanted to lean. It should've felt wrong after four years. It should've felt like touching a stranger. It didn't.
Sidney lifted his hand, then stopped himself halfway. You saw the hesitation. He wanted to touch your face. You knew he did. You knew because he used to do it all the time. Used to cup your jaw before kissing you. Used to tuck hair behind your ear when you were ranting. Used to brush his thumb over your cheek if you were crying, even when you claimed you weren't.
Now he didn't know if he was allowed. You hated that. You hated that he had to wonder. You hated that he was probably right to wonder.
"Sid," you said softly.
His hand dropped.
"Sorry."
"You don't have to apologize for every breath."
"Kind of feels like I do."
"That's exhausting."
"Yeah," he said, trying for a smile and failing. "It is."
You looked down at the front of his hoodie where your tears had darkened the fabric.
"You look like shit," you said.
"Thanks."
"No, I mean, genuinely. You look awful."
"I haven't slept much."
"Recently or ever?"
His mouth twitched. "Recently."
"Weeks?"
His face changed. Right. There was more. You stepped back slightly, not out of his reach, but enough to breathe.
"What happened after that night?"
Sidney rubbed both hands over his face and exhaled.
"A lot. Nothing. I don't know." He leaned back against the edge of the table, careful not to knock into Beau's coloring books. "I went to my parents' house. We fought. I left. I drove around all night."
"All night?"
"Yeah."
"Sidney."
"I know."
"That's stupid."
"I know."
"You could've gotten yourself killed."
His eyes softened at your tone, at the worry you couldn't quite hide.
"I didn't," he said gently.
"Not the point."
"I know."
You crossed your arms over your chest because your hands didn't know what to do without touching him.
"I thought I could come back in the morning," he said. "After I found out. I thought I could show up and tell you everything, and maybe..." He shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe I thought if I had the truth, I'd know what to do with it. But I didn't. I got to your parents' street, and I just sat there. I couldn't get out of the car."
You stared at him.
"You were there?"
He nodded.
"When?"
"Early. Before your dad drove you back."
"I didn't know."
"I know."
"Why didn't you come out?"
His jaw worked.
"Because I saw your dad loading the truck. I saw Beau in the backseat. I saw you come out and you looked..." He swallowed. "You looked like you'd survived me again. And I couldn't walk up to you and ask for more."
"So you just left?"
"Yeah."
"Then what?"
"I went back to Pittsburgh for a bit. Not really back. I don't know. I wasn't really anywhere. I didn't talk to my parents," he said. "My mom called. My dad called. I didn't answer. Mario called. Pat called. I didn't answer them either. Then I tried to talk to Mike."
"Mike?"
He nodded.
"What happened with Mike?"
Sidney rubbed a hand over his mouth. "He was pissed at me."
"Why?"
"Because he thought I knew and didn't care," Sidney said. "He didn't say anything to me at first because he was angry. He said he couldn't even look at me. And then after... after I found out, I went to him because I had no one left."
There was something so lonely in the way he said it. No one left. The town hero. The golden boy. The kid everyone wanted a piece of. And somehow, at twenty-two, he looked like an abandoned little boy in your apartment.
"I didn't mean to drag him into it."
"You didn't," Sidney said. "None of this is your fault."
He kept going, his voice quieter now.
"I told him I didn't know. He didn't believe me at first. I don't blame him. I barely sounded believable to myself. But I told him everything. The phone. Your mom's calls. My parents. The fight. And then I just..." He laughed weakly, embarrassed. "I broke down. Like, fully. On his couch. Which was humiliating."
"Sid."
"I know. Mike was good. He was mad, but he was good. He let me be a mess. Then he told me if I loved you, I had to stop thinking this could be fixed by one big speech."
You looked at Sidney, surprised.
He nodded, like he agreed.
"He said you weren't a game I could win. Beau wasn't something I could just show up and claim. He said I needed to understand that you had a life, and if I came into it, I had to come in on your terms. Not mine."
"Mike said that?"
"With more swearing."
"Yeah, that sounds right."
"He said I should go to your parents if I wanted any chance at seeing you without making you feel cornered. Because they knew your life. They knew Beau. They knew whether I should stay away."
"So you went?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"This morning."
You stared at him.
"My mom agreed to this?"
Sidney looked down.
"Not at first."
You imagined your mother, soft hearted but protective. Your mom who had cried with you. Your mom who had watched you disappear inside yourself during pregnancy. Your mom who had held Beau when you couldn't. Your mom who probably still had anger tucked away in places even she didn't like to visit.
"She told me I had no right," Sidney said. "She said I didn't get to blow back into your life because I was sad now. She said you were finally happy, and she wouldn't let me ruin it for you again."
Your eyes stung.
"Sounds like her."
"I told her she was right," he said. "Because she was."
"And my dad?"
"Your dad didn't say much at first. He just stared at me. I think he was trying to decide if he could hit me without upsetting your mom."
Despite everything, you laughed.
"He asked me one thing," he said.
"What?"
"He asked if I would've stayed."
"What did you say?"
Sidney's eyes held yours.
"I said yes."
Your lips parted.
"I said I would've stayed if you asked me to. I would've gone if you asked me to. I would've done whatever you and Beau needed. But if it had been up to me, I would've been wherever you were."
You looked away, blinking hard.
"He believed you?"
Sidney nodded slowly.
"I don't know why."
"I do," you whispered.
You cleared your throat, looking at your coffee mug because his eyes were too much.
"My dad's good at knowing when people are full of shit."
Sidney gave a broken little laugh.
"Yeah. He told me if I hurt you again, he'd make sure I regretted it for the rest of my life."
"That sounds like him too."
"He also told me I looked like hell and needed to stop standing on the porch before the neighbors saw."
You shook your head, but you were smiling through tears now.
"God."
"He convinced your mom to bring me," Sidney said. "Just this once. Those were his words. He said they'd drive me here, wait outside, and if you told me to leave, I'd leave and not show up again unless you asked."
You looked toward the window.
Your parents' car still lingered on the curb outside. Your dad was probably pretending not to stare at the building. Your mom was probably crying. Or furious. Or both.
"They're still outside?"
"Yeah."
"Did my dad tell you not to make this take all day?"
"He said I had until Beau woke up, then he was coming up himself."
You laughed again, a real laugh this time, even if it was soaked in tears. Sidney watched you with soft eyes.
"What?" you asked.
"Nothing."
"No, what?"
He shook his head. "I missed your laugh."
Your smile faded into something sadder.
"I missed yours too," you admitted.
Sidney looked down like he couldn't hold that and look at you at the same time
You rubbed your palms over your sweatshirt sleeves.
"What now?" you asked.
Sidney looked at you.
He didn't answer right away, and you appreciated that. You didn't want a perfect answer. Perfect answers were lies, most of the time. You wanted something honest. Something he had to think about.
"I don't know," he said finally.
You nodded, hating and loving that response.
"But I know what I want," he added.
"What do you want?"
His eyes stayed on yours.
"You," he said. "And Beau. I want to know him. I want him to know me. However slow you need. However small it has to start. Five minutes at a time if that's all you can give me."
Five minutes. But different now. Maybe different.
"And me?" you asked.
Sidney looked almost startled. Like he hadn't expected you to ask. Like wanting you was so obvious inside him that he forgot he needed to include you in it too.
"I want you every way I'm allowed to," he said.
His face flushed slightly, but he kept going.
"I love you. I never stopped. I tried. I tried so hard to make it quieter, to make it something I could live with, but it never went away. And I know that doesn't mean you owe me anything. I know loving you doesn't fix what happened. I know it doesn't change what you went through. But I do. I love you. I'm still in love with you, and I don't know what to do except tell you the truth."
"Sidney."
"I know," he said quickly. "I know. It's too much."
"It is."
"I know."
"It's not fair."
"I know."
"You don't get to just say that and make me feel things."
"I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry."
"Stop saying sorry."
"Okay."
You covered your eyes with one hand.
"I hate this."
"I know."
"I lived my life thinking you left."
"I know."
"And now you're here."
"I'm here."
"And I still love you," you said, and the second the words left your mouth, you started crying again. “I still love you, and I'm so mad about it. I should be smarter than this. I should know better. I should protect myself better. But I saw you in that stupid car, and even when I wanted to kill you, I wanted to touch your face. And when you dropped me off, I waited. I waited like an idiot because some part of me is still that girl on the porch waiting for you to come back."
Sidney closed the space between you and this time, he did touch your face. His hands came up to cup your cheeks, thumbs hovering at first, then settling when you didn't pull away. His palms were warm.
"You're not an idiot," he said. "Don't call yourself that."
You laughed through tears. "That's what you focus on?"
"Yeah," he said. "Because you're not."
"You can't just defend me from myself."
"I can try."
"Still stubborn."
"Still you."
Your hands came up to his wrists you should've moved them away. You didn't.
"I don't know how to do this," you whispered.
"Me neither."
"I don't know how to let you in without being terrified."
"Then be terrified," he said. "I'll wait."
You searched his face. "Will you?"
"Yes."
"You didn't before."
"No," he said. "I didn't. And I'll spend the rest of my life wishing I had."
Your fingers tightened around his wrists.
"I don't want you making promises because you feel guilty."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm guilty," he said. "Of course I am. I feel guilty about things I didn't even know were happening because I still wasn't there. But that's not why I'm here."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I love you," he said. "Because I have a son. Because somebody else made a choice for us, and maybe we don't get those four years back, but we get to choose now. You get to choose. And if your choice is that I only know Beau from a distance for a while, then that's what I'll do. If your choice is that we go slow then I'll do that. If your choice is that you need to yell at me every day for the next year, I'll stand there and take it."
"I don't have that much free time."
"I'll work around your schedule."
"Idiot."
"Yeah," he whispered, and his thumb moved lightly over your cheek. "Your idiot, if you'll let me be."
You looked down, but he didn't let your face go.
"Sid."
"I know," he said. "Too much."
"No," you whispered. “I want things to work.”
Sidney's eyes widened slightly.
"I don't know what that means yet," you added quickly. "I don't know what we are. I don't know how this works with Beau, or your life, or my life, or your parents, or anything. I don't know."
"Okay."
"But I want it," you said. "I want to try. I hate that I want to try, but I do."
"Okay.”
"And you don't get to disappear again."
"Never."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"No, Sid, I mean it. If you freak out, you call. If you're scared, you say you're scared. If you don't know what to do, you say that. You don't drive around all night and vanish for weeks."
He nodded quickly, tears spilling again.
"I won't. I swear."
"You have to let me be mad."
"Yes."
"And sad."
"Yes."
"And weird."
That surprised a laugh out of him. "Weird?"
"Yes, weird. I'm probably gonna be weird as hell about this."
"Okay."
"And you have to be patient with Beau. He doesn't know you. He doesn't need some big emotional adult mess dropped on him."
"I know," Sidney said immediately. "I know. I want to do it right. Whatever right is."
"He has a good life. I know it's not the life he could've had, and I know you missed so much, but he is loved. He's happy. He's safe. I won't let anyone make him feel like he wasn't enough as he was."
"I would never," he said.
"I know."
And you did.
"You've done such a good job.”
Your eyes burned again.
"Don't make me cry more, Crosby. I'm tired."
His thumb brushed under your eye.
"Sorry."
You gave him a look. He pressed his lips together.
"Right. Not saying that."
You laughed softly. Sid's eyes dropped to your mouth. You saw it. You felt it.
The years between you seemed to pull taut, thinning until it was almost nothing. You remembered his first kiss. The nervousness of it. The way he'd missed slightly and bumped your nose and apologized three times while you laughed into his mouth. You remembered every goodbye kiss after games, every secret kiss in hallways, every lazy, half asleep kiss.
His gaze lifted back to your eyes. He didn't move. Didn't ask. Didn't take. Just waited. Your heart pounded.
"This is probably a bad idea," you whispered.
His voice was just as quiet. "Probably."
"We're emotional."
"Very."
"And sleep deprived."
"Me especially."
"And this doesn't fix anything."
"No."
"And if you kiss me and then everything hurts worse, I'm gonna be pissed."
A little smile touched his mouth.
"I can live with that."
You stared at him for one more second then you lifted onto your toes and kissed him. It was soft. Not hungry, not desperate, not the kind of kiss that tried to make four years disappear. It didn't erase anything. It didn't solve anything. It was just Sidney's mouth on yours.
He made a sound against your lips like he couldn't help it, and one of his hands slid from your cheek into your hair. Your fingers curled into his hoodie. He kissed you like you were something he thought he'd never be allowed to touch again. Like he was afraid of wanting too much. Like he loved you so much it scared him.
You pulled back first, barely. His forehead rested against yours. Both of you were breathing like you'd run somewhere.
"Hi," he said stupidly.
You laughed.
"Hi."
His thumb moved over your cheek.
"I missed you," he said.
You closed your eyes.
"I missed you too."
He exhaled shakily.
"Baby," he murmured, so quiet it was almost not sound at all.
Your eyes opened. He looked immediately terrified.
"I know," he said. "I know I shouldn't."
You shook your head. You didn't even know what you were saying no to. No, don't apologize. No, don't take it back. No, don't look at me like I'm made of glass. No, don't stop being the boy who loved me before the world got its hands on us.
"Say it again," you breathed.
He pulled you into him, one arm around your back, the other hand cradling the back of your head. His mouth pressed to your temple, lingering there.
"Baby," he said again, voice wrecked. "My girl. I should've been there. I should've been there to take care of you."
You buried your face in his chest, and for once, you let yourself be held like someone who didn't have to be strong every second.
"I haven’t been anybody’s baby in four years," you mumbled.
Sidney's arms tightened around you so hard you could barely breathe, but you didn't care.
"I know," he said. "I know. Never again, if you'll have me. You can be tired. You can be mad. You can fall apart. I've got you. I know I don't deserve to say that, but I've got you now."
You let the words move through you not believing them all the way yet but wanting to.
The two of you stood like that for a long time. Long enough for the coffee to go cold. Long enough for the early light to turn from gray to pale gold. Long enough for the ache to settle into something that wasn't peace exactly, but could maybe become it someday.
Sidney didn't push. You didn't pull away.
At some point, your breathing evened. At some point, his hand began moving slowly over your back, the way it used to when he was trying to calm you down. At some point, you realized you were doing the same to him, your fingers smoothing the fabric of his hoodie near his ribs.
"oh, we can fight like we used to fight
bony-limbed, red-faced, and teary-eyed"
warnings: language. abandonment.
summary: face to face again, and he's determined to fix it when you want nothing more to do with him.
request: yes
song: willing and able - noah kahan
word count: 7.7k
a/n: yay part two!!! most likely one more part but we'll see ;)
previous part | next part
~
Being in town for possibly the biggest day of the year was incredibly stupid on your part. Like, monumentally stupid. Because local hero bringing the Stanley Cup home was a big deal. Not just a big deal, actually. It was THE big deal. The whole community had been excited about it for weeks. Sidney Crosby, Cole Harbour's golden boy, coming home with the Cup.
And you were right in the thick of it.
You and Beau were back in the neighborhood because your parents had planned this whole “end of summer camping trip” that just so happened to land on the weekend of Sid’s homecoming. Your dad had been talking about it for months, ever since Beau had developed this sudden obsession with camping. One afternoon, your dad had set up this little tent in the backyard, nothing fancy, just a basic dome tent he found in the garage. He'd let Beau crawl inside, given him a flashlight and a sleeping bag, and that was it. Beau was hooked. He talked about camping constantly, asked when you could go camping, drew pictures of tents and campfires and bears at daycare.
"Papa says we're gonna roast marshmallows," he'd told you one night at dinner. "And sleep outside with the stars, Mama. The stars!"
"That sounds fun, buddy."
"Can we go camping? Please? Please, please, please?"
And how were you supposed to say no to him? So your dad had planned this whole trip. Three days at a campground about an hour away from your parents' place, with fishing and hiking and all the marshmallow roasting a 3 year old could handle. But first, you needed supplies. Snacks, dinner ingredients, bug spray, all the essentials. And your dad, ever the planner, had made a list. A very detailed list. Which is how you'd ended up at the grocery store on what was apparently the same day half of Canada had decided to stock up for Sidney Crosby's Cup party.
You should have known better. Should have just driven somewhere you wouldn't run into anyone who might recognize you. But you'd thought that maybe people would be too distracted by the Cup madness to notice you. That you could just slip in, grab what you needed, and slip out.
You'd been pretty careful over the years about keeping Beau away from your old childhood spots. The places where people still talked to your parents, where they'd watched you grow up, where they remembered you as Sid's childhood sweetheart. Because you were sure that the second they saw Beau they'd put the pieces together. It wouldn't even be hard. The kid looked exactly like Sidney. Exactly.
And a part of you didn't want anyone else's image of Sid to be tainted. It was stupid, probably. Definitely stupid. But there was still this part of you that remembered the boy he'd been. The sweet, earnest boy who'd loved you. The part of you that told you there had been love there once. So you avoided those places. Stuck to your new neighborhood, to spaces where nobody knew your history. Where Beau was just Beau, and you were just you, and Sidney Crosby was just some famous hockey player on TV.
But you couldn't escape Beau's curiosity and his need to be by your side whenever he could. He didn't want to wait with your parents anymore, didn’t want to sit in the cart anymore, didn't want to be treated like a baby. He wanted to walk next to you, hold your hand, help you pick out groceries.
"I'm a big boy, Mama," he'd say, puffing out his chest.
And he was. He was getting so big, so fast. So there he was, toddling beside you in the grocery store, refusing to sit in the cart seat like you'd asked.
Mostly, people were just doing their own shopping. It was busy, the aisles crowded with carts and kids and harried looking parents, but nobody was paying attention to you. You'd grabbed bug spray, the marshmallows, a package of hot dogs for roasting. Beau had picked out a bag of gummy bears, holding them up with this hopeful look on his face, and you'd caved immediately.
"Okay, buddy. But only if you're good the whole trip."
"I'm always good, Mama."
"Yeah, you are."
You were heading toward the checkout, mentally adding up how much all of this was going to cost and whether you had enough cash or if you'd need to use your card, when you made eye contact with someone you hadn't seen in years.
Mike.
One of Sidney's oldest friends. You recognized him even though he'd grown up and looked more like a man now than the lanky teenager you remembered. He was pushing a cart that was absolutely loaded with alcohol. Clearly stocking up for some kind of party. The one everyone seemed to be going to. He smiled at you at first, this hey-I-recognize-you-from-somewhere kind of smile. And then his eyes dropped. To Beau. To the little boy beside you, his hand wrapped around two of your fingers, his face turned up toward the shelves.
Mike's smile faltered. His eyes went wide, he saw what everyone who knew Sidney would see. His head full of brown hair, thick and a little too long because you kept forgetting to take him for a haircut. The same chubby cheeks that Sidney had as a kid, the same almost pointy ears that stuck out just a little. The perpetual pout that made him look like he was just a tad grumpy even when he was just staring at the lights. The resemblance was undeniable.
It was like you'd taken a photo of Sid as a baby from his parents' home and hit clone and out came Beau.
Mike's mouth opened slightly, like he was going to say something, and then closed again. He looked at you, then back at Beau, then at you again. Confusion plagued his face. Like he was trying to make sense of something that made no sense to him.
Which didn't make sense to you.
Maybe Mike thought you'd gotten rid of it. That you'd "taken care of it" like Sidney had told you to. Maybe Sidney had assumed that too, and when you never reached out again, never showed up demanding support or whatever, he'd just... moved on. Forgotten about it. Forgotten about you.
Or maybe, Sidney had been too ashamed to tell anyone that he'd knocked someone up and skipped town. Not telling his friends about it probably made sense if you were ashamed about something. If you wanted to protect your image, your reputation. Can't be the golden boy if people know you got your high school girlfriend pregnant and told her to get rid of it, right?
Honestly, it was stupid. The whole thing was stupid. But you weren't gonna be the one to explain it for him. That wasn't your job. You didn't owe Sidney Crosby a goddamn thing.
"Hi, Mike," you said, keeping your voice casual, like your heart wasn't pounding in your chest.
"Hey," he said, and his voice sounded strained. "Wow. It's been... it's been a while."
"Yeah. Few years."
"You look good.”
"Thanks. You too."
There was this awkward silence. Mike's eyes kept darting back to Beau, who was oblivious to the whole interaction. He'd spotted the candy aisle and was tugging on your hand, trying to pull you in that direction.
"Mama, can we get chocolate too? For s'mores?"
"We already have marshmallows, bud."
"But Papa says you need chocolate and marshmallows for s'mores. And those cracker things."
"Graham crackers?"
"Yeah! Those!"
You smiled down at him, ruffling his hair. "Okay, we'll get some. Just give me a second, okay?"
"Okay, Mama."
When you looked back up, Mike was staring at Beau like he'd seen a ghost. And maybe he had, in a way. Because Beau was Sidney. A tiny, three year old version of Sidney, right down to the way he stood with his weird little bowlegged stance.
"Is that..." Mike started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. "Is that your son?"
"Yeah. This is Beau."
"Beau," Mike repeated. "How old is he?"
You knew where this was going. Knew exactly what Mike was doing, the mental math he was running. "Three. He just turned three in April."
April 2006. Which meant you would have gotten pregnant in... July 2005. Right around the time of the draft. Right around the time Sidney had left for Ottawa.
"Does Sid know?"
You clenched your teeth together. "I don't want to talk about this here."
"Does he know?" Mike pressed, and his voice was getting louder now and a couple of people in the checkout lines glanced over.
"Mike, seriously."
"Because that kid looks exactly like him. Exactly. And if Sid doesn't know–"
"He knows," you said cutting him off. "He knows, okay? He made his choice. So just... drop it."
Mike's eyes widened. "What do you mean he made his choice?"
"I mean exactly what I said. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to finish shopping."
You grabbed Beau's hand, maybe a little too tightly, and steered him away from Mike and his cart full of party alcohol. Beau looked up at you, his little face scrunched in confusion.
"Mama? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, sweetheart. Let's just get the chocolate and get out of here, okay?"
"Okay."
You could feel Mike's eyes on you as you walked away. He was probably going to say something to Sidney. Of course he was. They were best friends. And Mike had just seen undeniable proof that Sidney Crosby had a kid. A kid he apparently knew about and had chosen to ignore.
Your hands were shaking as you grabbed a box of graham crackers and a couple of chocolate bars. Beau was chattering beside you, something about how Papa was going to teach him how to make a campfire, but you were only half listening. Your mind was imagining all the ways this could blow up.
What if Mike confronted Sidney at the party? What if he made a scene asking to know why Sidney had abandoned his kid? What if word got out, and then everyone in Cole Harbour knew? What if it made the news and tomorrow there’d be some headline about Sidney Crosby's secret love child?
What if Sidney showed up at your parents' house?
What if he wanted to meet Beau?
That last thought made you panic. Because as much as you'd convinced yourself over the years that you didn't care, that Sidney meant nothing to you, the idea of him meeting Beau terrified you. What if Beau liked him? What if he wanted Sidney in his life, wanted a dad, and you had to be the one to explain that his dad didn't want him? That his dad had told you to get rid of him before he was even born?
You couldn't do that. You couldn't break your son's heart like that.
"Mama, you're squishing my hand," Beau said, and you realized you were gripping his fingers way too tight.
"Sorry, baby. Sorry." You loosened your hold, crouching down to his level. "You okay?"
"I'm okay! You’re okay?"
God, he was so sweet. So perceptive. You forced a smile, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "I'm okay. I just... I'm just tired. It's been a long day."
"We can go home and sleep. And then go camping tomorrow!"
"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good."
You paid for the groceries in a daze, barely listening to the cashier's cheerful small talk. Loaded everything into the car, buckled Beau into his booster seat, and sat in the driver's seat staring at the steering wheel.
This was fine. It was fine. So Mike had seen Beau. So what? That didn't mean anything had to change. You'd been doing this for three years. Three years of raising Beau on your own. You could keep doing it. You would keep doing it.
~
Camping was incredible. Camping was tiring. Camping was everything Beau had dreamed of and couldn't stop talking about. From the moment you'd gotten to the campground, he'd been a ball of excitement, running from the tent to the firepit to the lake and back again, his little legs pumping as fast as they could go. He'd helped your dad set up the tent, or at least he'd thought he was helping, mostly just handing over stakes and getting tangled in the rain fly. He'd roasted marshmallows until his face was covered in sticky white goo, had caught his first fish with your dad's guidance, had fallen asleep under the stars while your mom told stories about when you were little.
It had been perfect. Exactly what he'd wanted. But camping was also three days of worry about what you'd come home to. Three days of wondering if Mike had said something to Sidney. Three days of trying to convince yourself that it didn't matter, that even if Sidney knew you were around, even if Mike had told him about Beau, it wouldn't change anything.
Because what could change? Sidney had made his choice years ago. And you'd made yours.
Now you were back on your way to your parents' place, the car loaded with dirty camping gear and half-empty bags of marshmallows and graham crackers. Beau was passed out in the backseat, his head lolling to the side, his mouth open slightly. He'd spent so much time outside, running around and playing and just being a kid, that he'd basically collapsed the second you'd buckled him in.
You hadn't left the campsite until after six because Beau had made a friend. Another little boy around his age, and the two of them had been inseparable for the last day and a half. They'd played in the lake, built a fort out of sticks, declared themselves blood brothers after Beau had scraped his knee and the other kid had a mosquito bite. Saying goodbye had involved a lot of very serious promises to write letters and be friends forever, even though neither of them could really write yet.
Your parents were way ahead of you. They'd packed up faster, been ready to leave by four, but you'd told them to go on without you. That you'd meet them at their house and then head back to Halifax in the morning. You were exhausted. Three days of sleeping on the ground, of waking up at dawn because Beau was an early riser, of constantly being on alert to make sure he didn't wander off or fall in the lake or eat something he wasn't supposed to. You loved him more than anything, but God, parenting was exhausting.
And of course it happened when you were fucking exhausted and the sun had set and it was getting dark. Of course. Because the universe had a sick sense of humor and apparently hadn't tortured you enough this week.
Your tire blew.
You felt that horrible wobbling and managed to guide the car onto the shoulder without completely freaking out.
"Jesus fucking Christ," you muttered, dropping your forehead against the steering wheel.
This could not be happening. Not now. Not on some dark stretch of road with a sleeping kid in the backseat and no cell service. You really wished you'd gotten yourself a new phone. What had teenage you been thinking when you'd gotten rid of that other one? Well, you knew what you'd been doing. You were your own undoing. Always had been.
You got out of the car, careful not to slam the door and wake Beau, and walked around to inspect the damage. The front passenger tire was completely shredded, rubber hanging off in strips, the rim probably fucked beyond repair. Great. Just great.
You wished you'd learned how to change a tire. Your dad had offered to teach you a hundred times, but you'd always brushed him off, always said you'd get around to it. And now you were standing on the side of the road in the growing darkness completely helpless.
You popped the trunk, hoping maybe there was a spare and some kind of instructions, but even if there were, you wouldn't know what to do with them. You'd never changed a tire in your life. Never even watched someone do it, really.
"Fuck," you said to the empty road. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
~
Sidney was headed home for the night. He was tired. It had been a long few days. Good days, great days even, but long.
It was his first true summer back home, not just a quick visit for the weekend or training camps. And even then, he wasn't really home for the summer. It was August already. His summer was nearly over. In a couple of weeks he'd be back in Pittsburgh for training camp. He really hadn't spent enough time at home, not nearly enough.
But he appreciated everyone wanting to see him; it was good that his cup day landed on his birthday. That way, he could just get it all out of the way at once. He was officially 22. It had been a nice few days, even if his mom thought he was getting a little bit of a big head. She'd pulled him aside yesterday, gave him that look only mothers could give, and told him to remember where he came from. To stay humble. To not let all the attention go to his head.
"You're still my son," she'd said. "Still the kid who used to leave his hockey gear all over the basement. Don't forget that."
He hadn't. He wouldn't. But the attention was a lot, sometimes. Being around his friends and his family had been a really good recharge, even if he was a bit tired. Even if Mike had been dodging his calls and texts for the past few days, which was weird. Really weird, actually. Mike never ignored him. They'd been best friends since they were kids, told each other everything. But ever since the party, Mike had been distant. Wouldn't answer his phone, responded to texts with one word answers, made excuses every time Sidney suggested hanging out.
Sidney wanted to know why. Needed to know why. Because the not knowing was driving him crazy, making him wonder if he'd done something wrong, said something stupid at the party when he'd had a few too many beers.
He was mulling it over, barely paying attention to the road because he knew it so well he could probably drive it with his eyes closed, when he passed a car on the side of the road. He didn't think much of it at first. Cars broke down all the time, and it was getting dark. Stranger danger and all that. Plus, it didn't look like anyone was in the car. Just a dark sedan sitting there, no hazard lights, no sign of life.
But something made him check his rearview mirror. Maybe instinct, maybe habit. And that's when he saw it. A flashlight, bobbing near the car. Movement.
"Oh, fucking shit," he muttered.
He couldn't, in good conscience, just drive away. What if it was someone who needed help? What if they were stranded, alone, in the dark? He'd want someone to stop for him if the roles were reversed. So he slowed down, found a spot to turn around, and headed back. He pulled up behind the car, put on his hazards, and got out.
"Hey," he called out, walking toward the flashlight. "You need help?"
The person turned, and it was you.
You.
Standing there in jeans and a t-shirt, your hair pulled back, the flashlight in your hand casting strange shadows across your face. As beautiful as the day he'd lost you. More beautiful, even, because you'd grown up. Become a woman instead of the girl he remembered. You were there and you were living and breathing and exactly like he remembered but not. Different somehow. And when you looked at him, when your eyes met his and recognition widened your eyes, you didn't look particularly happy. You looked... annoyed. Frustrated. Like running into him was the last thing you needed right now.
"Oh great," you said, and your voice was flat.
He didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't that.
"Um," he said, because his brain had apparently stopped working. "Do you... do you need help?"
"No," you said immediately. "I don't need your help."
"Your tire looks like it needs to be changed," he said, glancing at the shredded rubber.
"Yeah? Really? I hadn't noticed."
"I can change it for you. If you want."
"I don't want your help," you repeated, turning away from him.
But he wasn't going to leave you on the side of the road at eight o'clock at night. No matter how much you clearly didn't want him there, he couldn't just drive away. It wasn't in him.
"Do you have tools?" he asked. "A jack? A spare?"
You turned back. "Do you?"
"No."
"Do you have a phone on you?"
"No."
"So then what use are you to me, Sidney?"
Hearing you say his name, after all these years, felt like a punch to the gut. He'd imagined this moment so many times, running into you, talking to you, and in none of those scenarios had you sounded so... done with him.
"I can take you wherever you need to go," he offered. "Give you a ride. You can call someone from there."
You looked at him like you were genuinely considering telling him to fuck off and just walking. He could see it in your eyes. And then your shoulders slumped, and he knew he had you.
"Fine," you said, but you didn't sound happy about it.
You went back to the rear door of your car, and that's when Sidney noticed the car seat. Right. Sure. You had a kid. You had a kid? You opened the door carefully, leaning in, and a moment later you straightened up with a small child in your arms. A little boy, his head resting on your shoulder, clearly asleep. You balanced him on one hip while you reached back in for the car seat, grabbing it with your free hand.
Sidney immediately looked for a wedding ring. He couldn't help it. His eyes went straight to your left hand, searching for that tell-tale band of silver or gold. But there was nothing. No ring. Which didn't necessarily mean anything. Maybe you just didn't wear it. Maybe you were divorced. Maybe–
Your body language could be telling him everything he needed to know. The way you held yourself, like you were expecting him to attack. Like you didn't trust him.
He moved toward you, hands out. "Let me help."
"I've got it," you said, not even looking at him.
"At least let me carry the car seat."
"I said I've got it."
He opened the rear door of his car anyway, standing there uselessly as you maneuvered the car seat into place with one hand, the sleeping kid still balanced on your hip. You were good at it. You buckled the seat in, checked it twice, and then carefully settled the little boy into it. He stirred slightly, made a small noise, but didn't wake up.
Sidney just stood there like an idiot, watching. Feeling completely out of his depth.
You straightened up, brushed your hands on your jeans, and finally looked at him. "Can we go?"
"Yeah. Yeah, of course."
He closed the door for you, walked around to the driver's side, and got in. You slid into the passenger seat but you sat as far from him as you could get.
The car ride was the most awkward of his life.
It was quiet. So quiet he could hear every breath you took, every small shift of your body. You weren't saying anything. He wasn't saying anything. He glanced at the kid in the rearview mirror. He was cute. Really cute. The kind of kid Sidney would have wanted if things had been different. If you'd stayed. If he hadn't lost you.
Sidney tried to make small talk, because the silence was killing him and he needed to hear your voice again, needed some kind of connection to you.
"So," he said, keeping his eyes on the road. "How have you been?"
"Fine," you said, not looking at him.
"Good. That's good. I'm glad."
More silence.
"My parents had a gathering a few days ago," he tried again. "For the Cup. Mike was there. A few of our other friends. I was... I was hoping to see you there, actually."
You finally turned to look at him, your expression unreadable. "I saw Mike at the grocery store the other day."
He wasn't sure why you were telling him that, but he appreciated it more than the silence. "Oh. He, uh, he didn't mention it."
"Good," you said, and turned back to the window.
Sidney frowned. "Why is that good?"
You didn't answer. Just shrugged.
"Where am I taking you?" he asked after another stretch of silence.
"My parents' place."
He was surprised they'd stayed in the same place. He'd half expected them to move, to follow you wherever you ended up. But apparently not. "I know where that is."
Of course he did. He knew it like he knew the way to his own house. How many times had he driven there, picked you up for dates, dropped you off after games? How many nights had he snuck over, tapped on your window, climbed up to your room?
"Did you stay around too?" he asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
"No," you said flatly.
"Where'd you go?"
You hesitated, like you didn't want to tell him, but then relented. "Halifax."
Halifax. So close. Just twenty minutes away. You'd been that close this whole time, and he had no idea.
"What do you do now?" he asked. "Did you end up going to school?"
Another moment of quiet. "I'm a hairdresser."
"That's great," he said, and he meant it. You'd always been good at that stuff. "That's really great. I'm happy for you."
You didn't respond.
"I haven't got the chance to cut mine yet," he said, reaching up to touch his hair. It was getting long, starting to curl at the ends. "It's getting pretty shaggy."
You hummed and didn't bother to look at him. Sid tried not to let the rejection sting. He glanced in the rearview mirror again, at the little boy sleeping peacefully in the backseat.
"Does your son like hockey?" he asked, and then immediately corrected himself. "Is he yours? Sorry, I shouldn't assume."
You finally looked at him and there was something mean in your eyes. "Yes, he's mine. And yes, he likes hockey. Unfortunately."
Unfortunately. Like it was a bad thing. Hockey's great, at least you used to think so.
"Do you guys watch together?" Sidney asked, curious despite himself.
"No," you said shortly. "He just plays."
"Oh. That's cool. How old did you say he was?"
"I didn't say."
"Right. Sorry." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to think of something else to say. "He looks like you."
You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Everyone thinks he looks like his dad."
"No, no, he looks like you."
The little guy didn't, not really. But Sidney didn't know what else to say.
"Sure," you said, clearly not believing him.
The kid stirred in the backseat, making a small whimpering sound. "Mama?"
Your whole demeanor changed instantly. "Go back to sleep, baby," you said gently.
"Papa?" the kid mumbled, still half asleep.
"Papa's at home, sweetheart. We'll see him soon."
Papa. Right. Of course. The kid's dad was waiting at home for you. Waiting for his family to come back from wherever you'd been. Sidney had no right to feel jealous, no right to feel anything, and yet.
"Papa," he said softly, almost to himself.
"My dad," you clarified, glancing at him. "Beau's grandfather."
Beau. Beau… What a great name. French, he thinks? It sounds French.
He shouldn't have asked. He knew he shouldn't. But the words were out before he could stop them. "What about his dad?"
"Don't play dumb Sidney. You don't do it well."
"What? I'm not–"
"Yes, you are," you cut him off, turning to look at him fully now. "You're sitting there acting like you don't know and it's insulting."
Sidney's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "I genuinely don't know what you're talking about."
"Right. Sure."
"I'm serious!"
You shook your head, looking away. "Unbelievable."
Sidney didn't know what to say. He felt like he was missing something, like there was some context he didn't have. Was Mike the father? Is that why Mike had been avoiding him? Had something happened between you and Mike after Sidney left, and that's why you hated him now?
He wasn't sure how to say anything without sounding like a jealous asshole. Because whoever the guy was, he was probably the reason Sidney had lost you. There was some guy, someone better than him, someone who'd managed to take you away and turn you against Sidney. Someone who'd been there when Sidney wasn't, who'd swept in and made you forget about everything you'd had together. And then that same guy had left you hurting, left you alone with this little boy to raise by yourself. But you’d been able to move on in ways he’d never been able to, and the proof was in the backseat.
But Sidney would have taken care of him. Would have taken care of both of you, if you'd just let him. If you'd just told him what was going on, if you'd given him a chance. He would've done everything for you.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, because he didn't know what else to say.
"You're not sorry.”
"I am."
"No, you're not."
"Yes, I am!" His voice rose slightly. "I'm sorry that–"
You shook your head, cutting him off mid-sentence like you couldn't even stand to hear him talk.
"What?" he demanded. "What is it?"
"I just don't understand this whole bit you're doing," you said.
"This!" you gestured at him, at the car, at the space between you. "This whole innocent act. This 'I don't know what you're talking about' thing. It's beneath you."
"I'm not doing a bit," Sidney said, his voice tight. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You disappeared four years ago and I've spent every day since then wondering what the hell happened."
"I disappeared?" you said. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
"Yes! You disappeared! One day we were fine, we were good, and then you were just gone. Your mom told me not to call, and I tried anyway, and you never picked up. Never looked for me. Never gave me any kind of explanation."
"Because you told me not to!"
"What?"
"You told me not to contact you," you said, and your voice was shaking now. "You made it very fucking clear that you wanted nothing to do with me."
"I never said that," Sidney said, his heart pounding. "I would never say that."
"You did. In your text."
"What text? I have no idea what you’re saying to me right now."
"Then who the fuck texted me back, Sidney?" you demanded, your voice getting louder. "Because someone did. Someone responded to my message and told me–" You stopped, your jaw clenching.
"Told you what?" Sidney pressed. "What did they say?"
You looked away, out the window, your hands balled into fists in your lap. "It doesn't matter."
"It clearly matters!"
"No, it doesn't. Because whether it was you or someone else its all the same. You didn't want me. You didn't want–" Your voice cracked, and you stopped.
Sidney felt like his world was spinning the wrong way. "I always wanted you. Always. I never stopped wanting you."
"Don't," you said sharply. "Do not sit there and lie to me."
"I'm not lying!"
"You are! You have to be, because then–" You stopped again, shaking your head violently. "No. I'm not doing this. I'm not letting you make yourself feel better."
"I'm not trying to do anything," Sidney said desperately. "I'm trying to understand what happened. Because something happened and I need to know what it was."
"What happened," you said slowly, "is that I needed you. And you weren't there. End of story."
"When? When did you need me?"
"During the draft," you said, and there were tears in your eyes now. "I texted you during the draft. I told you it was important. I told you we needed to talk."
Sidney's chest felt tight. "I never got any text from you."
"Someone responded," you insisted. "Someone with your number told me–" You stopped, biting your lip hard enough that Sid worried you'd draw blood.
"Told you what?" he asked again, softer this time.
You took a shaky breath. "Told me to take care of it. Told me you weren't ready. Told me not to contact you again."
"Take care of what?"
You laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. "Are you really going to make me say it?"
"Say what? I don't–" And then it hit him. "Oh my God," he breathed.
Sidney turned in his seat, looking back at Beau. Not just a quick glance, but at everything. The shape of his nose. The shape of his jaw. The way his hair fell across his forehead. And suddenly, he could see it. Could see himself in this little boy's face.
"He's mine," Sidney said.
"Congratulations. Only took you four years to figure it out."
"But I didn't– I never–" Sid couldn't form a complete sentence. His brain was trying to make it make sense. "You said someone texted you back. What did they say exactly?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes! It fucking matters!"
You flinched at his tone, and he immediately felt guilty. But he couldn't stop now, couldn't let this go.
"Tell me what the text said," he said, forcing himself to stay calm. "Please."
You were quiet for a long moment, staring at your hands. When you finally spoke, your voice was barely above a whisper. "It said you couldn't do it. That you weren't ready to be a dad. That we were done."
Sidney felt sick like he might throw up right there in the car. "I never said that. I would never say that."
"Someone did."
"But it wasn't me!"
"Then who, Sidney?"
His phone had gone missing in Ottawa. Anyone could have taken it. Anyone could have seen your text and responded. But who would do that? Who would be cruel enough to destroy his relationship, to tell you he didn't want his own child?
"I don't know," he said helplessly. "But I'm going to find out."
"It's been four years, Sidney. What does it matter now?"
"It matters because I have a son," he said, and his voice broke on the last word. "I have a son and I didn't know."
"You told me to get rid of him," you said, and tears had started streaming down your face. "You told me you didn't want him."
"That wasn't me!" Sidney was shouting now, couldn't help it.
"How am I supposed to believe that?" you shot back. "How am I supposed to believe anything you say when all I have is your word against a text message I kept for four fucking years?"
Sidney froze. "You kept it?"
"Of course I kept it."
"Can I see it?" Sid asked. "Please. I need to see it."
"Why? So you can deny it some more? Tell me it's fake?"
"No. So I can figure out who did this to us. Because someone did and I need to know who."
You stared at him like you were trying to decide whether to believe him. Finally, you shook your head. "I don't have it with me. It's at home.”
"Then I'll come with you. Tomorrow. Tonight. Whenever. I just need to see it."
"No," you said firmly. "You're not coming to my home."
"Then bring it to me. Or take a picture of it. Something. Please."
You wished you didn't still feel things about him or about your situation. You wished that the anger you felt was genuine anger and not just you trying to defend yourself from old feelings. But sitting in his car you could feel all of it coming back. The way your heart had raced when he'd smile at you. The way his hand had felt in yours. The way he'd kiss you goodnight on your porch. The way you'd loved him so completely that you'd thought nothing could ever break you apart.
And then something had.
You didn't really care for him trying to save his own ass. That's what this was, right? Some attempt to absolve himself of the guilt he should have been carrying for four years. Because he was the one who missed out. He missed out on the life of one incredible little boy. The first smile, the first laugh, the first time Beau had grabbed your finger with his tiny hand and held on like you were his whole world. The sleepless nights and the early mornings and the million little moments that made up a childhood. He'd missed all of it, and that was his loss. Not yours.
So really, you didn't believe his whole "lost phone" excuse. It was convenient, wasn't it? Blaming it on a missing phone. Like phones just sent messages on their own, typed out cruel words and hit send without anyone's help. Maybe he had some kind of memory issues, some way of compartmentalizing the shitty things he'd done so he could sleep at night. But phones didn't just fucking send messages without being typed out and sent by someone.
He'd sent it. You knew he had. No matter what he said now, no matter how convincing he sounded, you knew.
You just wanted to go to your parents' house and forget about him again. Forget about this conversation, forget about the way he'd looked at Beau, forget about the desperation in his voice. There was nothing more for the two of you. It was done, it was over. It had been over for four years.
But Sid didn't think so.
He'd just found out that there was this whole living, breathing child who was half of him. A child with his eyes and his hair and probably his love for hockey. And the love of his life, the girl he'd never been able to forget, believed that he'd willingly abandoned them both. That he'd told her to get rid of their baby and then cut her out of his life like she'd never mattered.
Despite how much he wanted to just make you feel better, despite how much it killed him to see you in pain, he wasn't going to own up to something he didn't do. He couldn't. Because it would be a lie, and lying to you now would only make everything worse. You could be angry with him about that, could hate him for refusing to give you the closure you thought you needed, but he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't take responsibility for something he hadn't done.
The car finally came to a stop in your parents' driveway, and you could see lights on inside the house. Your mom's silhouette passing by the window, probably waiting up for you. Your dad would be in there too, ready to help with Beau, ready to make sure you were okay. You needed to go. Needed to get Beau inside, needed to put some distance between yourself and Sidney before you said something you'd regret. Or worse, before you started believing him.
But leaving hurt. Because for a few minutes there, sitting in his car, talking to him, it had almost felt like old times. Like you were a teenager again and he was the boy you loved and everything was simple. Except nothing was simple. Nothing had been simple since the day you'd peed on that pregnancy test and watched those two lines appear.
Sidney was so fucking confused. He had all these questions and you had answers. You'd lived through it, survived it, built a life out of what he'd apparently left behind. And despite everything, despite your anger and your hurt and your very justified desire to never speak to him again, a part of you wanted to answer those questions. But only because you felt eighteen again. Eighteen and ready to explain things, ready to make him understand, as long as he stayed. As long as he didn't leave you behind again.
You'd lost so much time too. Time you could have spent with the boy you loved, making the life you'd dreamed about. Instead, you'd spent it alone, raising his child because you were convinced he wanted nothing to do with either of you.
"Can I see you again?" Sidney asked suddenly.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"I need to know him. I need to– I need to understand what happened. Please."
"Sidney–"
"I understand if you can't," he continued quickly. "I understand if this is too much. But I just found out I have a son. I can't just walk away from that. I won't."
"We're only staying at my parents' for the night. My dad will probably drive me and Beau home in the morning."
His face fell, but he nodded. "Okay. Okay. Can I– can I just have five minutes? Tomorrow morning, before you leave? Just five minutes to see him. To talk to you. That's all I'm asking."
Five minutes. It sounded so simple but you knew it wouldn't be just five minutes.
"I'm going to figure it all out for you," Sidney said when you didn't respond. "I promise. I'm going to find out who sent that text, and I'm going to prove to you that it wasn't me. I'm going to make it all better."
You stared at him, at the determination in his eyes, and felt like jumping at the opportunity. Because he sounded so sincere, so desperate to fix this, and a part of you wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that maybe there had been some terrible misunderstanding. But you couldn't let yourself go there. Couldn't let yourself hope because hope was a dangerous thing. Hope would destroy you.
You didn't respond to his promise either because what was there to say? That you'd heard it all before? That promises meant nothing to you anymore?
"Do you have a better idea?" Sidney asked like he needed you to give him something, anything, to work with.
You looked at him and for a second there you were back in his car four years ago, sitting in your driveway after a date, not wanting the night to end. He'd asked you then if you had any ideas for what you wanted to do the next day, and you'd suggested driving out to the beach, just the two of you. And he'd smiled and said that sounded perfect, and you'd kissed him goodnight and gone inside feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.
"I did once," you said quietly, and your voice broke on the last word.
That's when you couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't sit in his car with him, couldn't keep having this conversation, couldn't keep feeling things you'd spent four years trying not to feel. You grabbed the door handle and pushed it open. Beau was stirring in the backseat, making small sleepy sounds, and you needed to get him inside. Needed to get away from Sidney and his questions and his promises and his goddamn face.
You got out of the car in shaky legs, and went around to the back door. Beau was blinking sleepily, his hair messy, his cheeks flushed.
"Mama?" he mumbled, reaching for you.
"I've got you, baby," you said, unbuckling him from his car seat. "We're at Nana and Papa's house."
"Papa?" he perked up slightly at that.
"Yeah, Papa's inside. He's probably got cookies waiting for you."
That got a small smile, and you lifted him out of the seat, settling him on your hip. He was getting so big, so heavy, but you held him close anyway. You grabbed the car seat with your free hand and kicked the car door shut with your foot.
Sidney watched you go, the voice in his head screaming at him to follow. To get out of the car and walk up to that house and demand answers. Demand to meet his son properly, to hold him, to know him. Demand that you let him fix this, let him prove that he wasn't the monster you thought he was.
But he stayed in the car. Because he knew if he followed you now, he'd only be hurting you more.
He watched as you reached the porch, as the door opened and light spilled out. Your mom appeared and she reached for Beau immediately. You handed him over, said something Sidney couldn't hear, and then your dad appeared too. He put a hand on your shoulder, gave you a look that was equal parts worry and anger, and Sidney knew that you were telling them.
Your dad's eyes found Sid’s car, narrowed slightly, and Sidney felt himself shrink under that gaze. Your dad had always been protective of you, had always made it clear that Sidney better treat you right or else.
The door closed, and you were gone. Inside with your family, with your son, in a world that didn't include him.
He needed to figure out who did this. He needed to fix this. Had to fix this. Because that little boy deserved to know that his dad did want him, had always wanted him, even if he hadn't known he existed. And you deserved to know the truth. Deserved to know that you hadn't been abandoned, that you hadn't been unloved. That every day for the past four years, Sidney had thought about you, missed you, loved you.
Even if you never believed him. Even if you never forgave him. You deserved to know.
"the world belongs to you
they all say you're a light; all I see is a shadow"
warnings: language. mentions of sexual relations. underage relationship. teen pregnancy. abandonment.
summary: you're sure you'll never forgive him for what he did to you, he'll do anything to make it right with you.
request: yes
song: willing and able - noah kahan
word count: 6.2k
a/n: well here's part one!!!!! i hope you guys like it and i hope it makes up for the two month absence :((( i missed you guys and will be back to posting regularly!!! also i won't upload the request for this one yet because it'll spoil the build up and the ending!
part one | next part
—
You were fifteen when you first thought you experienced love. He was fifteen too, and you both seemed so sure. You'd met at a rink, because of course you did. Cole Harbour wasn't that big, and everyone knew everyone, and Sidney Crosby was already the boy everyone talked about. The one who was going somewhere. The one who was special.
But when you were fifteen, he wasn't Sidney Crosby future NHL superstar. He was just Sid. The boy who held your hand during movies and bought you hot chocolate after his games. The boy who’d talk about hockey for hours if you let him. And you'd let him, because you loved watching him love something that much. You thought maybe one day he'd love you like that too.
Then you were sixteen, and you felt it was love. He'd kiss you goodnight on your parents' porch, and you'd go inside and giggle about him on the phone with your friends like some lovesick idiot. Your friends would tease you about it and you didn't even care. You went to every single one of his games, screamed yourself hoarse in the stands, and he'd find you afterward and pull you into a hug that made everything else just vanish.
Then you were seventeen, and you knew it was love. Because seventeen was the year you were really put to the test. He'd gotten drafted into the QMJHL, was playing for Rimouski, and suddenly there was distance between you. Not just physical distance, but he was chasing something bigger then and sometimes you felt like you were fighting for scraps of his attention. But when he came home, god, when he came home it was like nothing else mattered. He'd show up at your door at odd hours and you'd sneak him up to your room and just lie there with him. He'd tell you about the games, about the pressure, about how scared he was sometimes that he'd mess it all up. And you'd tell him he wouldn't, that he was brilliant, that he was going to do incredible things. You believed it with your whole heart.
You also started having sex that year. Clumsy teenage sex that was so awkward and also so amazing. You tried to be safe, you really did. Condoms most of the time, pulled from his wallet or your bedside drawer with shaking hands. But sometimes you got careless. Sometimes you didn't think, didn't stop, just fell into it like you were drowning and didn't care. And it felt like love, it felt like forever, so what did it matter?
And then you were eighteen, and you knew it was all make believe.
You were barely an adult and fully 100% pregnant. The test sat on the edge of your bathroom sink, those two pink lines unforgiving against the plastic. You'd taken three of them just to be sure and they all said the same thing. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. The word didn't even feel real at first.
Sidney was in Ottawa. The draft was happening and you were home staring at a positive pregnancy test. The timing couldn't have been worse. You knew that. You knew you should wait, should tell him in person, should give him time to process before dropping a bomb on him. But you were eighteen and terrified and you needed him. You needed him to tell you it was going to be okay, that you'd figure it out together, that he still loved you.
So you texted him from your clunky little phone. You don't even remember exactly what you said. Something like, "We need to talk. It's important. Call me when you can." And then, because you couldn't help yourself, because the fear was eating you alive, you sent another one. "I'm pregnant."
You watched the draft with your parents that night. They sat on the couch and you curled up in the armchair. You heard Sidney's name called, first overall to the Pittsburgh Penguins, and your dad whooped and your mom clapped and you smiled and said something about how exciting it was. And the whole time, your phone sat silent in your pocket.
He didn't call or text that night. You told yourself he was busy, that it was the biggest night of his life, that of course he couldn't drop everything to call you. But a cruel voice in the back of your head told you that maybe he just didn't want to. That maybe you'd finally asked for too much.
The text came two days later. You were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the nausea that had been plaguing you all morning. Your phone buzzed, and your heart leapt. Finally. Finally, he was going to call, going to tell you he loved you, that you'd get through this.
But it wasn't a call. It was a text. And it was the meanest thing you'd ever read in your life.
Sid: Do not do this to me.
Sid: I'm not ready to be a dad.
Sid: You need to take care of it.
Sid: Don't contact me again. We're done.
The words didn't make sense. They couldn't make sense, because this wasn't Sidney. This wasn't the boy who held your hand and kissed your forehead and told you he loved you. This was some stranger, some cold unfeeling stranger who didn't give a shit about you or the baby you were carrying.
You tried to call him. Of course you did. But it went straight to voicemail. You called again. And again. And again, until your hands were shaking so badly you could barely hold the phone. Nothing. He didn't pick up. Didn't call back. Didn't send another text.
You tried to convince yourself he was just freaking out. That he was overwhelmed, that the draft and the pressure and everything had gotten to him, and he'd come around. He'd apologize, and you'd probably make him beg for your forgiveness, and then you'd figure it out together. You had to believe that. But the days turned into weeks, and your phone stayed silent.
It was like you'd ceased to exist. Like the last three years, all those nights whispering secrets in the dark, all those promises of forever, had meant absolutely nothing. You knew that it was over. That it should have been over the second he sent you that text. But you were eighteen and heartbroken and you kept hoping. Kept making excuses for him. Maybe his phone was broken. Maybe he lost your number. Maybe someone else had sent that text as a joke. Stupid, desperate thoughts that you clung to. You knew what you'd done was stupid. You knew you should have been more careful, should have used protection every single time, should have been smarter. But you'd thought it was love. You'd thought love was enough.
On the night of September 21st, the night of Sid's first preseason game with Pittsburgh you had this moment of clarity. You were sitting in your room, ten weeks pregnant and entirely alone, and you finally let yourself admit the truth. It was over. He'd left you pregnant and in the dust for his career. He truly cared so little about you that he couldn't even be bothered to call, to check if you were okay, to ask what you'd decided. You were nothing to him. You'd never been anything to him.
You pulled out your phone and read those last messages over and over again until you memorized the words.
Then you took the phone apart, you pried out the SIM card, and destroyed it. You used a hammer from your dad's toolbox, smashing it against your bedroom floor until it was nothing but tiny, unrecognizable pieces. He'd never get in touch with you again. Ever. You'd made sure of it.
Then you gathered up everything. Every single thing he'd ever left in your room. His Rimouski hoodie that you slept in. The stuffed penguin he'd won for you at a carnival. The pictures of the two of you, grinning and happy and so fucking naive. The mixtape he'd made you, full of songs that would probably make you cry now. The phone, then a useless piece of shit. All of it went into a garbage bag that you shoved into the back of your closet where you wouldn't have to look at it.
That was the night you told your parents.
You found them in the living room, your dad reading the paper and listening to the radio coverage of the game, your mom watching some cooking show. They looked up when you came in, and you must have looked like hell because your mom's face immediately shriveled with concern.
"Sweetheart? What's wrong?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "I need to tell you something."
Your dad put down his paper. "Okay."
"I'm pregnant."
Your mom's hand flew to her mouth. Your dad just stared at you. They said nothing to you for what felt like 10 minutes but you could feel how disappointed in you or maybe ashamed of you they were.
"How far along?" your mom asked finally.
"Ten weeks."
"And Sidney?" your dad said, and there was something in his voice you'd never heard before.
You swallowed hard. "He doesn't want anything to do with it. With me. He told me to... to take care of it. And then he blocked my number."
"That goddamn kid," he muttered, and then louder, "I'm going to kill him."
"Dad... Please. It doesn't matter anymore."
"It does matter," your mom said, and she was crying then. "Oh, baby. I'm so sorry. This is... are you keeping it?"
Were you? You hadn't let yourself think that far ahead. But now, with your parents looking at you you realized you didn't have a choice. Not really.
"I um," you said. "I think so."
Your dad was the quietest he'd ever been in your life after that. The radio, the one that had been a constant presence in your house for as long as you could remember, never turned on again. Not for hockey games, not for anything. He shut it off and that was that.
Your mom, on the other hand, was convinced it was all just a big misunderstanding. "Maybe he didn't get your texts," she'd say. "Maybe his phone really is broken. Maybe someone's doing this. You should try to reach out again, sweetie. I'm sure he'd want to know."
But you didn't because deep down, you knew. He knew. He just didn't care.
Those nine months might have been the worst of your life. You were so lonely. So, so lonely. You had no one. Your friends had all left for college, scattering across the country to start their new lives, and you were stuck in Cole Harbour with a growing belly and a broken heart. You didn't go out. You couldn't stand the thought of people seeing you, of them whispering about you, about how Sidney Crosby got you pregnant and left. About how stupid you'd been to think he'd actually stay.
So you stayed home. You did the appointments, the ones your mom drove you to because you didn't trust yourself behind the wheel when the nausea was that bad. You took the prenatal vitamins she handed you every morning with a glass of orange juice. You did all the prenatal fuckery, the classes and the breathing exercises and the reading about what to expect. All of it. No matter how fucking embarrassed and terribly sad you were.
Embarrassed because you were pregnant by the community hero. By the kid everyone in Cole Harbour was so proud of, the one who'd made it, who was living the dream. And he got to continue on his merry way, playing hockey and winning games and being celebrated, while you were stuck, growing his baby and trying not to lose your mind. Embarrassed because you'd thought you meant more to him than you did. You'd thought you were special, that what you had was real. But you were just another girl.
And sad. God, you were so sad. Sad for the college you were supposed to go to, the acceptance letter you'd gotten to that turned into just a piece of paper in a drawer. Sad for all the games you were supposed to root for Sidney in, all the times you'd imagined yourself in the stands, wearing his jersey, cheering him on. Sad for all the calls and texts you were supposed to share, the late night conversations and the "I love yous" and the plans for the future. Sad for the life you were supposed to have, the one where you weren't a teen mom struggling to figure out how to even change a diaper. Sad for the fact that you'd fucked it all up by being a reckless teenager who thought love was enough.
You gave birth on a rainy afternoon in April. Your mom was there, holding your hand and whispering encouragements, and your dad was in the waiting room because he couldn't handle seeing you in pain. The labor was brutal and by the time they placed the baby on your chest, you were so exhausted you could barely keep your eyes open.
"It's a boy," the nurse said, smiling. "Congratulations, mama."
A boy. You had a son. You looked down at him, at his tiny scrunched up face and his dark hair, and the worst part was that it all felt like it was for nothing. You didn't feel the rush of love everyone had promised you. You didn't feel that overwhelming maternal instinct, that immediate connection. You just felt empty. And then guilty for feeling empty.
"Have you thought of a name?" your mom asked, smoothing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.
You had. You'd thought of a hundred names, written them down in a notebook and crossed them all out. But there was one that kept coming back, one that Sidney had thrown out there once. You'd been lying in his bed, his hand on your stomach even though there was no baby there yet, and he'd said, "If we ever have a kid, we should name him Beau. It means handsome in French, right? And he'd be handsome, just like his dad."
You'd laughed and told him he was ridiculous. But now, looking at your son, you couldn't think of him as anything else.
"Beau," you said quietly. "His name is Beau."
Your mom smiled, though her eyes were wet. "That's perfect, sweetheart."
But it didn't feel perfect. Nothing felt perfect. You were a teenager with a baby on your hip, living in your childhood bedroom, and you were so angry all the goddamn time. Angry at Sidney for abandoning you. Angry at yourself for being stupid enough to get pregnant. Angry at Beau, which made you feel like the worst person in the world, but you couldn't help it. You couldn't help resenting this tiny, helpless baby who'd ruined your life.
You couldn't connect with him. You fed him and changed him and rocked him when he cried, but it felt like you were going through the motions. Your mom did most of the work, cooing over Beau and cuddling him and doing all the things you felt like you should be doing but couldn't. Your dad, who'd been so quiet during the pregnancy, came alive around Beau. He'd hold him for hours, talking to him in this soft voice you'd never heard before, and Beau became his best friend.
And you felt like you were drowning. Like you'd dug yourself into this hole and you couldn't claw your way out. You felt like a terrible mother like you were failing at the one thing you were supposed to be good at. You turned nineteen with a baby. Your mom made a cake, your dad sang happy birthday, and Beau slept through the whole thing. You blew out the candles and didn't make a wish, because what was the point?
Those first eleven months of his life were even harder. Harder than the pregnancy, harder than the labor, harder than anything. You were exhausted all the time, running on maybe three hours of sleep a night. Beau cried constantly, and you didn't know how to soothe him. You'd walk him around your room at two in the morning, bouncing him and shushing him and begging him to please, please just sleep. And sometimes you'd cry too because you didn't know what you were doing and you felt so alone.
But then Beau turned one. Your mom threw him a little party, just the four of you, and he sat in his high chair and smashed his face into a cupcake and laughed. And then he looked at you, frosting all over his face, and started babbling. "Mamamama."
It wasn't his first word. He'd been babbling nonsense for weeks. But this was different. This was on purpose. "Mamamama." He reached for you, his chubby little hands opening and closing, and somehow everything made sense.
You picked him up, and he wrapped his arms around your neck and buried his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since he was born, you felt that all consuming love everyone had told you about.
"Hi, baby," you whispered, and your voice broke. "Hi, Beau."
He pulled back and grinned at you and you started crying. Just full on sobbing, holding your son and crying because you'd wasted so much time being angry when you should have been loving him. Because he was perfect. He was so perfect, and he was yours, and he looked at you with this pure adoration that you didn't deserve but were going to spend the rest of your life trying to earn.
That was when you knew you needed to get your life back on track. If not for yourself, then for him. For this little boy who looked at you like you hung the moon, even though you'd spent that first year barely holding it together.
You were twenty when you left Cole Harbour. Your parents were reluctant at first, worried about you being on your own with a toddler, but they did their best to support you. Your dad helped you move into a nice place in Halifax, carrying boxes up three flights of stairs while Beau toddled around getting in the way. Your mom stocked your fridge and your pantry, filling it with more food than two people could possibly eat.
"You call if you need anything," she said, hugging you tight. "Anything at all, okay?"
"I will, Mom. I promise."
And you meant it. But you also meant to prove that you could do this. That you could be a good mom, could build a life for you and Beau that didn't involve hiding in your childhood bedroom and drowning in regret.
Halifax wasn't far. Maybe a twenty minute drive from home, close enough that your parents could visit all the time, but far enough that you felt like your own person. You got a job at a salon, starting as a receptionist and then slowly picking up skills. You watched the other stylists, asked questions, practiced on mannequin heads. You got certified, took the classes and passed the tests, and suddenly you had a career. You were making your own living. A good living, enough to pay rent and buy groceries and put a little aside for savings. You and Beau had your own place that you decorated with secondhand furniture and pictures of the two of you.
By the time you were twenty one, you had it mostly figured out. You had your job, your apartment, your little support system. Beau had his daycare, this bright, cheerful place where he made friends and learned his ABCs and came home covered in paint and glitter. You had your coworkers, who became friends, who invited you out for drinks and listened when you needed to vent. You had your parents, who visited every weekend and spoiled Beau rotten. You had a routine. Drop Beau off at daycare, work your shift at the salon, pick him up, make dinner, give him a bath, read him a story, tuck him in. Wake up and do it all over again. It was exhausting but it was what you made of your life.
Of course, sometimes you had to field questions about Sidney. It was inevitable, growing up in the same community. People would see Beau, this little boy with dark hair and color changing eyes and a smile that was just a little too familiar, and they'd ask. "Is his dad from around here?" Or, "He looks just like Sidney Crosby. Are you two related?"
You learned to lie. It was easier than the truth. "Nope, no relation. Just a coincidence." And you'd smile and change the subject, and most people let it drop. Pretending not to know Sidney was easier than admitting what you truly felt. Easier than explaining that yes, Sidney Crosby was Beau's father, and no, he didn't give a shit.
But Beau. God, Beau didn’t make it easy on you. When he started walking he started picking things up and using them as hockey sticks. Anything long and vaguely stick shaped became a stick. Wooden spoons, brooms, wrapping paper tubes. He'd whack at rolled up socks or balled up pieces of paper, giggling and narrating his own play by play in toddler gibberish.
You couldn't exactly take it away from him. What were you supposed to say? "No, baby, you can't play hockey because your dad's a piece of shit and it makes Mommy sad"? That would make you sound insane. This was Canada. This was a community of little kids who grew up loving hockey, who wore Habs jerseys and dreamed of playing in the NHL one day. You couldn't single your son out because of a grudge, no matter how justified that grudge was.
Your dad fucking hated it. Every time Beau picked up a stick, your dad's jaw would clench and he'd find an excuse to leave the room. But he never said anything, because what could he say? Beau was just a kid. Your mom loved it. She'd cheer Beau on, clapping and telling him what a good job he was doing, and you'd stand there feeling like you might be sick.
By the time Beau was two, he had a real mini stick. Your mom bought it for him and he used it like he'd been born holding one, like it was an extension of his body. He'd spend hours in the living room, slapping a foam puck around and laughing.
When he was three, you put him in skates. You didn't want to. God, you really didn't want to. But all his friends from daycare were starting hockey, and Beau begged. "Please, Mama. Please, I wanna play hockey!"
So you signed him up for a learn to skate class, bought him the smallest pair of skates you could find, and watched him wobble around the rink with the other toddlers. He fell. A lot. But he always got back up, always grinning like it was the best thing in the world.
You were both twenty-one. And while you were raising your son, teaching him to tie his skates and reminding him to wear his helmet, Sidney was living out his wildest dreams. He'd just won the Cup, the youngest captain in NHL history to do it, and the whole country was celebrating. You'd seen it on the news, seen the pictures of him hoisting the trophy over his head, seen the interviews where he talked about how incredible it felt.
You tried not to think about it. You tried not to compare your life to his, tried not to wonder what things would've been like if he'd responded differently to that text. If he'd said, "We'll figure it out," instead of, "I don't want anything to do with it." It was hard not to. Especially when Beau started asking questions. "Mama, who's my dad?" And you'd say, "It's just you and me, buddy. That's all we need." And he'd accept it, for now, but you knew eventually that wouldn't be enough.
~
He was twenty-one and winning the Cup was all he ever wanted. Really. To hold those thirty-five pounds of silver and metal over his head after seasons of heartbreak, after being the youngest captain in league history and feeling the weight of an entire franchise on his shoulders. After the think pieces about how maybe he couldn't do it, that maybe he was too young, too inexperienced. After 08 in Detroit when they'd been so close he could taste it, only to have it ripped away. After making it to Game 7 in Detroit again when everything had felt impossible, when his body ached and his lungs burned and he thought maybe this was it, maybe this was the year they fell short again.
But they hadn't. They'd won. He'd won. He wasn't sure he'd ever be as happy as he was in that moment.
But maybe that wasn't the truth.
Because even in the middle of the celebration, even with the Cup in his hands and his teammates screaming his name and the entire city of Pittsburgh losing their minds, there was something missing. Someone missing.
When his guys kissed their girlfriends and their wives, when little ones were in their fathers' arms and spun around, when fiancées jumped into their partners' arms and caught like they weighed nothing, Sidney felt sick. Not jealous, exactly. Hollow was the word for it. Like there was this gaping hole in his chest that no amount of champagne or celebration could fill.
You never left his mind. Even after nearly four years. 3 years, 10 months, and 13 days to be exact, but who was counting? Even after all this time, all this distance, all the silence between you. You were always in his mind. Always in his heart. Always his, even if you weren't anymore.
He wasn't sure what ever happened between you. That was the worst part, the not knowing. His last memory of the two of you was a happy one. He'd been nervous about the draft, about going to Ottawa, about the pressure and the expectations. But you'd been so happy for him, so excited, your eyes bright and your smile wide. You'd kissed him goodbye at your front door, your hands cupping his face, and you'd promised to watch. To cheer for him. To be proud of him no matter what.
And he'd promised to call you. As soon as it was over, as soon as he knew where he was going, he'd call and tell you everything.
He never even got the chance.
He wasn't ever good with his phone. Even now, his teammates gave him shit for it, for leaving it in his locker or his hotel room or the pocket of his suitcase. But it was worse back then, when he was eighteen. He'd gone to Ottawa with his parents, with his rep, with this whole entourage of people who all wanted something from him. And at some point between the airport and the hotel and the extra stuff afterward, he'd just lost it. He wasn't sure if he'd left it at home, if someone had taken it by mistake, if it had fallen out of his pocket in the car. He just knew he couldn't get in contact with you.
And he was wanted everywhere all at once. Interviews, photoshoots, meetings with the Penguins' front office. His camp had a schedule planned down to the minute, and there was no time for anything else. No time to go back home, no time to find a payphone and call you, no time for himself at all.
He told himself he'd make it up to you. That as soon as things calmed down, as soon as he had a second to breathe, he'd find a way to reach out. You'd understand. You always understood.
But if he was being completely honest maybe his pride was a little hurt too. Because you didn't make the effort either. You didn't call him, didn't leave a message with his parents, didn't show up in Pittsburgh when the season started. And a bitter part of him wondered if maybe you'd decided he wasn't worth it. That the distance, the lifestyle, the constant travel and the media attention, was too much. That you'd realized you could do better than some hockey player who was never going to be home.
He couldn't exactly hold it against you. You were both eighteen, just kids really. What did either of you know about long-distance relationships, about the kind of commitment it would take to make it work when he was living in a different city, playing eighty-two games a season plus playoffs, barely keeping his head above water?
And yet.
All he could remember was your mom asking him not to call again.
It had been before his very first NHL game. October 5, 2005. He'd been a mess of nerves, pacing around the Lemiuex family's house in Pittsburgh, trying to remember everything his coaches had told him, trying not to think about how badly he wanted to prove himself. And all he'd wanted, more than anything, was to hear your voice. To know that you were okay, that you were proud of him, that you still cared.
He'd borrowed the landline, dialed your home number with shaking hands, and waited. One ring. Two. Three. And then your mom had picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Mrs.–" He'd barely gotten the words out before she cut him off.
"Sidney."
Her voice had been cold. Colder than he'd ever heard it. Your mom always liked him, had always welcomed him into your house with a smile and a plate of cookies. But that day, she'd sounded like she hated him.
"I, uh, I was wondering if I could talk to–"
"No."
"I just want to make sure she's okay. I haven't heard from her in a while and I–"
"She's fine, Sidney. I think it's best if you don't call here again."
His stomach had dropped. "What? Why? Did I do something? If I did, I can–"
"Goodbye, Sidney."
And she'd hung up. That was the last time he ever even got close to you. He'd tried a few more times over the next couple of weeks, but your mom always answered, always told him the same thing. Don't call again. And eventually, he stopped trying. Because what else could he do? You clearly didn't want to talk to him. And Sidney had a season to focus on, a team that was counting on him, a city that expected him to be their savior.
So he moved on. Or at least, he tried to.
He still kept a photo of you in his wallet. It was stupid, probably. Pathetic, even. But his mom had given it to him during his first real week in Pittsburgh, when he'd been homesick and ready to quit. She'd thought it might remind him of all the good things he still had at home. Thought it might keep him grounded, keep him connected to the person he was before all of this. Thought it might help when he missed you too much.
The photo was from the summer before the draft. The two of you at the beach, your hair windblown and your smile bright, his arm around your shoulders. You were wearing his t-shirt over your swimsuit, an Océanic one, and you looked so happy. So beautiful. So completely, utterly his. He'd meant to take it out at some point. Meant to move on, to date other girls, to let go of whatever the two of you had been. But he never did. Even after all these years, the photo stayed tucked behind his driver's license, creased and worn from how often he looked at it.
He didn't know what else to do.
It was painful keeping it. That love he had for you never faded, never waned. It should have. Four years was a long time. He should have met someone else, fallen for someone else, built a life with someone who was actually there. But he hadn't because every girl he met, he compared to you. Every date felt like a pale imitation of what he'd had. And none of them measured up.
It made him dream the silliest of dreams for a guy his age. Dreams of a life the two of you had talked about when you were young and dumb and he was dumb enough to hope for. You'd lie in his bed in his parents' house, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm, and you'd talk about the future like it was a guarantee.
"When you make the NHL, I'll come to every home game," you'd said once.
"Just the home games?"
"Okay, fine. Every game. I'll be your biggest fan."
"You already are."
"And we'll get a dog," you'd continued, ignoring him. "A big one. A golden retriever, maybe. Or a husky."
"Can we name it something cool? Not, like, Spot or Buddy."
"We'll name it something ridiculous. Like Mr. Pickles."
He'd laughed so hard he'd almost choked on his spit. "Mr. Pickles?"
"Or we could go the other way. Something tough. Like Killer."
"Killer the golden retriever."
"Exactly."
"I love you," he'd said, and he'd meant it with his whole heart.
"I love you too, Sid."
Now he didn't know anything about you. If you'd gone to school like you'd planned, if you were still in Nova Scotia or if you'd moved somewhere else. If you'd found someone else to love, someone who could actually be there for you, who didn't spend half the year on the road. He mostly hoped that you were happy. That whatever had happened between the two of you, you'd landed on your feet. That you were living the life you deserved.
But selfishly, bringing the Cup home, he maybe hoped that he'd see you somewhere in the crowd of people. He knew it wasn't realistic. Cole Harbour wasn't that small, and you'd probably moved on, probably didn't even think about him anymore. But still.
Like he had this big shiny thing he wanted to show you. Look, he wanted to say. Look what I did. Look what we dreamed about, and I made it happen. Aren't you proud?
And he had his dog, Samantha. Sam. He'd gotten her a couple of years ago, this sweet, goofy yellow lab who went everywhere with him in the off-season. She wasn't Mr. Pickles or Killer, but she was perfect. He thought you'd like her. Thought maybe you'd laugh at the way Sam got excited over nothing, the way she'd bring him her toy and drop it at his feet and lick his knee until he threw it.
Honestly, he had nothing else to offer you but those two things. The Cup and Sam. His entire world, condensed into thirty-five pounds of metal and sixty pounds of dog. It felt like nothing. But it was all he had.
He thought maybe you'd want to hold the Cup. Everyone did. It was tradition, passing it around, letting people drink out of it and take pictures with it. He could see it so clearly in his mind, you standing next to it, your hand on the silver, your smile soft. Maybe you'd want to know what it felt like, to hold something he'd worked his whole life for.
Maybe you'd like how long his hair was now. It was longer than it had been when he was a teenager, curling at the ends, brushing his ears. You'd always liked it a little longer, used to run your fingers through it when you kissed him, tugging gently when he'd kiss down your neck. "Don't cut it too short," you'd say, and he never did.
Maybe you'd surprise him at his parents' house for the get-together. They were throwing this thing for him, inviting half of Cole Harbour, it seemed like. Friends, family, neighbors, people he barely knew but who wanted to celebrate with him. His mom had been planning it for weeks. And Sidney kept thinking that maybe you'd show up. That someone would invite you, or you'd hear about it and decide to come, and he'd turn around and there you'd be.
Maybe you could catch up. He'd ask you about school, about work, about your life. And you'd ask him about Pittsburgh, about the season, about what it felt like to win. And maybe, if he was really lucky, you'd smile at him the way you used to. Like he was the only person in the room. Like he mattered.
Maybe you could make up. He didn't even know what you'd be making up for, what had happened to drive you apart, but he'd apologize anyway. For not calling, for losing his phone, for not trying harder. For whatever he'd done to make you walk away.
Maybe he could just do something. Anything. He’d fix it, he was sure of it.
ovechkin x injured!pwhl!reader x malkin who go on a trip during the olympic break to finally get some rest but get in over their heads and come back as more than friends…?
or am i delusional and need to get some sleep?
already starting to write this, we all need to be okay with a lot of things very quickly.
pairing; nathan mackinnon x unnamed (female) reader.
summary; nate is married to reader who is gabe's childhood bestfriend but they are not in love. or so they think. why are they married? who knows.
part 12: glimpse of their lives (2k words). / masterlist.
notes: this is the end of the main story. thank you so much for reading, however imperfect this story is. i appreciate all of the reblogs, likes, follows so so much. love you. <3
Truthfully, Nathan doesn't know what happened. Or, what went wrong.
One day, he is feeling okay, he has made peace with the fact that off season has started earlier than he expected this year. Having someone else occupying the house with him made this break feel better than before when all he had previously was his company alone.
This time, he has you.
He has someone else running around inside the house with him and he truly enjoys your presence. He enjoys the fact that every day at 7:00am, he can hear faint sound of whatever classical music through that small gap of your door that is rarely fully shut as you wake up from your sleep.
These past few days, he can still hear the sound. He can still recognize the now-familiar tune of Clair de Lune or Nocturne. But, he doesn't really see you anymore. He only hears, hears and hears. It feels like you are avoiding him and it drives him crazy that he doesn't know if it's on purpose or you are just simply too everywhere and yet nowhere for him to catch the sight of you.
He stares at his phone screen, eyes looking at each of your reply, scrutinizing them as each one seems more distant and colder than the other.
What happened? What went wrong?
He puts his phone down, screen still showing the texts chain between both of you and he rubs his eyes together, somehow still seeing your short texts reply as if they are imprinted onto his eyelids.
Judging by how he can totally recite each word, each line, that would not be a surprise.
He can hear faint sound of you moving upstairs and maybe he should just. Go up, knock on your door, meet you, talk to you and try to make sense and understand whatever it is that is currently happening between both of you.
Nathan gets up from his seat then, leaving his untouched mug of coffee on the kitchen table and makes his way up. Movement so sure, so precise, with one aim in mind. You.
The sight that greets him when he arrives at the front of your door is surely not one that he expects.
You are currently moving around in the room; multiple boxes on the ground, some already sealed close and some are still wide opened, waiting for you to fill them in with whatever. What are you doing?
What are you doing?
Alarmed, he forgets to knock the door and he just walks in and you almost jump in surprise at the sight of him standing inside your room, unannounced and looking so out of place, surrounded by cardboards.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
You repeat his question back to him. "What are you doing? In here?"
He looks around the room, feeling so helpless, resigned, dejected as if the sight of you surrounded with all these boxes are enough to serve as an explanation to all the dry texts that he has been receiving these past few days.
Well, somehow, maybe it is?
"Are you leaving?" he asks again, unsure where should he stands. Can he stand here? Is he in the way? In the way of what, exactly?
The double bed in the middle of the room is surely not a place for him to sit on. The couch-- the two-seater couch. Should he sit there? Could he sit there?
Yeah, he is the one who bought all this furniture but this is your room. His guest room. It's your room. For now.
He feels like he is getting dizzy, feet wobbly and maybe you notice it too when he sees you gesturing him to sit down on the couch.
He walks to the couch and sits down, eyes looking around the room as he tries to take this sight in, tries to understand the unspoken words.
He notices you putting down photo frames inside one of the unsealed box before you join him on the couch, sitting beside him, cross-legged and body angling toward him, just slightly.
"Where are you going?" he asks, question after question after question.
"I'm leaving," you say, so easily, so definitive, so sure.
"Why?" he asks, more questions.
"Why not?"
"You... you live here," he mutters.
"Temporarily," you remind.
Why are you here? Why did you come to Denver? What was the reason that brought you here, into the city, into this house, into his life?
"You work here."
"Also temporary. The job is done," you answer, shoulders shrugging in casual manner as if that is a known fact by him.
"You... I don't think it's a good manner. To just pack your belongings and what? Say goodbye? Leave?"
"Isn't that how people leave?" you question him in return, eyes meeting his for the first time and he sees how tired those eyes look.
It never looks that way. Those pair of eyes are never dull as they are always so sparkling. With giddiness, with excitement, with teasing glint.
What happened? What went wrong?
He pleads. "Talk to me."
"We are talking, Nathan."
He shakes his head, fingers curling into his palm, trying to ground himself to be here, to be in this moment, to not lose you. "What happened?"
"My job is done. I am leaving. Nothing happened except my borrowed time here is up."
"No," he shakes his head again, searching for your eyes once more and it feels so wrong to see them so void of life.
"What happened?" he repeats again, aware that he sounds like a broken record.
"Nothing happened, Nathan. What do you want me to say? I have no reason to stay, my job is done."
"How about me?" he blurts out, desperately. "Our marriage?"
He can hear the venom in your tone when you say, "This marriage is not real. We were not in love."
He can't deny that. Those are the truths. Those were the truths. Well, at least only one of it is true now. The second part-- it is not. For him. It was the truth before.
Right now, it's not.
He is in love. He is very much in love. Present tense. Fact. Truth.
"That is… not true."
You look at him dead in the eyes when you say your next words. "Those were your own words just a few days ago, Nathan MacKinnon."
What?
What?
His mind rewinds the memories all by itself, trying to trace it back, trying to pinpoint the exact moment he said that.
Few days ago. What did he do few days ago? He went out. Had his morning jog around the neighborhood. Bought breakfast. Ate breakfast. In the dining room. Texted Gabe. Had a phone call with Gabe.
Oh. Oh.
"You heard that?"
You shrug, trying to make it look like it doesn't matter, feign nonchalance. "You said nothing but the truth."
Wait.
If you heard him, if you heard the phone call, then you surely hear his next words? You surely hear what he said to Gabriel Landeskog next? The one where he said he is in love with you?
But then, you are being distant. You are being cold.
You are putting this space between both of you and you are packing all of you into boxes and you are leaving.
Is this your way of saying you are not in love with him? Is this your way of showing that you could not and would not return his feeling?
"So, it’s one-sided?"
Another question, piling on top all of these unanswered questions ever since he stepped into the room, ever since you pull back from whatever you both have going on for the past few days, weeks.
You look at him, puzzled, confused and tone no longer poisonous. "What?"
"You heard the phone call?" he says, statement-like tone although it does sound like a question too.
"Yes?" More questions.
"You heard me telling Gabe that I love you?"
"What?" Surprised tone this time, from you.
"I told Gabe that I love you."
"No, you didn't say that."
"I did!" Nathan exclaims.
This is not some brain illusion, false memory thing, isn't it?
He doesn't think so. He is sure he said that. He is sure he said those words and he is sure that Gabriel Landeskog laughed and told him that he knew that, for days, for weeks, for a while now.
Suddenly, your expression turns sheepish and you pull your legs to yourself as you tuck your face into your knee, body folded into this fetus-like shape, hiding yourself from him.
"I didn't hear that," you mumble, voice muffled.
Nathan looks at you curiously. "You don't?"
Soft whine-like sound answers him before your next words do. "I left as soon as I heard you said we were not in love."
"You should have stayed longer."
You peek your head out from your legs, lips pursing. "Eavesdropping is bad!"
"I think it can be excused and forgiven this time," he jokes.
"And, besides," you continue, lips forming a thin line, "I feel like I heard more than enough. You said nothing but the truth, however hurtful it is for me to hear that. This marriage is not real. We were not in love."
"My next words to Gabe were literally about me thinking, assuming that we are both in love. Right now. Currently. Or at least, I am. I am in love with you."
Nathan feels like a non-existent Stanley Cup weight on his shoulders instantly stop weighing him down as soon as he said those words out. Again. Out loud. In front of the person that matters, in front of the person that he should have said it right at the first place.
"I didn't hear those," you mumble, hugging your knees to your chest tighter as your eyes flicker between Nathan's face and your sock-covered feet, unsure where to focus on.
"Is that why you decide to leave? Because you couldn't return my feeling?"
"No!" You answer so quickly, eyes meeting his and you shake your head vehemently.
"No, you could not return my feeling or no, what?" He asks, prodding, asking and asking and asking. More questions.
"English is such a complicated, dumb language," you grumble, leaving the fetus-shape position you were in and shortening the gap between both of you as you enter his space.
Your lips meet his, hoping that it gives better answer than words ever could.
And, somehow, in a way, it does.
The kiss is chaste, full of innocence. No one is moving their lips, there is no further action other than just lips pressing on lips. You can feel his smile against your own and that's enough.
That's more than enough that when you pull back, when you peek your eyes open, you see his eyelashes and his crinkled eyes smile, and he sees your sheepish grin.
"I am in love with you," he says, no more questions piling on top of another questions.
Statement. Definitive.
You are still in his space, knees pressing onto the couch and he is holding onto your elbows gently as a way of support.
"Me too," you confess, eyes full of sparkle again, alive once more. "I love you."
Is it okay to stay in his space? Is it okay to stay inside this imaginary bubble with your eyes meeting his?
Somehow, someway, you move and he moves and you are now in the most comfortable position you have ever been in as he guides you to settle down comfortably on his thighs, on his lap.
Your eyes meet once more and, in this position, you can totally count his eyelashes, you can totally admire the shape of his nose. You hold his cheeks in your palms, soft shuddering breath leaving your body at the realization that you can do this now.
"Will you stay?" he asks, the last question for today, hopeful.
"For as long as you want me to," you answer, so definitive, so sure, leaving no more room for questions, no more space for uncertainty.
THE END????????????????????????????? WHAT DO YOU MEAN?????????????? NONONO im already way to attached to them please 🥹 🥹 🥹 🥹 🥹 🥹 🥹 also its such a beautiful ending :((((((((((((((((((((( he is SO soft and soooooooooooooooooooo in love and i just ugh loved this way too much <33333333 thank you thank you op for this
i'll touch that fire for you, i do what all of them around you scared to do, i'm not
author's note: so i've been sitting on this for a minute and figured today would be the perfect day to post because....IT'S P'S BIRTHDAY! so go wish @thewintersoldierdisaster a happy birthday because she deserves it! (and i'm sorry this is so late, life has been nonstop today).
summary: to be loved is to be defended aka the "nate beats the shit out of the rat" fic (you, me and a baby series)
pairing: nathan mackinnon x reader
warnings: m*tthew tk*chuk, violence
tracy had the hand of your two year old toddler as the three of you made your way down to your seats. while your friend held wyatt’s hand, your own were full of snacks you got under the guise of sharing with your child. there was no telling what the concession stand attendant was initially thinking when you ordered two hot pretzels and a soda, but you thought the twenty-seven week bump you were sporting was enough context for them.
wyatt wore a cute little mackinnon jersey with nate’s number on it. her hair was styled in a way that didn't completely cover her last name, headphones already placed over her little ears. she bounced down the stairs holding tracy’s hand, yanking your friend’s shoulder every now and again until you finally arrived at your seats, holding wyatt in your lap.
the third period started moments later.
you watched from your spot as your husband and his teammates skated down the ice, munching on your pretzel all the while.
“mama, pretzel,” wyatt said, patting your cheek as gently as she could. and because you were a good mother, you pulled a piece off of your pretzel and handed it to her.
“it’s like i’m seeing double right now,” tracy said. you and wyatt glanced at her at the same time. “she's your clone.”
“i’d hope she’d be my clone after i carried her for nine months and pushed her ten pound body out of my vagina,” you said. “if she was nate’s carbon copy, i’d be pissed.”
“for a second, it looked like she would be,” tracy recalled. “but thank god she looks like you.”
you nudged her with an elbow. “nate is handsome! wyatt would be okay if she looked like him.”
“but you're hotter than him.”
“i don't think it’s a competition, trace.”
she shrugged and turned back to the game while you kept peeling pieces of your pretzel off to feed your toddler like a duck at a pond.
wyatt jabbed a finger against the glass as players skated by at an inhumanly fast rate. “dada!”
you couldn't help but laugh because nate was on the bench, staring down his teammates. wyatt couldn't really tell the difference between her dad and his teammates on the ice unless he was right in front of her, and you couldn't blame her. oftentimes, it was his jersey number and your shared last name that clued you in to where he was. wyatt couldn't read yet (despite nathan’s best efforts to get her to win some imaginary competition as the youngest reader on the team) and while she could count to ten with one to one correspondence (and your assistance), she was nowhere near ready to recognize written numbers or words.
all that to say, she had no idea the number on her jersey matched the one on her father’s, that the number twenty-nine meant her dad was around.
you watched as nate hopped off the bench and immediately started charging down the ice with necas right behind him. some random panthers player (and before anyone accused you of being a fake hockey fan, you didn't care enough about teams that weren’t nate’s, or sidney’s for that matter, to learn their rosters) shot a puck at the goal only to be swallowed up in wedgewood’s glove.
the faceoff started in the avalanche’s offensive zone, with number fifteen on the sleeve of the panthers player facing nate. even if you wanted to know who was going against your husband, you couldn't see the name because it was nate’s back who was to you.
when the ref dropped the puck, the whistle was blown a second later, number fifteen kicked out of the face off circle. number nineteen, whose name you did know, skated to the circle, facing nate with a concentrated—yet undeservingly smug—look on his face.
you watched with a close eye as matthew tkachuk skated up to the circle. you'd heard among the wives and girlfriends about him, had seen the hate comments online, had seen the chirping videos. you hadn't formed a super solid opinion on him (mainly because you didn't care about florida) until the last two years with the presidential endorsement via instagram likes or the team usa drama.
the video that stuck out to you the most was the instance where he called a bruins player’s wife a whore. when you'd shown it to nate, he'd rolled his eyes and scoffed.
“families are off limits,” he'd said. “the rat should know that.”
“mama,” wyatt said. “more ‘zel, please.”
you pulled off another piece of the pretzel and handed it to her, watching her eat it happily, kicking her legs all the while. you turned your attention back to the game and felt the moment your eyes locked with tkachuk’s.
his smug look deepened before his eyes turned to nathan’s. you couldn't read lips, but whatever he said to your husband made his spine stiffen, his shoulders lined with tension that wasn’t there a second ago. the puck was dropped and nathan slapped it away to necas who raced down the ice with it.
whatever tkachuk could’ve said to nate was erased from your mind as the game continued on. you bounced wyatt in your lap when she got bored, kissed her cheeks and tickled her stomach when the bouncing didn't work. but for the most part, she was captivated by the game, only flinching when a body was slammed into the glass directly in front of your seats.
to her credit, she didn't cry, just looked at you with wide eyes.
the score was tied 2-2 halfway through the third period.
after enduring most of the game with your second born dancing on your bladder, you finally took another trip to the bathroom and made it back to your seat with twelve minutes left in the game. it wasn't until seconds after your ass hit the seat that it happened.
tkachuk was yapping to your husband from the bench. it was almost quiet enough to hear what was said if you were listening closely enough, but wyatt was babbling and smacking the glass. even from halfway across the ice, you could see the way nate tensed up, you knew him and his body too well to not notice.
but he skated away.
until tkachuk got on the ice, just close enough to your husband before the face off in the avs defensive zone. his mouth was running and then the gloves dropped.
tkachuk’s gloves barely hit the ground before nate was on him.
the arena erupted.
your eyes widened as tkachuk flailed for a minute—something you hadn't seen in the few games you'd seen of his fighting—as your husband all but tackled him to the ground. there wasn’t enough time to cover wyatt’s eyes and to be quite frank, you were in too much shock to do anything but stare.
nathan landed a few punches until the refs pulled him off and tried escorting him to the penalty box. “do it again!” you'd just barely heard over the roar of the crowd. “do it again and i’ll beat your ass again.”
you watched as your husband continued to shit talk tkachuk in the penalty box for the next thirty seconds, though you could no longer hear what was said. you watched as the rat wiped the blood from his mouth across the arena, but said nothing in response. you watched as nate turned back to the game and ignored his presence now that he’d sent a message.
“holy shit,” tracy said.
you nodded, still unable to form words. wyatt continued to slam the glass, even more now that those around you had taken to doing the same.
“what the fuck happened?” you mumbled to your friend, not caring about the cursing around your very impressionable child. not when you watched your husband beat the shit out of an opponent.
god, that was hot.
you shook your head of the thought before you could unpack that thought in an arena with thousands of other people.
“i think icarus flew too close to the sun,” tracy said. “wrote a check his ass couldn't cash.”
“it had to be about wyatt, he wouldn't fly off the handle for anything else,” you said.
out of the side of your eye, you could see tracy looking at you like your high school graduation was a modern miracle. “you are also under that same category, babes. given how shitty matthew tkachuk is, he probably went for the twofer.” she gestured towards the penalty box. “and bit off more than he could chew.”
you'd have to ask nathan after the game.
as the time ticked down on the five minute major, you kept glancing from the penalty box back to the ice, squinting, as if that would help you see nate’s face better (spoiler alert: it didn’t).
as soon as nate—and the other guy—was released from the penalty box, he was thundering down the ice, immediately getting the puck and passing it off to brock nelson who shot it into the back of the net.
the arena exploded into cheers, which didn't seem to bother wyatt with her giant headphones on. you watched as the team celebrated together and you screamed with everyone else when the goal and assist was announced.
things settled down for a few minutes as the clock wound down to the final two minutes of the game. from the looks of it, tkachuk had shut his fucking mouth and was trying his best to make up the goal deficit nelson had put his team in.
but it didn't matter in the end because whatever he said to your husband had pissed him off enough that he was still skating down the ice like it had personally insulted him. you couldn't count how many shots on goal he had in the last few minutes of being on the ice. all you could see from your position on the other side of the rink was the way he stampeded towards the goal, yet also fluidly moving around opponents. he drew his stick back and flung the puck forward, going over the goalie’s left shoulder and into the back of the net.
you weren't even fully sure if it went in until the horn sounded and the crowd roared for the fourth time that night (barring the brief smackdown fight nate was involved in).
the game ended 4-2.
you waited a few minutes to watch the stars of the game, long enough to watch nate skate out for winning second star—brock nelson got first star for his three point game.
you followed tracy out of the rink and down towards the locker room, wyatt held your hand tightly despite the exhaustion starting to settle in for her. it was well after her normal bedtime, even if she’d taken a later nap.
you were winded by the time you made it to the locker rooms. in the time it’d been since you'd been pregnant with wyatt, you’d forgotten how exhausting it was. being twenty-seven weeks pregnant with a two year old was not for the weak. your toddler usually wanted to be carried and you'd just read something on the internet about not knowing when it would be the last time you picked up your child (that thought process had you sobbing in bed at 11 pm right when nate got home the other night). after carrying her when she asked, and especially walking up and down the stadium stairs, your body ached. if it wasn't for the fight, you might have just taken wyatt home and sent nathan a text message.
thankfully, your husband (or the reporters) had mercy on you because he didn't leave you or wyatt waiting for long. the tension you saw in his shoulders earlier in the game seeped from his body when your eyes met.
“dada!” wyatt tore herself from your grasp and ran as fast as her legs could move.
nathan dropped into a squat and opened his arms. as soon as she ran into his chest, you watched him tuck his face against the side of her head, pressing a soft kiss there. he picked her up with an ease you wish you had but just didn't because you were not an athlete and because you were entering your third trimester next week.
you watched as he approached you, trying to catalog any injury he may have but was trying to hide from your careful gaze.
“i’m fine,” he said right before he leaned in to kiss you sweetly. “you're a sight for sore eyes. how’s our girl doing?” he asked, the palm not holding wyatt to his body lightly rested on your bump.
“she’s been kicking away, dancing on my bladder, the usual.” you pushed some hair out of his face. “you fought that guy,” you stated quite plainly. “want to tell me what that was about?”
nathan shrugged, but the tension was back in his body. “he was being an ass.”
“nathan...”
he removed his hand from your bump and dragged it down his face. “listen, i don't want to repeat it, but it wasn't kind.”
“who was it about?” you pressed. and maybe you should've quit while you were ahead, but you wanted to know, wanted to satisfy that curiosity.
he fixed you with a look. “don't play dumb, honey. you know who.”
your jaw dropped a little. “he said something about wyatt?”
his eyes searched your face, though you weren't sure what exactly he was looking for. his hand reached up and traced the outline of your bottom lip. “kids are off limits,” he mumbled. “that was the one rule he followed.”
you waited for him to continue.
“i’m not repeating what he said,” nate insisted.
“i’m not asking you to, i just want to know what got you so worked up.”
“isn't it obvious?” when you said nothing, nate pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose. “he mentioned you and wouldn't drop it. i’m not going to tell you what he said, but i handled it. he won't be talking about you again.”
your stomach twisted. it was uncomfortable, knowing some random man you'd never met had said something about you to your husband, bad enough that he lost his cool.
“hey,” nate’s hand cupped your cheek. “i handled it.”
wyatt chose that moment to yawn, reminding the two of you that your child was up past her bedtime and the clock was ticking on how long you had before she became irate.
“let’s get you home,” he said, kissing the top of wyatt’s head.
later that night, after nate rocked wyatt to sleep, he climbed into bed beside you. as soon as his back was settled against his pillow, you threw your arm over his chest and laid your head right where his heart beat.
“you could've gotten in trouble,” you said into the fabric of his tee shirt.
nate sighed, like he was saying this again? but he knew you well enough after being together for two years and married for a few months that you weren't going to let it go.
“i didn’t.”
“but you could have.”
he placed a solid, lingering kiss on the top of your head. you could feel the way his shoulders lifted as he shrugged. “and it would've been worth it. you and wyatt and our baby girl matter the most to me. no one gets to talk shit about any of you, least of all where i can hear it.”
speechless, you looked up at him before the intensity in his eyes nearly became too much. you nodded and pressed a kiss right over his collarbone before allowing yourself to fully relax in his hold.
pairing; nathan mackinnon x unnamed (female) reader.
summary; nate is married to reader who is gabe's childhood bestfriend but they are not in love. or so they think. why are they married? who knows.
part 11: glimpse of their lives (1.28k words). / masterlist.
It feels anticlimactic to end your work life by just turning off your laptop but it is what it is. The project has go-live few days ago, the support team is well-established and all ready to take over the next steps and you have finished all the required knowledge transfer for your part.
It's done. You are no longer working on the project. You are no longer needed to be in Denver.
Your last day in office was yesterday and you have already say farewell to all the people that have welcomed and took good care of you ever since you came to this city nearly a year ago.
You know this job is not permanent and that was the reason why you applied for it. When you came across this opportunity, it's the fact that they require you to be physically in Denver is what attracts you the most. All you wanted to do was to leave Sweden for a while, do the job that you know how to do and reunite with your childhood best friend who is currently the Captain of Colorado Avalanche.
You know that once the job is done, you would have to go back to Sweden. Or, maybe, find another job and go wherever it needed you to go to. But then you didn't expect that you will fall in love with this city, with this place, with someone.
The office did offer you another job though. They like you enough that they offered you a spot to continue working with them. Not on this project but a new one. We could use your expertise, they said. You tell them that you would have to think about it as working permanently in Denver was not in your original plan. You tell them that you will give it a thought and they give you a week to decide.
All your life, other than Stockholm, you never really stay anywhere else for too long. You watch your childhood friend left the country at the age of 16 to pursue his hockey career in OHL and you told your mom that someday, you would like to leave the country too. No, not permanently. Maybe for study, maybe for work, but you will always come back home to your family.
At the age of 21, you left Sweden for the first time and went to Ireland for one semester student exchange. There, you learned how to live on your own, you learned how to enjoy your own company and the rest is history.
You started to travel to other countries then while setting up a YouTube account to document your life as a student and a traveler. You went to Spain, Italy, London, France, Japan, Thailand and you grow your internet identity naturally. Brands start reaching out to you, inviting you to events or requesting you to review and promote their products. That is how your side gig comes to life.
Being a technical consultant is something that you never really thought you will enjoy doing but somehow, you are good enough at it. So far, you have stayed in Bangkok for a year and a half, in Porto for a year and now, in Denver for almost a year to work with local company, joining their software development team.
Nothing ever really makes you feel like settling down at a place, except Denver. The unpredictable weather, the friendly people, the high altitude. It attracts you.
Nathan Mackinnon. He interests you.
You think of the day after your marriage. When you woke up in that hotel room alone but not lonely. Note from Nathan tucked safely underneath the pillow next to yours, along with the marriage certificate.
The memories from night before the marriage flashes through your mind like a 2x speed montage video. The out of nowhere proposal, the impulsive yeah, sure you have ever said in your life.
The high that Nathan felt from scoring that shootout, the high that you felt from drinking so many drinks that it clouds your judgement and let the reckless you came forward.
You wondered if anyone else knows about the marriage and when you checked your phone and saw text from Gabriel congratulating you for winning over your silly crush, you groaned as the reality sinked in then.
How did a silly crush on someone you barely know end up with you having the guy as your husband now?
You push the thought down, not wanting to dwell on it any longer than necessary when you have an actual pressing matter to think about. Should you stay here? Should you accept the permanent job offer and settle down in Denver?
Your parents have always give you full freedom in choosing whatever you want in life. They trust you and they know that you know what is best for you as after all, it's your life and you are the one living it. They never explicitly mentioned that they are waiting for your return back to Stockholm.
But, they don't know about Nathan. They don't know about this marriage. And only handful Avalanche players know about it, and Melissa. Tracy too. Most of the players know you more as Gabriel's friend than Nathan's wife. As for managements, you let Nathan decides on that and he never mentioned anything about it so you aren't exactly sure either.
You would be lying to yourself if you say you aren't wishing for all of this to become true.
And you didn't miss the way Nathan acts around you. His playful side that is rare to be seen on ice? Well, in this house, it's always so evidently clear. His laugh whenever you guys watch The Office together. His texts that if you don't know him enough, it might seem cold and distant but it's actually full of warmth and care. His action conveys more than his words usually do and you learn to understand the unspoken language.
Maybe you should talk with him about this since if you decide to stay, he is definitely one of the reasons why.
You walk out from your room, wondering if he is home and faint sound of someone walking around in kitchen is the answer you get. Walking down the stairs, you see glimpse of him walking into the dining room, phone in hand.
Your mom always said that you have light steps, people barely realize your presence unless you make it known with your voice.
That's why Nathan doesn't realize your presence, you guess. And you didn't mean to eavesdrop his phone call, you are already about to climb up the stairs back to your room but his voice manages to keep you freeze for a couple of seconds.
"I meant. You know this marriage is not real. We were not in love."
Oh. Oh.
Maybe you have been having a delusion all these whiles. What he just said is nothing but the truth.
This marriage is not real.
We were not in love.
You are the silly one here. You are the foolish one for having a crush on a man who can have anyone he wants in his life, the one who is definitely in his league.
You try your best to not make any noticeable sound as you climb up the stairs, taking two steps each time instead of one, hoping he doesn't hear the sound of your rapid heartbeat and hurried climb.
You are already back inside your room, door shut to prevent any outside noise slipping in, when Nathan speaks into the phone again.
"But, I think we are now. Or, at least I am. I am in love with her, Gabe."
honestly sometimes there's no better feeling than rereading a fic you've written and coming out of it going, "yeah that actually this DOES slap. exactly what i wanted to read. fucking nailed it."
a whole bunch of nothing. but im depressed, angry, sad, tired and a lot of emotions more, so I need to shift the focus. not read-proof, no ai, english aint my native language so yeah. a bunch of shit put together (nsfw- no minors, +21 only).
both, gabe and nate, were having a field day with you. completely overwhelmed by the fact that both of them were praising you in ways you didnt even know were possible.
nate was siting down, with his back on the headboard, legs spread. you on the other hand, were on your hands and knees. your hands currently digging your nails in nate's thighs.
he was caressing your face with such a care, smug smile on his face, almost, evil. gabe was behind you, cock buried in your wet cunt.
“what do you say, nate? how many more does she have?”
nate kissed your face while you kept gasping, almost teary while looking at him.
“I hope many, what do you think honey?” you were a mess, barely even listening to whatever they were saying, your blurry vision was fixed on nates blue eyes. he look at you patiently, before repeating the question “no…I cant”
nate smiled before kissing a tear that was running down your check
“no? so you won't cum with me?”
a whine escaped you at the sound of his words., you'd never let this end until you felt him inside you. he has been mean, letting his captain have fun with you, but you wanted him, so badly.
“oh nate, she's squeezing me, i think she does have a few more for you” gabe slide off you, and you almost collapsed on nates arms.
nate took the moment to bring you closer and whisper in your ear “how do you feel?” you couldn't even think of an answer, but nate was a patient man. after a few seconds you answered a whiney ‘good’, but that was not enough for him. "im good, and happy. and very content" nate smiled at your words before placing a (way too short) kiss on your forehead. gabe was also smiling at you, while stroking his now, wet cock.
nate told his friend how you didnt like all fours, while helping you lie down on your back. he told him how you preferred being under him, holding onto him whenever the feeling grew too intense.
with one last kiss, nate slid inside you, while you grabbed gabe's cock and stroked it yourself.
you were completely overwhelmed, your strokes were uneven, stopping when nate made you feel so good you'd swear you'd see stars. That didn't seem to be a problem for gabe, because seconds before you came again, his cum spurted all over your chest.
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