ya mom💜

greta van fleet lover hockey fanatic

[pucksandpower]

guardian angel

Beau Maxwell x medical student!Reader

Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives

Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries

The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.

Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.

Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.

Then you’re moving.

You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.

“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”

A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”

He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”

“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”

Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.

The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.

There’s so much blood.

“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”

Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”

“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”

“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”

“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”

“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.

You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.

“Sir, I need you to sit down-”

“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”

“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”

He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.

You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”

But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.

You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.

Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.

“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”

“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”

“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”

“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”

You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”

Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.

The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.

You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.

You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.

Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.

“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.

Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.

You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”

His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.

“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.

Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-

No. You push the thoughts away.

“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”

“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”

“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”

You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.

“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”

You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.

Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.

Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.

“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”

“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.

Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.

You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.

“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”

Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.

The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.

“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”

But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.

“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”

You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.

“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”

The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”

“Med student. Second year.”

“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.

You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.

“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”

“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.

“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”

“But-”

“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”

You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.

Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.

Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.

“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”

“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”

But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.

The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.

“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”

You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?

The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not.

As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.

You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.

Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.

Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.

You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.

Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.

The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.

You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.

You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.

“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”

Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.

All you can do is wait.

And hope.

And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.

***

The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”

“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.

“Fuck off, I was screened-”

“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”

Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.

He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.

“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.

Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.

At seven in the morning.

On a Saturday.

“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”

There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.

“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”

“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”

Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.

“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”

“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”

“I need you to sit down, son.”

The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.

“What happened?”

Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”

Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”

“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”

The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”

“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”

Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.

Beau.

Critical condition.

The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.

“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.

“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.

Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.

“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”

“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”

“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”

The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.

Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-

No. No, he’s not going there.

“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.

“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”

“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”

Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.

Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”

The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.

They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more. 

Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.

Beau is his brother.

And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-

No. Stop. Don’t think it.

“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.

They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.

“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”

They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?

They round a corner, and Dean sees them.

The waiting room is full of Maxwells.

Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.

They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.

His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.

“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.

She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”

That’s what breaks him.

Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.

“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”

Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”

Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.

“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”

He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.

“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”

Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.

“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”

“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”

“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.

Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”

Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.

“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”

“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”

The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.

“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.

“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”

He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.

“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”

Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.

Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.

“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”

Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.

“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”

“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.

“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”

“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.

“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”

“Dean-” Garrett starts.

“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”

The doors to the surgical wing swing open.

The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.

Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.

“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.

“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”

The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.

“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”

“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.

“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”

“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”

The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”

“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”

The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”

“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”

“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”

The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”

“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”

After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.

Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.

Gratitude.

“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”

“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”

“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”

Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.

“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”

“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”

“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”

Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.

“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”

Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”

“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”

Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.

“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”

“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”

Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.

His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.

They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.

Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.

Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.

“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”

He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.

His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.

Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.

Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.

But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.

Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.

“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.

Garrett looks over. “Who?”

“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”

“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”

Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.

And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.

***

The world comes back in pieces.

First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.

Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.

“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”

That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.

“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.

“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”

Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.

***

The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.

The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.

“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.

“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.

“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”

“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”

Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.

“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”

He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.

“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”

Footsteps. Fast.

Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.

White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.

“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”

“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.

“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”

That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.

“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”

“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.” Duh.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”

His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.

The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”

After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.

“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.

Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”

Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”

His parents exchange a look.

“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”

“A branch?”

“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”

Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”

“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”

A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.

“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.

“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”

“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.

“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”

A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.

“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”

“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”

“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”

Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”

Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.

“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”

“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.

It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.

“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.

“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”

The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.

Instead, a young woman steps in.

She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”

“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”

She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”

She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”

You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”

“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”

Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”

“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”

Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.

“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”

You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”

“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”

“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”

You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.

Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.

Because holy shit.

You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-

Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.

“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”

You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”

“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”

“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”

“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”

“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”

“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”

“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”

“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”

You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.

“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”

“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.

“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”

“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”

You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.

“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.

“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”

“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.

You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.

“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”

“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”

“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.

You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”

“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”

Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”

Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.

You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.

You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”

Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”

“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”

“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”

“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.

“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.

You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.

The room is silent for exactly three seconds.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“Not now,” Beau replies.

“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”

“Dean-”

“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”

“I was perfectly respectful-”

“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”

“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”

“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”

“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.

“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”

Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”

“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”

“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”

“Dean, I swear-”

“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.

“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.

After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.

“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”

“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”

“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”

“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”

“You believe in fate?”

“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”

Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.

“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.

“Probably,” Dean agrees.

“And I think I’m in love.”

Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”

“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.

“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”

“I’m serious.”

“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”

“I know what I feel.”

Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”

“I really mean it.”

“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”

“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”

“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”

“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”

“Something like that.”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”

“I’ll convert her.”

“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”

“She’s competitive. I like that.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”

“Her name is Y/N.”

“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.

His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.

But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.

Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.

And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.

“Dean?” He says.

“Yeah?”

“Help me figure out what to text her.”

Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”

They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.

After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.

Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.

Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.

***

The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.

“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”

Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.

Now, he’s doing pull-ups.

“One,” he grunts.

“Good. Keep that form.”

“Two.”

“Breathe through it.”

“Three.”

“Two more. You’ve got it.”

“Four.” His arms are shaking.

“Last one. Make it count.”

Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.

“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”

“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.

“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”

It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.

After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.

And one from you.

Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?

Beau smiles, typing back quickly.

Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.

Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.

Beau: I did five pull-ups.

Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!

Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.

Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.

Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.

Y/N: You’re impossible.

Beau: You love it.

There’s a pause.

Y/N: Maybe a little.

Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.

You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.

The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.

He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.

Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”

But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.

His phone buzzes again.

Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.

Beau: What’s wrong?

Dean: Just get here. It’s important.

Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.

He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?

Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.

“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”

Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”

“I wasn’t dead.”

“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”

“Everyone?”

“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”

“Dean-”

“And Y/N.”

Beau freezes. “What?”

Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”

“You invited—without asking me-”

“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”

“By ambushing me?”

“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”

“It’s manipulative.”

“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”

***

The party is, objectively, insane.

By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.

Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.

“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“That’s just my face.”

“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”

Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”

“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.

“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.

“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”

“I don’t—we’re friends.”

“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”

“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.

“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”

“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”

Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.

“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.

“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”

Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.

And there you are.

You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.

“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.

You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.

“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.

“I am talking to her.”

“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”

Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.

“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”

“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”

“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”

Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Just open it.”

He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.

Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”

“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”

“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”

You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.

Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”

The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.

“Oh no,” Beau mutters.

“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.

“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”

The crowd is silent, watching.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”

You look mortified. “Dean-”

“Stand up!”

Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.

“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”

Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.

“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”

He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”

“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.

You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.

“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.

“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”

Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.

“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.

“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”

“That’s not-”

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.

You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”

“Rome didn’t have vodka.”

“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”

You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”

Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.

“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.

One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.

Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.

“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.

You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”

“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”

“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”

“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.

“You love me too!”

“Debatable!”

You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”

He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.

“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”

“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”

“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”

“I was just doing what anyone would do.”

“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”

You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”

“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”

“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”

“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.

“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”

“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”

“Really?” Your voice is soft.

“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”

“I always believed in you,” you whisper.

“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”

You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”

“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”

“You were on a lot of pain meds.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”

“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.

The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.

Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.

You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.

Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”

Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.

“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.

“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.

“They’re cat-calling.”

“Still don’t care.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.

“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”

“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”

“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”

Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.

“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”

From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.

“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.

“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.

You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.

“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”

You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.

Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”

“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.

“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”

“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.

Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”

Beau looks at you. You look back.

“It’s a thing,” you say.

“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.

“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”

“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.

The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.

Better than right.

Perfect.

Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.

“To second chances,” he says.

“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.

“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.

“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.

“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.

“To fate,” Beau agrees.

And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.

Life is short. Second chances are rare.

And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.

***

The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.

Well, mostly empty.

“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”

Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”

“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”

“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”

“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”

“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”

“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.

Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”

“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.

Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.

Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.

It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.

Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.

You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”

“Rough rotation?” Beau asks, immediately concerned.

“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”

“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”

“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”

“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.

You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”

“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.

Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”

“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”

“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”

The effect is immediate and bizarre.

Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.

“Did you just say-” you start.

“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.

“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”

But it’s too late.

You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.

“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.

“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”

“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.

You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.

“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.

“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.

Dean stares. Just stares.

“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.

“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.

“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”

You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.

There’s a moment of silence.

Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.

“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”

“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”

“And when you said whipped into shape-”

“We just had to,” you finish together.

Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”

“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.

“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”

“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”

“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.

“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”

Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.

And Dean …

Dean has a moment.

He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.

It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.

It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.

And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.

The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.

Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.

It was fate.

It had to be.

Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?

The odds were astronomical.

And yet here you both are.

“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?

“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”

The question hangs in the air.

You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.

“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”

“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”

“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”

“I absolutely would,” you confirm.

“-but someday. Definitely someday.”

Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”

“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.

“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”

“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”

“That’s not-”

Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.

“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”

“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.

You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”

“I can live with that,” you say softly.

You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.

Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”

“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”

“Don’t,” Dean warns.

“We’ve got to-”

“No-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.

“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.

“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.

“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”

“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.

“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”

“That sounds like innuendo.”

“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”

“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.

“You’re having them three feet away from me!”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.

The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.

Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.

And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.

He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.

He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.

And he’s going to tell them that he knew.

He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.

And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.

Grateful for second chances.

For all of it.

[syraxnyra]

At the same damn time.

[jetblackashx]

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 orbiter // part eleven - the aftermath.✦݁˖

it's no secret that where garrett graham is, you're likely close behind. and everyone knows where you are, garrett graham is too. that’s the outcome of growing up best friends.

throw in the messy deal between garrett and hannah, it has you wondering if your so called ‘best friend’ even realises he's left you behind.

⤷ aka off campus social/text au! - garrett graham x fem!reader

series masterlist

Across campus, your apartment is eerily quiet despite the number of people inside it. The adrenaline was slowly wearing off, but concern and exhaustion had settled in its place. 

You’re curled in the corner of your couch, knees pulled tightly to your chest. At some point in your panic, someone had practically shoved you into Garrett’s hoodie and pulled the hood over your head to let you hide. The sleeves are way too long, it smells like the laundry detergent and cologne that only belong to Garrett, and it lets you curl away from prying eyes.

It’s enough familiarity to help calm the shaking a bit.

The note sits on the counter, now sealed in a plastic bag. Nobody has touched it since you first read it, but nobody really knows what to do with it. 

Allie sits beside you on the couch with an arm stretched across the cushions as she watches you carefully. In the armchair across from her, Dean is unusually quiet as his foot bounces rapidly beneath him. Logan is standing near the kitchen island with his arms crossed, annoyed, as he watches Tucker pace in circles. 

“Do we call the cops?”

“Of course, we call the cops,” Allie answers Tucker’s question immediately. 

Logan sighs, “And tell them what? Hey, we have a random phone number and this note that’s probably forged in someone’s handwriting. Please help?”

Allie glares at him. “That’s exactly what we say.”

You don’t really hear their argument. You know this is going to turn messy in so many ways. You’re going to be asked so many questions, and they’re going to go through every bit of your life for the past weeks in search of answers. As much as you want them, you’re so so tired right now.

Every once in a while, Allie’s hand rubs across your shoulders as a reminder that she’s there, a reminder you aren’t alone. 

The problem is that’s exactly how you feel. Because the one person you keep expecting to walk through the door never does. The one person you’ve looked for every time someone’s phone goes off hasn’t called, hasn’t texted, hasn’t shown up.

Forget that everyone around you read the very real, very heavy insecurities you’d been plagued with since Garrett and Hannah’s deal started; you can’t even care. And despite everything that happened today, despite the fight and the hurt and the anger, you still just want Garrett. 

Dean’s phone buzzes on the table, and everyone looks up like moths to flames. He glances at the screen and immediately sits forward.

“What?” Tucker pauses in his pacing for long enough to ask the question.

Dean’s eyes move from the phone to meet yours, and there’s relief on his face for the first time tonight.

“Looks like Graham finally found his phone.”

--

The second the apartment door opens, every head turns. For a moment, nobody says anything as Garrett and Hannah walk in. It doesn’t take a lot to realize this isn’t good - the atmosphere speaks for itself. 

Nobody looks panicked anymore, but there’s still so much tension in the room you could cut it with a knife. Allie stands to join everyone else in the kitchen.

And then, Garrett sees you. Curled up on the couch, wrapped in his hoodie, and everything else just disappears. You’re looking right at him, trying to muster a smile like you’ve haven’t been torn through like scraps from everything. 

“Bug.”

The tears are immediate, and Garrett is already halfway to you before anyone can blink. He feels physically sick at how scared you are, and the guilt is suffocating his heart right now. You practically collapse into him with a sob, and any energy you have left is gone.

Because Garrett’s here now, and somehow you just know everything will be okay.

--

Some time passes in quiet before someone makes a decision that it’s too tense in the room. Logan and Tucker offer to go pick up food for everyone, and soon enough, there are various takeout options on your counters. 

Dean and Allie took your phone into your room at some point, saying they would print all of the evidence for when things moved forward. Garrett hasn’t left your side, but he’s on the couch now, and you physically can’t get any closer to him. 

By the time they come back out, you’re fast asleep on Garrett’s shoulder. The room is much more comfortable and quiet now that everyone’s had food and space to process. But now the hard part needed to be addressed.

“Can someone tell me what the fuck happened?”

Dean hands him your phone, which Garrett takes and unlocks before looking up for an explanation. Nobody talks over each other, and nobody throws blame when it comes to addressing you being alone when you walked in that night. How would he have known that’s what you were walking into?

“We don’t know how, but someone got into her apartment. The note, the messages, it’s probably all the same person.”

Garrett tries not to wear his horror on his face as he starts scrolling. Weeks of messages, of comments about him, about you. Observations that are much too specific and personal. And then it gets worse when he sees the date from earlier this evening.

The photo of him and Hannah in his car. Posted to her Instagram story right before her phone died. Mocking you in a way that makes him want to throw up because it’s not true, it’s never been true.

Garrett’s jaw clenches so tightly it may break. He’s trying really hard not to lose his shit right now because how was this happening, and he had no idea?

He’s not surprised to find you blinking sleepily when he looks over. “When were you going to tell me?”

“I wasn’t.”

You can’t hide the tiredness in your eyes, nor are you strong enough to pull away from him as you let your fingertips glide under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin on yours. And Garrett lets you, because fuck it, he knows you’re still terrified but don’t want to admit it. If he’s being honest, he wants you even closer.

“Why?”

You’re nearly asleep again when the second question arrives. There’s no time for the rational part of your brain (the part that refuses to let you lean on Garrett the way you let him lean on you) to talk you out of an honest answer. 

“Didn’t wanna bother you.”

Garrett feels his heart crack when you let out a tired breath and fall back asleep. And he’s left in pieces in the wake because the damage is done, and the only person to blame is him.

Because Garrett knows what he said in the parking lot confirmed exactly what you had been scared of this whole time. You were falling apart, but still protecting him as much as you could, and he threw it all back in your face when you were vulnerable.

When he meets Logan’s gaze across the room, Garrett feels like the biggest fucking idiot in the world. 

He has to tell you.

--

At some point, the cops are called and acknowledged. The night spirals from there into something messy, but Dean offers to handle it since he “has connections”.

You’re still sleeping on the couch, Allie and Hannah are packing clothes to take because it’s definitely not safe in your apartment anymore. Being at the hockey house, with at least four built, slightly terrifying athletes, was a better option than anything else at the moment.

Garrett Graham was scarily good at handling his emotions. It likely came at the price of his dad growing up and the walls he had to build. He had a process, but that didn’t mean things didn’t happen too quickly sometimes. 6’1 of muscle, strength, and determination still had cracks.

Logan’s too busy staring at Garrett to see anything else. He knows this timeline well, knows that it’s only so long before the outburst. It came with years of watching carefully and asking the right questions.

It’s the knowing that leads Logan to pull Garrett outside into the night air after Tucker swears no less than three times over that he’ll keep an eye on you.

Logan lets Garrett pace for a good five minutes, lets him mumble to himself and pull at his hair. He lets him because he knows the following conversation is not going to be easy.

“G, talk to me, man.”

Garrett shakes his head, his fingers picking at the skin of his lips. He’s clearly upset, but it’s a scary mix of anger, sadness, and frustration that he doesn’t know what to do with it all. 

He doesn’t want to scare you. That’s the last thing Garrett wants to do. He knows he’s done enough damage, and then to show up with Hannah? Of all people? After everything that had been shoved in your face?

Garrett felt like he could throw up. 

“I don’t know,” He answers Logan honestly, still pacing back and forth. “I don’t fucking know!”

The frustration in his tone is icy familiar. The kind that only slips out when Garrett feels like he's out of options against the opposing team and knows the end is near. 

He’s mad. He’s mad you didn’t say anything, because fuck he could’ve had a PI on this weeks ago. He could’ve been protecting you from wandering eyes and keeping a lookout. He could not have been a fucking idiot in the parking lot earlier tonight had he known what was going on. Had he just said what he felt? 

Garrett’s upset. He would’ve never wished anything like this on you. Out of any press, drama, and rumor that follows him, he knows damn well to keep you out of it. He would rather quit hockey than let your name be dragged through the mud on his behalf. He would hate for you to deal with half of the comments he hears per day, let alone when his dad gets involved. He’s done so much over the years to avoid questions regarding you, even when he’s cornered in a bad spot. 

And he’s sad. He’s sad that you didn’t feel comfortable enough to fucking tell him what was happening. 

“I should’ve seen it,” Garrett offers in response. His back is to Logan, regret settling deep in his bones. “I should’ve fucking known something wasn’t okay. I mean-“

“Don’t tear yourself up, man.” Logan shakes his head. “How would anyone-“

“I should’ve,” Garrett cuts him off, turning with a stern look. His frustration is with himself. In all the years, the moments, you’ve shown up for him. You’ve never asked, you never begged, you’ve just been there. “She’s everything to me, Logan. You know that.”

And all John Logan can do is nod, because yeah, Garrett fucked up. He fucked up.

“Yeah, dude. I’m not, I’m not gonna lie…” Logan shrugs his shoulders because it’s what he’s been thinking since he watched you run out of the house at night a few weeks ago. “It doesn’t look great. Bug’s never asked us for shit, Garrett. And you show up with Hannah? After everything?”

Garrett’s face drops, his hands pulling at his hair. He curses. To show up with his fake date? After yelling at you for hovering?

Logan crosses his arms. “Did you hear what she said?”

“I didn’t want to bother you, yeah. I heard it.”

“You know what she does after practice? She sits and waits in the living room because she wants to hear how it went. How was your day after class?”

“I know.”

“No, Garrett,” Logan’s voice sounds a bit more aggressive than he’d like, and he’s weighing his words carefully. “You used to know, and then Hannah happened. You stopped looking. So, Tucker, Dean, and I? We looked in your place.”

Garrett’s eyes are looking at the locked entry into your apartment building. He knows Tucker will be keeping an eye on you, still curled up on the armrest, still wearing his clothes. Tears still damp on your cheeks. 

“I know you’re hurting because she didn’t tell you, G. But she’s been hurting for weeks, since she saw you cuddling with Hannah on movie night. Hell, maybe even before that.” 

Logan moves a step back toward the door. He feels like an asshole for saying all of this to one of his best friends, but that also means he’s the perfect person to be saying it. He’s not scared to call Garrett out on his shit.

Garrett’s taking the hits at this point like their rivals in the tournament. But it’s about you, and that will always bite more than anything else. He knows he deserves every bit of this conversation, even if he’s already drowning in regret.

“I told her she was hovering.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I know, G.”

“I was so frustrated, and I wasn’t talking about her.”

“I know, man. But she didn’t know that.” Logan’s voice stays even despite the range of emotions he’s feeling right now. “And she was still the one hearing it.” 

“Dean asked why she didn’t call you, and she said you had enough going on. She was having a panic attack until he pulled your hoodie over her head. She loves you so much that even when she’s fucking terrified, her first thought is to protect you, and if that doesn’t scare the shit out of you, it should.”

Garrett breaks, his eyes damp with emotions as he turns to keep Logan from seeing everything on his face. He’s been ignoring that pull in his chest that always wanted more, but fuck, he regretted not acknowledging it sooner. There’s nothing that’s mattered more in the moment than fixing whatever the fuck this mess has become. 

Logan’s hand is on the door now, even though part of him wants to comfort his friend and fix the pieces. “I’m not trying to dig salt in the wound, G. I swear. She loves you enough that she will keep reaching for you, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t break her heart, either.”

The silence that follows his departure is painful. And Garrett’s soaking up every inch of the hurt.

--

[jetblackashx]

tags: @coolestkatontheplanet @my-name-is-baby @st4rrdustt @lvrgrl666 @fiendforwriting @yuhslay @fals3-g0d @the-fractured-eye @throwing-up-butterflies @sugurplumprincess @whore-for-fictionalmen @ahsxkaa @sososecreation @sinfully-yoursss @thesmithsbeliever456

[jetblackashx]

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 orbiter // part ten - the phone.✦݁˖

it's no secret that where garrett graham is, you're likely close behind. and everyone knows where you are, garrett graham is too. that’s the outcome of growing up best friends.

throw in the messy deal between garrett and hannah, it has you wondering if your so called ‘best friend’ even realises he's left you behind.

⤷ aka off campus social/text au! - garrett graham x fem!reader

series masterlist

Most people who know Dean Di Laurentis do not consider him serious. Dean is lightweight; he’s carefree, fun, and loud. He’s a breath of fresh air after a hard test or a ray of sunshine through the clouds. 

Most people didn’t truly know Dean Di Laurentis, though, did they?

Because if there’s one thing Dean Di Laurentis takes seriously, it’s his friends. 

Dean has never been one to fuck around when it comes to the importance of friendships in his life. Yes, Allie is his girlfriend, and he loves her, but Beau is his day one, his ride or die. Garrett, Tucker, and Logan were close behind. Hannah had formed a solid spot in Dean’s heart in the few months he’s gotten to know her. 

But you? The girl he’d come to know and care about so deeply? Not only was Dean open with you about things he hadn’t been with other people, but you cared for him in a way that healed unspoken wounds. And knowing how important you were to Garrett made the relationship with you even more of a priority. 

So getting a call that something had happened, and that it involved you? Dean was not fucking around. 

Any ounce of him that was interested in partying was gone. He’s keeping Allie on the line while desperately searching the room for the people he came with; the only goal in his mind is to get to you as soon as he can.

He catches sight of Tucker, easily chatting it up between familiar faces in the kitchen. Dean’s grabbing him by the sleeve and yanking without a word, barely giving his friend enough time to call out a rushed goodbye. 

“Yo?” Tucker’s asking, but not really, as he follows Dean through the crowd. The music is giving him a slight headache anyway, so he’s not opposed to leaving at the moment.

Dean isn’t offering any explanation as he weaves his way through. His heart is nearly in his throat from the tone Allie gave him over the phone, and knowing that she was supposed to be picking you up.

“Dude.” Dean is grabbing the front of Logan’s t-shirt this time to redirect his attention from a girl leaning against the wall. “It’s Bug, we have to go.”

Logan’s mumbling an apology, to which the girl (Gracie, Grace maybe?) nods in understanding. Dean still doesn’t give his friends any details as they exit the newly forming party to the outside air. 

“Dude, what the fuck is going on?” Logan’s asking in between greetings and goodbyes as they depart the busy house.

Dean’s BMW is parked close by, thankfully, and he doesn’t hesitate to climb in the driver’s seat, finger pressing the ignition. Allie’s call connects to the speakers shortly after.

“Okay, baby, explain it again?” Dean’s asking as he pulls away from the house. Logan is in the passenger seat next to him, with Tucker leaning over the center console in concern.

Allie’s voice is practically a whisper over the speakers. “I showed up to get her, right? And-and I get in here, and she’s not answering me, so I come in her room, and there’s just… there’s a note, Dean. And messages, and she said Garrett is mad at her, so I didn’t know who else to call and-”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” Logan is taking over the conversation, taking responsibility for Garrett’s adjacent place as they drive through campus streets. “Is she okay?”

There’s a pause. 

“Physically?”

The three boys curse. Tucker sits back in his seat, mentally cataloguing the instances of what they’re about to walk into. There isn’t much information to go off of until they can see it for themselves, but is it enough for Allie to be panicking in this way? And for Dean to be ripping them out of a party? There’s zero doubt that it’s serious.

“Where’s G?” Dean’s question is directed to the people in the car this time as he turns the corner onto your street. Nobody asked how fast he drove, or if he even stopped at the stop signs, because their minds are set on getting to you as soon as they can.

“Location says the house, I’ve texted and called,” Logan offers, pulling his phone away from his ear once he hits voicemail again.

Allie crackles to life again on the other line. “Hannah isn’t answering either. Her phone says it’s out of battery on Life360.”

“Fuck,” Dean curses this time as he pulls into a parking spot, shutting the transmission off as they pile out of his car with zero hesitation. “Okay. Baby, open the door. We’re on our way in.”

--

Garrett wouldn’t say he’s attached to his phone. He wouldn’t outwardly say that, but he’s not gonna deny that he’s on it a lot. Between puck bunny notifications, team chats, and the possibility of a Bruins contract, he does, however, check it pretty often. 

The missing weight of it in his sweatpants pocket is enough that he notices the device isn’t with him.

The call from Hannah came shortly after he’d nearly smashed his forehead into his steering wheel from fighting with you. Why the fuck would he do that? To you, of all people. So, while he was stewing in self-hatred, Hannah called.

Her date with Justin hadn’t gone as well as she thought, not in a bad way, Garrett, I promise. But also not great, and the girl didn’t really feel like riding home in a car with Justin after it was all said and done. Her phone was almost dead, and she felt like that was a sign to avoid walking in the dark. So, she called Garrett when Allie didn’t pick up.

Garrett, who had no idea that his friends were literally running to get to your side while actively blowing up his phone that he didn’t have.

The silence in the Jeep isn’t necessarily uncomfortable. Garrett keeps one hand on the steering wheel while the other drums absently against his thigh. Some acoustic song plays through the radio as he drives through a green light. The streets are mostly empty, minus the occasional passing Uber or college student driving home from work. 

Beside him, Hannah stares out the window with her arms crossed over her chest. Her phone is dead now, another great addition to her night. She doesn’t seem too upset, which made Garrett feel a little better, but she wasn’t exactly energetic either. 

“So.”

Hannah groans but smiles. “Oh, my God, please don’t.”

Garrett can’t stop the small laugh that slips out at her reaction. “That bad, huh?”

“That bad,” She certifies. The tension leaves her body with the casual conversation, and she finds herself really grateful he answered the phone.

Hannah wasn’t a liar. She’d been through her fair share of shit to protect herself, but she wasn’t a liar. She liked Garrett. It was easy to fall for him while they were faking a relationship, and it was even easier to feel comfortable around him and his friends. After what happened in high school, Hannah didn’t know if she’d ever really be able to have relationships like that anymore. But with Garrett, it was easy. So yeah, she liked him. She didn’t know if it was necessarily a crush, per se, but it wasn’t just friendship either.

“We just, uh… we just don’t work,” She offers up, picking the loose skin near her nails. The answer isn’t necessarily frustrated or sad, just disappointed. 

Garrett understands that more than he would like to. Sometimes you can like someone, really care about them, and want things to work. But you still end up standing in a parking lot saying all the wrong things to the person who matters most.

The thought arrives uninvited, jarring, and the guilt follows soon after. He tries to shove it away, but Hannah notices anyway.

“You’re thinking about her.”

“No.”

“She’s right, you are a terrible liar.”

He doesn’t answer because, honestly? He doesn’t want to think about you right now. He doesn’t want to think about the look on your face. Doesn’t want to hear himself say hovering over and over like a complete asshole. 

“You should call her.”

Garrett’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He tries to breathe through the tightness in his chest, but it’s useless. He fucked up. The loss of you weighed around every inch of him in ways he never really noticed. You had blended in so easily into his life that he didn’t even realize how much of you was there until you weren’t. 

By the time they’d reached his house (where he figured everyone was, btw), neither of them had said anything else. It’s the kind of exhausted quiet that settles after a long day.

Garrett expects to walk in on someone pouring shots in the kitchen, and he has already prepared a half-ass decline, but he’s even more shocked when the floor is empty. The TV is still playing an NHL game, and there’s evidence of drinks getting poured, but there’s nobody around.

“Do you think they already left for Hudson’s?” Hannah asks, taking in the scene. She’s met with silence. 

Something feels off, and Garrett tries not to act like it, but it settles deep in his gut. He catches sight of his phone on the counter where he’d likely set it when he pulled his shoes on to get Hannah. 

The second the screen lights up, that gut feeling turns into panic lacing his veins. 

Notifications fill the lockscreen from various chats. Missed calls, texts, voicemails, Dean pinging his Find My Friends app. The group chat icon has so many messages that the number can’t even fit on the screen. Garrett’s used to a lot of notifications, but this is different. This is wrong. 

He clicks the boys’ group first.

--

For a second, he just stares at the words on the screen and then slides to the next chat. Allie. 

The messages blur together. Dozens of them with questions, updates, like they’re narrating what’s happening in front of them so he can catch up like a TV episode. His heart is racing in his chest, and he’s so focused that he can’t hear Hannah calling his name.

“Garrett!” She’s shaking his shoulders now, and he finally blinks back into reality. She’s staring at him with wide eyes and concern. “What happened?”

This can’t be real. 

Because while everyone was searching for him, while Dean and Tucker and Logan and Allie were blowing up his phone, you were crying and terrified in your apartment.

And Garrett had been halfway across campus, completely unaware, with Hannah.

“We have to go.”

He doesn’t give any explanation, but there’s only one thing running through his head right now: For once in his life, you’d needed him, and he wasn’t there.

--

[jetblackashx]

tags:

@purplerainx1 @roses-and-iron @at-a-rax-ia @theh3aven @s0ftdr1nks @nands88 @mlt2000 @maybankslover @cosmosnkaz @riichii-i @hey-its-t @sydney-m @xoxo-ada @bootyliciousbutterfly @peterparkersgf21 @corvusmorte @05gwyn @fleintur @st4yg0ldenxo @lukesprettynose @gretavanhockey @bunnyrose01

[significant-narratives]

also i feel like it’s pretty rare for a player to be so open about how they actually felt when they found out they were traded… but of course joey and his beautiful heart would be vulnerable and open about that :(

[summerskies]

Let’s all LIVE

[jetblackashx]

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 orbiter // .✦݁˖

it's no secret that where garrett graham is, you're likely close behind. and everyone knows where you are, garrett graham is too. that’s the outcome of growing up best friends.

throw in the messy deal between garrett and hannah, it has you wondering if your so called ‘best friend’ even realises he's left you behind.

aka off campus social/text au!

garrett graham x fem!reader (she/her)

childhood best friends -> lovers (lots of angst i love angst)

--

part one - profiles/intro/playlist

part two - the deal

part three - the unknown

part four - the shirt

part five

part six

part seven

part eight

part nine

part ten

part eleven

part twelve

tbd…

dividers via @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

disclaimer: most media involved is from pinterest/actor socials! all texts/posts were generated by me via memi messaging & photonote. watermarks for @/evescole are my previous username.

general triggers: mdni!! dark humor, cursing, stalking, angst (hehehe), lowkey hannah erasure but i tried not to, mentions of phil graham.

absolutely NO artificial intelligence was used in the production of this series.!!!

[pucksandpower]

civic duty

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission

Warnings: 18+ content

The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.

“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”

Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”

“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

Yeah. Seven o’clock can’t come fast enough.

[eu-nicola]

More than one night - Dean Di Laurentis

summary: A night with Dean was a mistake and you knew it the next day when you found out that he was messing with your sister but things didn't end there

tw and word counter: (4,4k) smut, sex without protection (use protection bro), oral sex, idk what more

Meeting Dean Di Laurentis was, without a doubt, the worst thing that could have happened to you in your life.

That was what you kept repeating to yourself as you sat on the edge of your bed, with the lights off and only the glow of the streetlamp coming through the window. You had your knees hugged to your chest, as if that could protect you from the guilt eating you up inside.

Only three days had passed since that night when you let Dean kiss you against the wall in the dark hallway of the fraternity. Three days since his big hands slipped under your dress, since he whispered in your ear how fucking sexy you were while he pulled down your panties. Exactly three cursed days since you moaned his name like an idiot while he fucked you against that same wall, hard, fast, and merciless.

And the worst part… you didn’t even know who he was at the time. You only knew he was hot, that he had a beautiful smile, and that he smelled like beer and expensive cologne. He had looked at you like he wanted to devour you alive, and you, after one too many drinks and an entire semester of emotional drought, let yourself go.

You didn’t ask for his full name until the next day.

Dean Di Laurentis.

And that’s when everything went to shit because Allie, your older sister, had mentioned that name several times in the past few weeks. “Dean is such an idiot, but so much fun,” “Dean’s driving me crazy,” “Last night Dean did…” She didn’t give you many details, but enough for you to know they were hooking up. It wasn’t anything serious, according to her. Just “casual and fun sex.” But she was your sister and you had slept with him. The regret burned in your stomach.

You got up from the bed and walked barefoot to the mirror in your room. You had dark circles under your eyes, you had slept terribly. Every time you closed your eyes you saw Dean’s face above you, that arrogant smile while he thrust deep inside you. You hated yourself for remembering it in such detail, but you hated yourself even more for feeling heat between your legs at the thought.

“You’re a piece of shit,” you whispered to yourself, staring at your reflection in the mirror.

After crying for half an hour that night, you decided enough was enough. You weren’t going to stay locked in your room any longer, replaying the memory of that man on loop. Tonight you were going out, you were going to have fun, shed all that guilt, and forget about him even if it was just for a few hours.

Mika, your best friend and roommate, had come back from shopping and was sitting on the floor of the room surrounded by clothes and makeup, as if they were preparing for war.

“Oh girl, I’m finding him tonight for sure,” Mika said as she tried on a tight black top in front of the mirror. “His name is Ryan, he plays on the hockey team. I saw him Wednesday at the library and he looked at me like he wanted to eat me. He’s not getting away tonight.”

You laughed softly while applying mascara, trying to sound as normal as possible.

“Then go get him. You look hot as hell in that top, seriously. If he doesn’t hit on you tonight, he’s gay.”

Mika burst out laughing and looked at you through the mirror.

“And you… what? Isn’t there anyone you’re interested in? Because you’ve been acting weird lately. Are you sure there’s no guy running through that head of yours?”

You stayed silent for a second, the mascara brush suspended in the air.

“No,” you answered, trying to make your voice sound firm. “Not right now. I want to focus on my studies this first year, you know? I don’t want distractions.”

Lie. It was a half-lie. Yes, you wanted to focus on your studies, that part was true, but then Dean appeared and since that night, focusing was the last thing you were doing. Your mind was full of him, of his mouth, of his hands, and how he had whispered “good girl” while you came.

Mika raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“Hmm… well, if you say so. But if you change your mind, there are several of Ryan’s friends who are really hot too.”

“I’m good like this,” you said, forcing a smile as you put on your earrings. “Tonight I just want to dance, have a drink, and disconnect.”

What you didn’t tell Mika was that deep down, you were scared. Scared of seeing Dean at the party again, but you didn’t want that to matter, so you pushed him out of your mind and finished getting dressed: a short black dress, tight at the waist and ass. You looked good. Sexy. All those training hours had paid off.

After giving yourself one last look in the mirror, you grabbed your small purse and left the dorm with Mika. She was euphoric, practically jumping as you went down the building stairs.

“Tonight is going to be epic!” she exclaimed, grabbing your arm. “I feel like something good is going to happen. Ryan’s going to be there and I plan to eye-fuck him until he comes talk to me.”

Her energy was contagious, or at least you tried to let it be. You laughed and played along as you walked across campus toward the fraternity, where the music could already be heard from several blocks away.

When you arrived, the place was packed. 

Colored lights, people crowding the entrance, the smell of spilled beer and cheap perfume mixing in the air. Mika squeezed your arm excitedly.

“See you later! If you see Ryan, let me know,” she said, and before you could respond she had already disappeared into the crowd, moving with that confidence you always admired.

And suddenly you were alone.

You made your way to the makeshift kitchen where they were serving drinks. You grabbed a plastic cup with vodka and cranberry juice and took a long sip. The alcohol burned your throat a little, but you welcomed it. You wanted to feel something stronger than that constant guilt.

For the next half hour you tried to distract yourself. You talked with a couple of girls from your literature class, laughed with a sophomore who told you a bad joke about the hockey team, and even danced for a while on the edge of the makeshift dance floor in the main room. You drank another cup, and then another.

Maybe you were drinking too much, you knew it, but every time Dean’s memory appeared in your head, you took another sip to drown it.

Until you saw him.

He was on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall. He wore a tight black t-shirt that highlighted his shoulders and tattooed arms. His blond hair was a little messy, as if someone had run their hands through it recently. And he was smiling.

Your heart raced so hard you felt dizzy. The cup trembled slightly in your hand, but then it got worse. Allie appeared beside him. Your older sister, with her perfectly wavy hair and radiant smile, approached him and said something in his ear.

Dean tilted his head toward her, laughing, and casually wrapped an arm around her waist.

That made your stomach churn. He wasn’t your boyfriend, he wasn’t even anything, you’d only had one night. One stupid, drunk night with no promises, but seeing them together, seeing him touch her with the same confidence he had touched you… it hurt.

You grabbed another cup from the table without thinking twice and slipped through the crowd, moving quickly toward the hallway that led to the back of the house. Your heart was pounding in your ears. You just wanted to disappear, for no one to see you, for him not to see you, but Dean saw you.

For a second, your eyes met across the crowd. His expression changed, his arrogant smile disappeared, and something darker, more intense crossed his face. He took a step forward, as if he were going to follow you, but you were faster. You slipped into a large group of people, lowered your head, and kept walking until you managed to lose yourself in another part of the house. You leaned your back against a wall in a quieter corner, breathing hard.

A few minutes passed, or maybe twenty, you no longer knew, when you finally worked up the courage to return to the main area. The alcohol was already weighing on your legs and head, and then you saw them again. Dean and Allie were in the middle of the makeshift dance floor. The song was slow and sensual. He had his hands on her waist, moving with that natural grace he had. Allie laughed, wrapped her arms around his neck, and said something close to his mouth. Dean smiled, but his eyes… his eyes scanned the room for a second, as if looking for something, or someone.

You felt jealousy. Absurd, hot, ugly jealousy that squeezed your chest. You knew you had no right. You knew Allie had met him first, but that didn’t stop your mind from betraying you, remembering how those same hands had held your hips, how that same mouth had kissed your neck while he thrust inside you.

“It’s just the alcohol,” you repeated quietly, closing your eyes for a second. “Just the alcohol messing with your head.”

You left the half-full cup on a nearby table. You were already feeling bad. Your stomach was upset, your head was heavy, and there was a knot in your throat that wouldn’t go away.

You needed air. You needed to get out of there.

You went up the fraternity stairs almost running, dodging couples kissing against the walls and people going up with cups in their hands. At the end of the second-floor hallway, you tried the first door you found. It was open. 

You entered quickly and closed it behind you.

It was just some random room. Probably one of the fraternity guys’. There was an unmade bed, clothes thrown on the floor, a poster on the wall, and the typical smell of a guy who lives alone. You didn’t care, you just wanted to breathe.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hands on your knees, trying to calm your breathing. You closed your eyes.

“Just a minute…” you murmured. “One minute and I’ll go down, find Mika, and we’ll go home.”

You were starting to feel the alcohol weighing on you more than you thought. Your head was spinning gently.

Suddenly, the door opened.

You lifted your head sharply and there he was.

Dean, filling the doorway with that impossible-to-ignore presence. He closed the door behind him calmly, without asking permission, and you stood up from the bed so fast you almost fell.

“What are you doing here?” you blurted out, your voice higher than you would have liked.

Dean raised his eyebrows, amused.

“I wanted to see if you were okay. I saw you go upstairs almost running. You looked… I don’t know, like you were about to throw up or set the house on fire.”

He leaned against the door with his arms crossed, looking at you with that crooked smile that drove you crazy.

You nervously pulled your dress down, as if that could make you look more dignified.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. “I should probably leave. Mika’s probably looking for me. You know how she gets when she’s excited…”

You took a step toward the door, but Dean didn’t move an inch.

“Why are you running away from me?” he asked directly, his voice low and too soft for how arrogant he usually was.

“I’m not running away,” you answered almost by reflex.

“Yes, you are.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You stopped in front of him, crossing your arms to mirror his posture, trying to look confident.

“See? I’m not running. I’m here. to you. Totally normal.”

Dean let out a low laugh, the kind that vibrated in his chest. He took a step forward. You took one back.

“Dean…” you warned.

“What?” he said innocently, but kept advancing slowly. “I just want to talk.”

“Then you should go talk to my sister,” you snapped, unable to hold back.

He paused for a second. Then his smile grew bigger, almost dangerous.

“Are you jealous?”

You laughed. A forced laugh, too high-pitched and clearly fake.

“Jealous?” you said, trying to sound amused. 

“Please, Dean. It’s impossible for me to be jealous. I’ve known you for… three days? I don’t even know if you have a middle name. You don’t matter to me. Not at all. Zero. Nothing.”

Dean kept coming closer. You kept backing up until your back hit the wall.

“Interesting…” he murmured, placing one hand on the wall beside your head. “You know exactly how many days it’s been since we met.”

You froze. You felt your face heat up.

“I… that… it’s just because…” you stammered, searching for some smart excuse that wouldn’t come. “It was a weird week and… and you… you have a very easy face to remember and… shit.”

Dean chuckled softly, clearly enjoying seeing you nervous. He was so close you could smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of beer.

“You’re terrible at lying,” he whispered.

“I’m not lying,” you mumbled. “I really don’t care about you. You can go dance with Allie, do whatever you do, I… I’m perfectly fine. Super focused on my studies and…”

Dean didn’t let you finish. He kissed you. Hard and sure. With the same hunger you remembered from that first night. One big hand gripped your waist while the other rested on the wall. His mouth was warm, demanding, and tasted slightly of beer and mint.

For a second your treacherous body responded. Your hands rose to his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

When he pulled back just a few centimeters, he had that arrogant smile again.

“Still don’t care?” he asked against your lips, his voice hoarse.

Dean was still so close you could feel his warm breath against your lips. Your heart was beating so hard you thought he could hear it too.

“This is wrong…” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Allie is my sister, Dean. I can’t do this to her.”

He pulled back just a few centimeters, looking into your eyes. His hand was still on your waist, his thumb slowly caressing the fabric of your dress.

“Nothing’s going on with Allie,” he said in a low, confident voice. “What she and I have is… casual. Nothing serious. She knows it and I know it.”

You knew he was lying. Or at least hiding part of the truth. You had seen how Allie talked about him, how she smiled when she mentioned his name. But in that moment, with Dean looking at you like that, with his body pressing you against the wall, you wanted to believe him with all your strength.

You wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.

“We shouldn’t…” you tried one last time, but your voice no longer held any conviction.

Dean didn’t respond with words. He lowered his head and kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. His tongue brushed yours and a treacherous moan escaped you. His hands moved down to the hem of your dress and began slowly sliding it up your thighs.

You didn’t stop him. You let him lift it. You let his rough fingers graze the sensitive skin of your legs, your hips, until he pulled the dress completely over your head and tossed it to the floor without caring where it landed.

You stood in front of him wearing only your black bra and matching panties. Dean stepped back a little to look at you, and the way his eyes darkened made you feel both exposed and powerful at the same time.

“Fuck…” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re so fucking sexy.”

He kissed you again, this time with more urgency. His big hands roamed your back, unhooked your bra with ease, and let it fall. His palms covered your breasts, squeezing them just right, brushing your nipples with his thumbs until they hardened under his touch.

You moaned against his mouth.

The guilt was still there, throbbing in the back of your mind, but it wasn’t strong enough to stop him. Not now. Not when your body was burning for him.

Dean suddenly grabbed you by the thighs and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. 

Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist. He kept kissing you as he carried you to the unmade bed, gently dropped you onto the mattress, and positioned himself on top of you, supporting his weight on his forearms.

His mouth moved down your neck, kissing, sucking, gently biting. He went lower, until he reached your breasts. He took one into his mouth, sucking hard while his hand caressed the other. You arched your back, moaning his name without being able to help it.

“Dean…”

He looked up, that arrogant but dark smile appearing on his lips.

“Still think this is wrong?” he asked, sliding one hand down your stomach and slipping it inside your panties.

His fingers found your wetness and he let out a growl of approval.

“So wet…” he whispered against your skin. “And you say we shouldn’t.”

Two of his fingers caressed you slowly, tracing circles over your clit before sliding inside you. You gasped, digging your nails into his shoulders over his t-shirt.

The guilt was still there, burning inside you, but the pleasure was stronger. Every time you tried to think about Allie, Dean pushed his fingers deeper, curling them exactly where you felt it most, and your mind went blank.

He kissed you again, swallowing your moans while he fucked you with his fingers, slow but firm. His thumb kept stimulating your clit in perfect circles. You were soaked, the obscene sound of his fingers sliding in and out filled the room along with your ragged breathing.

“Dean… please…” you begged, not even knowing exactly what you were asking for.

He pulled his fingers out, quickly slid your panties down, and knelt between your legs. He looked up at you with that hungry expression.

“I want to taste you,” he said hoarsely.

And before you could respond, he lowered his head and ran his hot, flat tongue along your entire entrance.

Dean licked slowly and deeply, tracing every fold with deliberate precision. He ran his flat tongue from bottom to top, stopping at your clit to suck it gently, then harder, alternating between sucking and licking in quick circles. Two of his fingers returned inside you, curling upward, searching for that spot that made you see stars.

“God… Dean,” you moaned, arching your back on the bed.

It was too good. Too intense. Every lick, every movement of his fingers made you tremble. You gripped the sheets tightly, your hips moving on their own against his mouth, you didn’t want him to stop. Ever.

You wanted to stay there forever, with his head between your legs and that expert mouth devouring you.

But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed to feel him inside you, filling you completely. Dean seemed to read your desperation. He looked up without removing his mouth from you, his blue eyes darkened with desire and arrogance.

“Want something more, baby?” he murmured against your pussy, the vibration of his voice sending another wave of pleasure through you.

You nodded, breathing hard.

“Please…”

He sucked your clit harder for a second, making you gasp loudly, before speaking again:

“Then ask properly. I want to hear you beg.”

Shame and arousal mixed in your chest. You knew he was playing with you, enjoying the power he had in that moment, and although part of you wanted to resist, your body was on fire.

“Dean…” you begged, your voice broken. “Please… I need you inside me. I can’t take it anymore.”

He smiled against your skin and kept licking, slower now, torturing you.

“Is that all? You can do better.”

You closed your eyes, biting your lip.

“Please, Dean…” you begged with more intensity, your voice cracking. “Fuck me. I need you to fuck me. I want you inside me right now… please.”

Something changed in his expression. His eyes lit up with pure satisfaction. He loved hearing you beg. He loved having you like this: naked, desperate, and pleading for him.

“Good girl,” he growled.

He stood up quickly, pulled his t-shirt over his head, and shoved down his pants along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick, hard, and with the tip already glistening. He positioned himself between your legs, gripping your thighs and spreading you wider for him.

“I can’t deny you anything when you look at me like that,” he admitted hoarsely, almost as if it annoyed him how much he wanted you.

He leaned over you, bracing one forearm beside your head, and kissed you deeply as he guided his cock to your entrance. He rubbed the swollen head against your soaked pussy several times, teasing you, until he finally thrust.

He entered you with one deep stroke.

You both moaned at the same time. He was big, hot, and stretched you in the most delicious way. Dean stayed still for a second, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Fuck… you’re so tight,” he growled against your mouth.

He started moving. First slowly, pulling out almost completely before sinking back in to the hilt. Then he picked up the pace, fucking you harder, deeper. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room along with your moans and his low grunts.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, digging your heels into his back, asking for more without words. Dean gripped your hips tightly, thrusting with precise, powerful strokes that made the bed creak.

Every time he bottomed out, he hit that perfect spot inside you.

“Just like that… right there,” you moaned, almost breathless.

The guilt was still present, but it no longer mattered. In that moment, only Dean existed: his scent, his weight on top of you, his cock fucking you mercilessly, his mouth biting your neck and whispering in your ear how good you felt.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked between thrusts, his voice rough. “You wanted me to fuck you while your sister is downstairs?”

His words hit you like a whip. You blushed violently, but your pussy clenched around him.

Dean let out a laugh.

“You like it dirty, don’t you?”

You couldn’t respond. You just moaned louder as he sped up, fucking you harder, faster, as if he wanted to mark you.

Dean kept fucking you but suddenly pulled out. You let out a whimper of protest at the empty feeling. He sat on the edge of the bed and called you.

“Come here,” he said, pulling you toward him.

You climbed on top, straddling him. Dean guided you as you slowly lowered yourself onto his cock, filling you completely in this new position. You placed your hands on his tattooed chest and started moving. First slowly, enjoying how deep he felt, then faster, bouncing on him.

Dean had his hands on your hips, guiding you, his gaze traveling from your breasts to your eyes.

“You’re fucking insane…” he murmured, almost with frustration. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since that first night.”

You picked up the pace, moving your hips in circles. Dean let out a low moan and squeezed your ass hard, helping you slam down harder. You were exhausted, sweaty, your legs shaking, but you couldn’t stop.

“Dean… I’m going to come…” you warned, almost breathless.

“Do it,” he ordered, looking at you intently. “Come on my cock.”

The orgasm hit you hard. Your whole body tensed, squeezing him inside you as you moaned his name. Dean followed shortly after, growling against your neck as he came inside you, holding you tightly against his body.

You both stayed still, breathing heavily, skin sticky and hearts pounding.

Several minutes passed. You were still sitting on top of him, head resting on his shoulder, trying to catch your breath. Reality began to crash down on you like a heavy weight. The guilt returned stronger now that the pleasure was fading.

Dean slowly caressed your back with one hand. Suddenly he spoke, his voice low but firm:

“You’re not going to run away from me.”

You lifted your head to look at him. He was watching you with that characteristic intensity, with no trace of doubt.

“This… whatever this is,” he continued, “doesn’t end here. You’re not going to run from me at parties again, you’re not going to ignore my messages, and you’re not going to pretend you don’t want me as much as I want you.”

You were tired. Physically and emotionally exhausted. Your legs were shaking, you had his cum dripping down your thighs, and the image of Allie laughing downstairs at the party wouldn’t leave your mind.

You knew you should tell him this was a mistake. That they had to stop but you had no strength left. You just looked at him, breathing slowly, and finally nodded weakly.

“…Okay,” you whispered, almost voiceless.

Dean smiled, satisfied. He kissed you on the lips, softer this time, and pulled you against his chest.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your hair.

You stayed there, wrapped in his arms, knowing this only complicated everything… but too tired to keep fighting whatever this was.

[brini71]

Will Smith Hockey 3.28.26 SJS VS. CBJ

[will-mack-shark-attack]

when the face card says serve

[hughesluverrr]

Meet, Greet, and Maybe a Date - Jack Hughes

summary: You went to a meet-and-greet for an autograph—and somehow left with Jack Hughes’s number instead. pairing: jack hughes/reader word count: 1,660

The line for the meet-and-greet wraps halfway around the arena concourse, and you’re starting to wonder if you’ll forget how to speak by the time it’s your turn.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, clutching the edge of the jersey draped over your arm. It’s slightly too big—technically a men’s small—but you like the way it feels, soft and broken-in from the number of times you’ve worn it while watching games.

Number 86.

Jack Hughes.

You peek around the shoulder of the person in front of you.

The table is set up under a giant banner with his face on it, and somehow the real thing looks even better. Dark hair a little messy, sleeves pushed up, that half-smile that shows up whenever he’s laughing at something a fan says. Every few seconds he leans forward, signing something, taking a photo, saying something that makes the fan in front of him beam like they’ve just won the lottery.

Which, in a way, they kind of have.

Your stomach flips.

“Next!” one of the event staff calls.

The line moves forward another few steps.

You swallow.

Okay. You can do this. You’ve met people before. You are, in fact, a functioning human being who has conversations with other humans on a daily basis.

Just maybe not extremely attractive NHL stars.

“Hey, relax,” the girl behind you whispers with a grin. “He’s not gonna bite.”

You laugh nervously. “That’s… good to know.”

The line moves again.

Now you can actually hear him.

“Who should I make it out to?” Jack asks the guy at the table.

His voice is warm and casual, the kind that sounds like he’s genuinely happy to be here instead of trapped at another obligation. He signs the guy’s stick in a quick, practiced motion and slides it back across the table.

“Nice jersey,” he adds.

The guy practically floats away.

Your heartbeat picks up.

There are only two people ahead of you now.

Your palms are getting sweaty.

You wipe them on your jeans.

The woman in front of you finishes her photo, and suddenly it’s just one more person between you and the table.

Jack glances up for a moment, scanning the line.

For half a second, his eyes land on you.

And then—maybe you’re imagining it—his smile widens just slightly.

Your brain immediately stops working.

The last person steps away.

The staff member gestures toward you. “You’re up.”

Your feet move before your thoughts can catch up.

You walk to the table like you’re approaching the front of a classroom presentation, except this presentation involves an NHL superstar and your rapidly evaporating ability to form sentences.

Up close, Jack Hughes is… unfairly attractive.

That’s the only word for it.

His hair falls across his forehead in that effortless way that people definitely spend time trying to achieve. His eyes are bright and curious, and when he smiles at you it’s like someone turned the arena lights up another notch.

“Hey,” he says easily.

Your brain: Say something normal.

Your mouth: “Hi.”

Great start.

He glances at the jersey draped over your arm.

“Want me to sign that?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, maybe a little too fast.

You slide the jersey across the table toward him.

He picks it up, flipping it slightly so the number faces him.

“Good choice,” he says, tapping the 86 with the marker. “This guy’s pretty good.”

You huff out a small laugh.

“I’ve heard that.”

He grins.

“So what’s your name?” he asks, uncapping the marker.

You tell him.

He repeats it as he writes, careful with the letters.

Your name looks surreal next to his signature.

You’re watching the motion of his hand when he suddenly asks, “So how long have you been a fan?”

The question catches you off guard.

“Oh—uh. A few years,” you say. “Since you got drafted, actually.”

He glances up at that.

“Since the draft?” he says, sounding mildly impressed. “That’s some loyalty.”

You shrug, trying to ignore the fact that he’s still looking at you.

“Well, you made it easy.”

“Did I?”

There’s a teasing note in his voice.

You realize too late how that sounded.

Your face warms. “I meant—like—your playing. Obviously.”

He laughs softly.

“Obviously.”

He finishes signing the jersey and slides it back to you, but his hand lingers on the fabric for a moment like he’s not quite done with the conversation.

“So,” he says, leaning forward slightly, “did you come here just for this, or were you already at the game?”

“I came for the game,” you say. “But this was definitely a bonus.”

“Good answer.”

There’s that smile again.

You clutch the jersey a little tighter, trying not to think about how close you are to him.

“You nervous?” he asks suddenly.

You blink.

“A little,” you admit.

He tilts his head, amused.

“Why?”

You stare at him.

“Because you’re Jack Hughes.”

He laughs again, the sound warm and genuine.

“Fair,” he says.

For a moment neither of you speaks.

The staff member a few feet away clears their throat lightly, reminding you that there is, in fact, a line behind you.

You shift awkwardly.

“Sorry,” you say. “I should probably let the next person—”

“Wait.”

The word comes out quickly enough that you pause.

Jack glances at the staff member and then back at you.

“You got time for a quick picture?” he asks.

Your brain short-circuits again.

“Uh. Yeah. Definitely.”

He stands up from behind the table.

He’s taller than you expected.

Or maybe he just seems taller because you’re suddenly standing right next to him.

The staff member takes your phone, and Jack steps closer so your shoulders brush.

Your entire nervous system becomes aware of this fact.

“Ready?” the staff member asks.

Jack leans in slightly.

“Smile,” he murmurs.

You do.

The photo is taken.

You retrieve your phone, trying not to look at the picture immediately because you’re pretty sure you look like someone who just got struck by lightning.

“Well,” you say, awkward again. “Thanks. This was really cool.”

“Hey,” he says softly.

You look up.

There’s something different in his expression now—still friendly, but more curious.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you live around here?”

Your eyebrows lift a little.

“Not exactly,” you say. “Couple hours away.”

He nods slowly.

“Huh.”

You wait.

He taps the marker against the table like he’s thinking.

Then he glances at the staff member again, who is now very obviously pretending not to listen.

When he looks back at you, there’s a small, slightly mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Okay, this might sound weird,” he says.

You instantly become very alert.

“But… would it be alright if I got your number?”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

“You—what?”

His smile grows.

“Your number,” he repeats. “So I can text you.”

You stare at him like he’s just suggested the moon is made of hockey pucks.

“Why?” you blurt.

He laughs softly.

“Because you seem cool,” he says simply. “And you didn’t completely lose it when you met me.”

You snort.

“That’s debatable.”

“Hey,” he says, pointing lightly at you with the marker, “you’re doing great.”

Your heart is pounding now.

The staff member clears their throat again.

The line behind you shifts impatiently.

Jack lowers his voice slightly.

“So?” he asks.

You hesitate for about half a second.

Then you pull your phone out.

“I mean,” you say, trying to sound casual and failing miserably, “it would be rude to say no.”

His grin flashes bright.

“Exactly.”

You unlock your phone and open the contacts app.

He takes the phone gently from your hand, his fingers brushing yours for a split second.

Your stomach flips.

He types something quickly, then hands it back.

You glance down.

There’s a new contact saved.

Jack.

With a number underneath it.

You look up, stunned.

“You just—”

“Now you have mine too,” he says with a shrug.

Your brain takes a moment to process that.

“That feels like cheating,” you say.

“Work smarter, not harder.”

You laugh.

The staff member gestures for the next person.

Jack takes a small step backward toward the table, but his eyes stay on you.

“I’ll text you later,” he says.

You clutch your signed jersey like it’s suddenly the most valuable object on earth.

“Okay,” you say.

You start to step away, then pause.

“Hey, Jack?”

“Yeah?”

You grin.

“Good choice,” you say, tapping your own chest lightly.

He laughs as you walk away, shaking his head.

And as you disappear back into the crowd, your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down.

A new message appears on the screen.

Unknown Number: Hey. It’s Jack. Just making sure you didn’t give me a fake number. 😄

Your heart does a small, happy somersault.

You type back:

Guess you’ll have to wait and see.

[goalplz]

can’t even read the word “amulet” in a book like a normal person anymore. i get derailed by thoughts of john tavares and the maple leafs

[youunravelme]

you, me, and a baby part 4

author's note: here's the final part! thank you so much for showing nate and honey all the love!

summary: you and nate were fwb when one night leads to a lifelong consequence (aka you fucked around and found out)

pairing: nathan mackinnon x reader

warnings: accidental pregnancy, labor and delivery

week 41

you'd been a labor and delivery nurse since you graduated college five years ago, so realistically you knew many first time moms went past their due dates. so, in an effort to avoid disappointment, you'd mentally prepared yourself for being pregnant longer than forty weeks.

nate had not.

“i just don't see why she's taking so long,” he'd huffed one morning before his flight to chicago. 

“because she's a baby and doesn't care about our schedules. a lot of first babies go past their due date, this isn't new.” you reached out and squeezed his arm. “it’ll be fine, nate. your mom and dad are here,” they were sleeping upstairs, “if anything happens, we’ll call you.”

he looked you up and down, scanned your face for any sign of pain. “you’ll call me as soon as something happens, i don't care what it is, okay? you call and i’ll be on the first flight back, i promise.”

“nothing’s gonna happen,” you said. “i’ll either be home or at work—”

“can’t you take your maternity leave now? you're past the 40 weeks mark,” he interjected.

“at this point, i’m doing light work,” you replied.

“light work as a nurse is still harder than a desk job, honey.”

you brushed him off. “i’ll relax until then, don't worry.”

but he was placing his hands on your hips and a kiss to the top of your head. “i'm always gonna worry when it comes to the two of you.”

you smiled and patted his chest with one hand. “you're sweet, but we’ll be okay. what’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“you go into labor while i'm on a roadie? that seems like a pretty big deal to me.”

“you heard dr. morgan, my cervix isn't that effaced and i’m like a centimeter dilated. nothing is going to happen while you're gone.”

and truth be told, it didn't. 

your back started to ache a little more and you hardly ever left the house. graham and kathy helped out where they could, whether that was preparing meals to get you through the first few weeks postpartum or adding the final touches to the nursery. 

everything was mostly ready for baby girl’s arrival. both cars had the car seats installed. the bassinet was set up in nate’s room which you'd all but moved into.

you just had to get through your next three shifts and hope and pray baby girl would come before you had to clock in.

but you should've known you were never that lucky.

nate got home from his roadie in the early hours of the 12th. he showered and immediately slipped into bed behind you, contorting his body around yours and the pregnancy pillow that was the sole reason you could sleep longer than forty-five minute increments.

he woke you up with breakfast in bed and sat behind you to massage your lower back when you complained.

“i’m ready for her to be here,” he mumbled into your hair, his fingers still working out the tension in your back.

“you and me both.” you winced as another cramp rippled through your back.

nate, noticing your pain, applied pressure. “don't go into work today, just stay home, call out.”

“it’s just one shift. if it’s bad tonight, i’ll call out tomorrow.” your ears waited for the grumbled reply you'd come to anticipate from nate, but he was silent, his hands just adding pressure to ease your discomfort.

hours later, he was helping you get dressed, giving you a look every time you so much as flinched. “you shouldn't be driving, let alone going to work.”

you gritted your teeth. “it’ll be fine, nate. my water’s still intact, and if something happens, which it won't,” you added when his face went pale, “i’m already at the hospital.”

kathy piped in from the kitchen. “she’s right, nate. labor takes a long time.”

nate glared at his mother, but softened his gaze when he saw the look his father was giving him. “i don't like the idea of you driving twenty minutes while you're potentially in labor.”

you squeezed his forearm gently and smiled to put him at ease. “i’ll call you if i need you, i promise.”

you made it to work without crashing, which you weren't worried about, but nate texted you once you pulled into the parking garage as if he'd been tracking your location (which he probably was) to make sure you got to work safe.

nate: call me if you need something

you liked the message and continued with your day.

sophie’s eyes widened when she saw you waddle to your desk. “girl, you shouldn't be here.”

“funny,” you sighed as you sat down. “you sound like nate.”

you didn't think it was possible for her eyes to get any wider, but they did. “nate? did you finally tell me the name of your baby daddy?”

you rolled your eyes. “that’s all the information you're getting out of me, soph.”

“let’s get this straight, i can know the gender of your baby before i know the first name of the guy you're having a baby with?”

when you thought about it, it kinda sounded ridiculous. not like she would know which nate you were talking about. nathan was a popular name. but you weren't going to back down now. “yep,” you said. “anything else?”

the charge nurse for your shift, meredith, did a double take when she saw you. “i thought i read the schedule wrong when it said you were coming in tonight,” she said. “i was waiting for you to call out and say you were having a baby.”

you rubbed your very large bump. “can’t say i am that lucky.”

“today’s what 41 weeks?” sophie asked.

“tomorrow will officially be 41 weeks,” you corrected. “but who’s counting?”

the tightness you felt in your back and your stomach only got worse as the night progressed. by midnight, you were incredibly uncomfortable regardless if you were standing or sitting. it wasn't until sophie grabbed you a yoga ball to sit on while you charted that you felt a little relief.

you were in the middle of a chart when your phone vibrated, a call from nate. “you realize it’s 2 am, you should be asleep,” you chastised, placing the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you continued to work.

“i’d be able to sleep if you were home, in bed, with me, where you should be when you're 41 weeks pregnant.”

“mhm, nice try, nate.”

at the sound of his name, sophie perked up from her desk next to you. she immediately scooted her chair closer until you used her foot to push the chair (and subsequently, sophie) away.

“how’re you feeling? everything okay? do you need me to come get you?”

you were about to respond, but a cramp rippled through your stomach. you inhaled and exhaled slowly, like a leaky tire.

“are you okay? are you contracting right now? do i need to come get you?” his voice picked up in near panic.

“no no,” you said, once the pain had passed. “i’m fine, probably just a tiny contraction.”

wrong thing to say.

you could hear the rustling of what you assumed were the bedsheets. “nate, stay home. if it gets worse, i’ll come back, okay?”

“no, if it gets worse, you call me and i’ll come pick you up.”

“that doesn't make sense, you'd rather me wait twenty to thirty minutes for you to come get me and then drive home than for me to cross that distance myself? nate, it’d save time—”

“and this way would save my mind, if it gets bad, call me.”

“nate—”

“look, i’m already compromising by not coming down there right now to take you home until your water breaks, honey. i’m being reasonable. you are trying to prove a point. there’s a difference.”

you rolled your eyes. “you're such a worrier.”

“i don't play about people i care about, that includes you and baby girl.”

there was no stopping the smile on your face. “i’ll talk to you later, nate, i gotta get back to work and you need to get some sleep.”

he reluctantly accepted your response and bid you goodbye, asserting that if you needed anything, to call him regardless.

around 5 am, things turned up a notch. between your own contractions, you were assisting another mother’s labor, gritting your teeth when the pain flared up a little. after a bad enough contraction that had tears forming in the corners of your eyes at your desk, meredith told you to clock out and go home.

before you could protest, saying you could get through the last two hours, she cut you off. “go home. you're in pain, you're probably going to give birth in the next few days max. go home and relax before your baby comes, okay? i’ll make sure the right people know.”

you thanked her and said goodbye to sophie. it took you twice as long to get to your car as it normally would seeing as you had to walk slower when your contractions came. that's what they were, you were sure of it, but your water hadn't broken yet, so you weren't too concerned.

the drive was bordering on sketchy at best, you probably should've called nate to pick you up. the pain was getting worse, but you could still function. other than some intense cramping, you really had nothing to worry about, you were almost home, pulling into the neighborhood, everything was fine—

and then your water broke driving down your street.

your fists gripped the wheel, your jaw clenched and teeth grinded against each other when a cramp, stronger than the others, rippled through your stomach right as you pulled into the garage.

nate was already standing at the garage door by the time you slid out of the car.

“you okay?” his hands rubbed your arms till they settled on your cheeks “you're home early. they let you go?”

you nodded as the contraction faded. “my water broke in the car.”

nate’s eyes widened, immediately looking at the driver’s seat which was (disgustingly) covered in amniotic fluid.

tears sprung to your eyes which gained his attention once more. “hey hey hey, what's wrong?” he asked. “we can take my car, okay? it’s already packed, dad helped me install the car seat—”

“i need to get my car detailed now,” you whined.

to his credit, nathan didn't laugh at you, he just nodded. “i’ll call tracy about it, okay? i think we should go to the hospital.”

but you were moving past him and into the house, doing your best to smile at kathy and graham in the kitchen, while making your way to the stairs.

nate followed. “where the hell are you going? we need to go to the hospital.”

you waved him off and gripped the handrail to begin your ascent. “my contractions aren't five minutes apart yet, and i want to take a shower.”

you heard him sigh behind you and felt his hands on your hips, spotting you as you climbed the stairs.

you walked into nate’s ensuite that you'd practically commandeered since his parents came back after christmas. as you were undressing, nate started the shower and grabbed a set of comfortable clothes for you to wear post shower. one glance at the pile of neatly folded clothes on the counter nearly made you cry. it was an oversized mackinnon shirt that he'd picked up from the pro shop (well, he asked an intern to, but it was the thought that counted) because you couldn't really fit in his shirts comfortably anymore. under the shirt was your new favorite pair of sweatpants (a pair of nate’s that you'd stolen and untied the drawstrings). he'd even gone as far to pull out a pair of granny panties (you were too pregnant to be embarrassed) and wool socks.

it wasn't the clothes that made you emotional, but rather the thoughtfulness behind it. you almost cried.

almost.

you wanted to shower more than you wanted to reflect.

the shower was rather short. getting dressed between contractions actually took longer than the shower itself. after a few minutes, nate stepped in and helped you put your pants and socks on. 

“you still good?” he asked as he rolled the socks onto your swollen feet.

you nodded and exhaled through another contraction. 

“how're you feeling?”

“feels like the worst period of my life,” you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut.

“you wanna head to the hospital now? there's no shame in going, the car’s packed, everything is ready the second you say yes.”

“i—” you hesitated too long for nate’s comfort so he grabbed his phone from his pocket and dialled who you assumed was the obgyn office. his thumb rubbed circles into your knee as he waited for someone from the front desk to pick up.

“hi yes, this is nathan mackinnon, i’m calling because my partner’s water broke and we’re not sure when to go to the hospital.” his eyes locked on yours, his hand now squeezing your knee gently. “her contractions aren't quite five minutes apart, but they're nearly a minute long each time.” he hummed as the other person spoke on the line. “okay, sounds good, thank you.”

“what’d they say?”

“give it another hour," he frowned, especially when you winced again. “if your contractions are 5 minutes apart—”

“one minute long for an hour, then we can go in.”

“or if the fluid you're currently...leaking,” he grimaced, “turns a weird color.”

you nodded and held your arms up for him to help you off the side of the bathtub and to the bedroom.

“where do you wanna go? do you want to stay up here? go downstairs? it’s your choice. you probably need to eat though.”

“take me downstairs.”

nate set up the yoga ball in the living room with the great british bake off playing on the tv. you snacked on the food nate made (cut up fruit and greek yogurt with honey) while bouncing on the ball. kathy and graham went to do some grocery shopping and to give you and nate some peace and quiet without their hovering. 

the next hour grew to be more brutal with each pass of the second hand. your fingernails dug into the arms of the couch as you did your best to breathe through the discomfort and pain. you weren't aware of much around you, but nate was timing things on his phone like a damn track coach.

after one particularly horrible contraction, nate stood. “that’s enough, let’s go.”

“what?” you asked, brain foggy through the pain.

“you've hit the markers, and i’m not wasting anymore time while you're in pain. we’re going to the hospital.”

looking back, you couldn't quite remember the journey there, just that you were clinging to nate’s bicep with each contraction, your forehead pressed into his shoulder, while his hand gently stroked your knee.

by the time you rolled up to the hospital, you were in agony. nate couldn't get the paperwork done fast enough before you started asking for an epidural. if you weren't in so much pain, you'd know you had to go to triage first, where you'd be checked and then they'd make the decision of whether or not to admit you, and it was then and only then that you could get the epidural. the years working in healthcare told you that.

you just didn't give a shit about any of that in the moment.

a nurse, who’s name you soon forgot when a contraction hit, checked your cervix. she stood up with a bright smile and glanced at you and nate. “so good news, you're 5cm dilated.”

you were admitted shortly thereafter.

as soon as you met your labor and delivery nurse, inez, you were asking for the epidural. she smiled at you softly. “you've got it. i’ll bring back the paperwork.” after she finished your iv and hooking you up to what felt like every machine the hospital owned (dear god, you didn't realize it was like this as a patient. it didn't feel like this many wires when you the one administering it), inez left and came back with a clipboard. she lightly explained the paperwork in front of you which you barely heard, mainly because you'd explained it hundreds of times before and also because nate was watching like a hawk.

if she said something out of line or confusing, which you doubted she would, nate would catch it.

you signed it in a hurry and inez smiled once more. “the anesthesiologist should be here soon.”

“how soon?” nate asked. “she's in a lot of pain.”

being between contractions meant you could roll your eyes at him. “she doesn't know, nate. but they’ll be here eventually.”

inez nodded. “let me know if you need anything.”

before another contraction could start, you made the decision to stand and walk around the room while you still could. without being told, nate helped put your legs on the floor and let you grab onto his forearms for support.

when your hospital gown parted like the red sea in the back and exposed your naked ass, nate cleared his throat. “do you need me to uh—cover you up?”

you waved him off. “it’s nothing you haven't seen before.”

“i know that, but what about the hospital staff—”

“they've seen a million asses in their lifetimes too, and soon enough they'll see my whole vagina so i don't really care.”

when another contraction forced itself to be recognized, you groaned and braced your hands on the end of the bed. quick as ever, nathan applied the counter pressure to your hips. after what felt like ten years (but was probably only max ninety seconds) you relaxed and leaned back into nate’s chest.

“i don't know how women do this unmedicated.” you said.

nate wrapped his hands under your belly and lifted. it nearly made you cry in relief. “you're doing so good though, honey.”

“i’ll be doing better once i get this fucking epidural.”

the anesthesiologist didn't arrive until 9 am, at which point you'd already cried three separate times. the very sight of your tears put nate on edge. needless to say, he was agitated by the time the anesthesiologist arrived to administer the epidural.

“you feeling okay?” nate asked once the two of you were alone again. his hand gently brushed hair back from your forehead.

you smiled. “i’m a brand new woman. might take a nap while i can.”

he nodded. “i think that's a good idea. i’m gonna call my parents and sarah, let them know what's going on.”

it took you a minute, but you looked out the window and saw the sun well above the horizon. your gaze went from the window to nate, back to the window, back to nate.

“what?” he asked.

“you're not at practice.”

nate blinked. “why would i be at practice? you're in labor.”

“does your coach know? or does he just think you're skipping?”

nathan picked your hand up and pressed a kiss to the pulse point on the inside of your wrist. “called him and landy while you were showering this morning.”

you eased back into the pillows now that the momentary anxiety of nate getting in trouble was solved. “did you call tracy?”

“about what?”

“getting my car detailed! there’s amniotic fluid in my front seat, nate.”

to his credit, he only smiled and nodded instead of laughing at your misguided priorities. “get some rest, honey. i’ll get it taken care of.”

you fell asleep for god knows how long, all you knew was you woke up feeling pressure in your pelvis and like you needed to take a massive shit. your eyes landed on nate who was lightly dozing on the couch next to your bed.

“nate,” you said.

his eyes opened immediately before he was back at your side again. “what's up? what do you need?”

“i need you to grab the nurse, i feel like i have to poop.”

nate blinked. “honey, i can help you go to the bathroom if you need—”

but you were shaking your head. “no it’s not actually a poop feeling, it means i need to push.”

his eyes widened before he was out of the room, calling for a nurse from the doorway. inez was in the room in a flash, her brows furrowed together. you were leaning on your left side, hands gripped the bed rails while nate was in front of you, brushing your hair back.

“she said she has an urge to poop,” he said.

inez pulled her gloves on and checked you. “well, i can feel baby’s head.” she pulled her hand away and took her gloves off. “i’m gonna call another nurse and your obgyn. we should have a baby here soon,” she smiled.

your delivery room filled up with more people, nurses and dr. morgan alike, but you could only focus on nate. his eyes were locked on you, his hand held the back of your thigh.

“you've got this, baby. you've got it.”

truth be told, you were scared, terrified even. you'd seen plenty of women do the same thing you were about to do, but it was different now that you were the one who had to push.

“alright, on the count of three, i want you to push,” dr. morgan said from her position at the end of the bed.

once you started pushing, tears sprung to your eyes, the pressure uncomfortably painful. nate’s eyes widened.

“why is she hurting? she got an epidural! what was the point of sticking a giant needle in her back if she’s still in pain?” he sounded a bit defensive and a touch panicked, like the idea of you in pain didn't sit right with him.

dr. morgan shook her head and gently said, “the epidural helps with contraction pain, not pushing pain.”

“i’m okay, nate,” you exhale after one push. “it’s part of the process.”

he didn't look convinced, but after a moment, he nodded and kissed your forehead. “you've got this, honey.” then, he added, “and i’ve got you.”

you looked up at him and gave him a shaky smile. “you've got me.”

“always.”

dr. morgan spoke up again. “alright, we’re gonna need a good strong push, i can feel her head.”

you inhaled and pushed as you exhaled, squeezing your eyes shut. nate pressed his forehead to yours, counting quietly so you could focus solely on birthing your baby girl.

“good job, mama. i need another push just like that.”

there was no telling how long you pushed before she spoke again. “head’s out, next is the shoulders. just a few more pushes, mama.”

you looked up at nate who didn't even hesitate to say something. “just a few more, honey. you can do it, you've gotten this far. you can do it.”

and when he seemed so confident, who were you to doubt him? you pushed as hard as you could until the pressure stopped and a cry filled the room.

your eyes widened when you looked at nate, he looked at you for a moment as you were maneuvered to your back so your baby could be placed on your chest.

“time of birth, 12:29 pm,” dr. morgan said with a smile. “congratulations you two, you have a very beautiful baby girl.”

dr. morgan handed you your baby. her heavy weight was comforting on your chest, and just to be sure you counted every single toe and finger. you took note of her head full of dirty blonde hair. she cried out and you were stunned by how much love you could feel for someone you'd just met. in all iterations of the word, your daughter was helpless, and you would have to show her how to exist, how to be.

you glanced at nate because he was the only one who could understand exactly how you were feeling, but when you looked at him, he was crying and speechless. he kept pressing kisses to your temple, which were more teeth than anything because he couldn't stop smiling.

“she's absolutely perfect,” he finally said. nathan reached out and traced her chunky little arm. “hi baby girl, we've been waiting for you.”

and damn if that comment didn't make you burst into tears.

after a few moments, the nurses took your baby to the other side of the room to do measurements. without your instruction, nate followed, his eyes focused and trained on your daughter. you couldn't stop the smile growing on your face.

“baby girl is 10lbs 4oz, 20 inches” one of the nurses said with a wide smile. “she’s a big girl.”

you shifted as inez and dr. morgan helped you push out the placenta. “that explains why it hurt so fucking much.” you glanced at your obgyn. “be honest, how bad did i tear?”

“nothing too bad, you'll need a few stitches. but given how big she is, i’m surprised you didn't tear more.”

you relaxed back into the pillows just as nate came back with baby girl in his arms, sitting on the edge . he couldn't stop smiling or crying, but he had enough sense to not let his tears hit your daughter in the face.

you glanced over at inez for a brief moment and subtly pointed to your phone. she nodded immediately and took a few candid photos of the three (oh my god three?!) of you before setting your phone down.

you leaned your head against nate’s shoulder, his head came to rest on top of yours. “she’s perfect,” he said. “she looks just like you.”

in your opinion, while she was very cute, she still looked a lot like many other newborns who got beat up in the birth canal. granted, she was so much cuter than any other baby you'd seen or helped deliver, but you couldn't pinpoint any one trait that would make her look more like him or you.

except for the dirty blonde hair.

that was all nate.

he shifted and handed baby girl over to you when she started getting a little fussy. you untucked her swaddle a little just enough to lay her on your bare chest, skin to skin, where she quieted almost immediately. with your pinky you stroked up and down her back, still speechless.

how could you have made someone so perfect?

“you know, i don't think she's gonna fit the newborn clothes we brought.”

inez piped in. “oh she's already in a size 1 diaper, she couldn't fit the newborn size.”

you looked at nate. “this is your fault.”

he didn't even look the least bit sorry. “worth it though.”

you tucked your chin to your chest to stare at your daughter, your daughter, whose eyes were finally opened and fixed on you. the world came to a standstill, tears sprang to your eyes.

you created her, grew her bones and veins, and organs in your own body. for the better part of last year, she’d been a physical part of you. she went where you went, nestled in the safety of your own body.

and now, for the rest of your life, you'd be walking around with your heart outside your body in the form of your little girl. you couldn't imagine loving anyone as much as you loved her. her little toes, her tiny little nose, the way her mouth kept opening and closing.

“are you hungry, sweet girl?” you whispered. you looked over to inez who was by your side in a second, maneuvering your nipple into your daughter’s mouth, helping her latch in the process. nate watched, amazed, if his slackened jaw was any indication.

“where are your parents right now?” you asked, not taking your eyes off your baby.

“still at the house, waiting for the call to visit. sarah’s trying to find a flight out.”

“when do you want your parents to show up?”

he shrugged. “figured we'd just spend some time together being the three of us before introducing more people to the fray.”

you blinked. “why?”

“because i didn't want to bombard you with my parents after giving birth.”

while part of you was touched, another part of you ached internally. he didn't know ever since you were a little girl, you dreamt of being surrounded by family, watching people you loved hold and fawn over your baby. that dream didn't last long once you were old enough to see the behaviors of your biological family.

but it didn't mean you still didn't crave it.

“let me finish breastfeeding and then you can text them to come,” you said.

“if it’s too much, honey—”

“it’s not,” you smiled. “i want them to see how perfect she is.” but he didn't look convinced. “do you want them to wait?”

“i just don't wanna rush this moment. you, her, us.” for a moment, he didn't look at you, just fiddled with his hands like they needed something to do. “just a little longer.”

“okay,” you smiled at him softly. “we can do that. just us.”

after feeding your daughter, with his giant, yet incredibly gentle, hands, nate burped her. you plucked your phone off the tray by your bed and texted his family, giving them the green light to come. you sent kathy a separate text, asking her to pack a cute outfit in the 0-3 months size for reasons she would understand when she met your daughter.

as soon as you locked your phone, you glanced over at nate and your baby girl. and out of all the words you’d used to describe nate in the past, soft wasn’t one you would’ve used until now. countless times, you'd seen the way he barrelled down the rink, like he was fighting the ice and somehow winning. you saw the fists he'd thrown, the bodies he'd checked, hands capable of such violence, yet choosing (entirely subconsciously) to be gentle in that moment. he actively chose to be careful with her.

the way his eyes never left your daughter, the way he bounced her back and forth was nothing but careful. you wanted to take a video and show the world that he wasn't some emotionless dog they claimed he was on the ice. there was no media training for the way he held her with a delicate touch. no traces of a carefully rehearsed pr interview when he stared at her like the sum of everything good he'd done had been cashed in for this one moment.

you took the video anyway, but you kept it in your phone for only your eyes to see, and later, hers for the occasions where she’d inevitably fight with her dad and doubt everything about his character, like how much he loved her.

his parents arrived with a quiet knock on the door, but their smiles were the loudest thing in the room. immediately upon seeing your little family, tears sprang into kathy’s eyes.

“oh my goodness, look at her,” she whispered. her gaze went back from your face to your daughter’s. “i brought an outfit like you said, one from the closet.” she pulled out a pretty lavender long sleeved onesie tracy gave you the day after she found out you were having a girl. 

you reached for it while nate laid your daughter between your legs. carefully, you put the onesie on her, nate’s hands watching you do it from a learning standpoint with a dash of overprotective hovering. 

while you dressed her, kathy and graham washed their hands in the bathroom. when they came back into the room you smiled and presented your daughter. “do you want to hold her?” you asked.

kathy’s eyes welled up immediately and nodded. gingerly, she took your little girl from you, cooing when she yawned and shifted in kathy’s arms. “she’s absolutely perfect,” she said. “do you have a name yet?”

you looked to nate, as if asking for confirmation. the two of you had agreed on a name a month ago.

“wyatt,” he said, smiling, his chest puffed out a little from pride. “wyatt addison mackinnon.”

truth be told, you and nate loved the name so much you didn't particularly care what others thought about it. but then kathy’s face collapsed into a watery smile and that was when you underestimated how much you'd actually want her approval.

“beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” graham said from his spot next to kathy, peering over her shoulder. 

“mom, dad, you wanna come sit down?” nate asked. it sounded courteous, but you saw the way he was eyeing their standing positions.

kathy must've caught on too. “nathan, i birthed and raised two babies of my own, i know how to hold a baby while standing.” but wyatt shifted again and she softened. “but if it'll make you feel better.”

with careful steps under nathan’s watchful eye, his parents took a seat on the couch, obsessing over every little twitch and sound.

he took a seat next to you on the bed and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. his lips pressed to their favorite spot on the side of your head. “i’m really fucking proud of you, honey,” he said just loud enough for you to hear. “i don't think i've ever been this happy.”

and because you could, you teased, “even when you won the cup?”

“fuck the cup,” he said, then, after a moment, “the cup matters, sure. but this? wyatt? i would do anything for her, and you gave that opportunity to me, to be her dad.”

and because you couldn't help yourself, you leaned into him, you worked your arms around his waist and let yourself be held, be wanted.

graham was the next to hold her, letting wyatt grip his finger in the way she’d done with nate’s pinky shortly after she was born.

“so what's the plan?” graham asked.

you looked to nate, imploring him to answer for you seeing as you just pushed out a ten pound baby a few hours ago.

“i’m not playing tomorrow night, but i’ll play on the sixteenth. already talked to bednar and landy about it. they're both on board.”

“what about four nations? and your road games?”

your stomach sank, nate’s shoulders straightened. you'd have all of ten days with nathan and wyatt before he'd be gone on a roadie, then four nations, then another roadie, essentially gone for the entire month of february.

the thought of it made you want to throw up.

the two of you had discussed it once he knew about the schedule and four nations, but it seemed so far away. neither of you considered you'd be a month postpartum acting as a single mom when you made the decision to keep the pregnancy.

you wouldn't, couldn't, regret her now, not when she was the most perfect thing you'd ever laid your eyes on. but the thought of nate being gone for all of february made your head spin.

kathy, as if sensing the growing tension and the prolonged silence from you, cleared her throat. “we’ll help any way we can. now, i think mama wants her baby back,” she winked at you.

your arms stretched out for wyatt, your heart rate settled a little more when she was finally in your arms again.

that night, when his parents left, nate held wyatt, tracing her cheek gently. the conversation from earlier had been weighing on your mind. it felt like there was an anvil in your stomach.

“you're thinking too loud,” nate said absentmindedly. “what's going on?”

you shifted in bed. “what’re we gonna do, nate? you're gonna be gone the entire month of february.”

he looked up, blue eyes meeting yours. “we’ll figure it out, i’m not gonna leave you alone.” nate with one hand, reached out and squeezed your thigh. “we’ve got this.”

postpartum week 1

it took nate thirty minutes to get out of the door even after he was dressed and ready to go. he kept picking up his keys and putting them back down when you so much as winced from shifting in bed. if it wasn't your small noises of discomfort, it was wyatt. he'd make it as far as the bedroom door and she would make a slight squeak that had him bounding over to the bassinet to make sure she was okay.

“you're gonna be late,” you said.

“i don't like this,” he replied. “it’s too soon.” 

you shrugged even as the very motion felt like it was pulling apart your psyche and heart at the same time. you didn't want him to go either, but there really wasn't much of a choice. “it is what it is, nate. you gotta go.”

his eyes pleaded with you. “tell me to stay,” he said, moving towards the bed and the bassinet. “tell me to stay and i will. i’ll stay.”

admittedly, the words almost left your lips, you almost uttered them. please don't go, please don't go. please don't—

“go, nate,” you smiled and hoped it was convincing. “we’ll be here when you get back and we’ll probably both be awake.”

his jaw clenched, you made a mental note to tell him to go to the dentist before he got tmj. “are you sure?”

no.

“yes, we’ll be fine. we’ll be cheering you on from here and tracy’s on her way.”

nate pointed at you, his hand barely trembling. “you’ll call me if you need something and i’ll come home, okay?”

you nodded. “we’ll be alright. promise.”

he walked back over to the bassinet and laid a gentle kiss on wyatt’s head. “be good for mama, wyatt girl. i’ll be back before you know it.”

you waited until you heard the garage door close before you burst into tears. you wanted to be selfish, to ask him to stay, but knew you couldn't. you couldn't ask that of him. what if he said no?

what if he said yes?

it was becoming a problem, the way you wanted him all the time. you wanted nathan to be the one who brought you wyatt after a diaper change. you wanted him to be the one who held your hands when you went to the bathroom, who helped you get in and out of bed.

but you were scared that if you said it, the very words would reveal something you weren't ready to say out loud.

you were breastfeeding when tracy arrived with the spare key nate gave her and cale months ago. she sucked all the oxygen out of the room when she came in through the bedroom door. her eyes immediately welled up with tears.

“she’s beautiful, honey. oh my gosh look at her. she's so chunky!”

“ten pounds and some ounces,” you said, too tired to remember the exact weight.  

she sat on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on your knee. “and how're you feeling? do you need anything?” she gave a cursory glance at your nursing cart which was still full of snacks and drinks. “when’s the last time you ate something?”

if you weren't freshly postpartum, as in a few days postpartum, you'd do the math. instead, you shrugged. “not sure.”

tracy immediately handed you a granola bar. “as soon as you're finished, i’ll burp miss girl while you eat.”

true to her word, tracy burped wyatt while you snacked on the granola bar and took sips out of your owala. neither of you bothered turning on the game, you'd seen so many in your lifetime, there was no need.

she continued to hold wyatt, cooing softly at your daughter as your eyes grew heavy. “rest up, i've got her.”

you wanted to protest, but didn't think you were able to anymore. “you'll wake me up if she needs me?”

tracy nodded. “as soon as she cries for you, i’ll wake you up.”

you relaxed back into the pillows and tried to get as comfortable as possible. you could trust tracy, you told yourself. you'd trusted her with everything else, you could trust her with your daughter.

you were asleep in a matter of minutes.

it wasn't crying or even tracy that woke you up, but rather the full sensation in your breasts that did. when your eyes opened, you saw tracy in the recliner on the other side of the bedroom with wyatt in her arms. you couldn't make out what she was saying to your daughter, but given that her kindle was in the other hand, you could only guess.

“are you reading smut to my newborn?” you asked, voice coming out like a knife on stone.

tracy looked at you and smiled. “no,” she said. “just teaching wyatt all about the wonders of literature.”

“i would hardly call what you read on kindle unlimited ‘literature.’”

tracy snickered. “you must be feeling better if you're being sarcastic.”

which was true, after a nap, you felt like a new human being, less antsy.

you did your best to sit up and unbutton your top by yourself. you were proud when you mostly made it into an upright position. tracy handed wyatt over and watched as you took her out of her swaddle before she latched.

“how long has she been awake?” you asked, not taking your eyes off your baby.

“about ten minutes, i think.”

“i thought you were going to wake me up when she cried.” you weren’t upset, just confused.

“i was,” tracy explained. “but she didn't cry at all, it’s like she knew her mama needed some rest. she's an easy baby.”

“she's only three days old, i wouldn't call her easy, she might be colicky in two weeks.” you glanced at your best friend and noticed she still had her kindle in her hand. “what're you reading?” you asked.

“oh,” she flushed. “just some billionaire romance i found.”

“what's it about?”

while tracy was explaining the plot (or lack thereof), you didn't hear the garage door opening of the footsteps coming up the stairs. you didn't notice anything until the bedroom door opened and he walked in.

“nate,” you smiled, feeling lighter already. “hey. how was the game?”

he had a cut on his nose that immediately made you frown. “we lost,” he said. “but i don't even care. how are you? how’s our girl?” he began taking off his coat and moved into the closet inside the bathroom, out of sight.

“we’ve been fine, trace let me get a nap in,” you called loud enough for him to hear but now loud enough to startle your baby.

“wyatt is an absolute angel,” tracy chimed in.

nate came back out wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. on cue, wyatt finished her feeding and nate swooped in just in time to take her. and took wyatt to burp her, not even flinching when she puked a little on his clean shirt. he just smiled and shook his head.

“of course she is, she takes after her mom.” he said it so matter of factly that it took a minute to register what he'd said.

maybe the butterflies you felt were a postpartum symptom, maybe it was your uterus retracting.

you'd have to look it up later.

postpartum week 3

there was an embarrassing amount of tears once nate left the house to go on his first roadie of february. earlier that morning, he'd skipped morning skate to stay in the house with wyatt. you'd cried as soon as he left.

and that had been about a week ago.

you were a wreck and it wasn't even wyatt’s fault.

for a newborn, she was easy. rarely crying, just cooing when she wasn’t hungry or her diaper wasn’t full. of course, she’d had some major blowouts, all babies did, but you could deal with rinsing your child off and tossing her clothes in the laundry pile.

except it was the laundry pile that was contributing to your declining mental health.

you were exhausted all the time. wyatt woke up multiple times in the middle of the night for feeds and seeing as nate was on the other side of the motherfucking continent, you were left to do all the feedings and diaper changes.

tracy would come over every day for as long as she feasibly could, giving you a break from your daughter.

god even the thought of needing a break from her made you break down into another set of tears.

you were failing, you were sure of it.

she was as content as a baby could be, but the house was a disaster, your clothes were dirty, and if it wasn't for the massive amount of onesies and outfits you got from your baby shower, wyatt would be rocking just a diaper.

“you're doing great, honey, really. this is hard, but you're killing it.”

“feels like it’s killing me,” you said into the couch pillow.

tracy ran a hand over the back of your head and all you could think about is how you wished it was nate’s instead. “but you're still here, wyatt is still here. she’s happy and healthy.”

you nodded even if you didn't believe it.

she picked your head up until your eyes met hers. “what's going on in that brain of yours?”

your bottom lip wobbled a little. “i just didn't think i'd be a single mom this soon.”

her face sagged in a sad way, something that could only be replicated by someone who loved you. “you're not a single mom—”

rage filled you with little to no explanation but it had a loud and dramatic arrival. you sat up abruptly and scoffed. “i'm not? look around tracy, do you see anyone?”

her eyes widened, taken aback by your outburst. but you couldn't stop.

“he isn't here, he hasn't been here in two weeks and i won't see him until the end of this month. he can't parent over the phone, tracy. and where does that leave me?” you dragged your hands down your face and exhaled. you rubbed at your eyes to keep the tears at bay. “i started looking at apartments yesterday.”

your eyes were covered so you couldn't see the way tracy’s face dropped, but you heard the shake in her voice. “what?”

“yeah,” you sighed. “i know it’s fast, but the sooner i can get used to the idea of doing this alone, the better.”

“honey...”

“nate would still see wyatt, obviously,” you cut in. “i wouldn't keep her from him, he's still a great dad. i just think being here is confusing.”

“what’s confusing about it?”

you shrugged, picking up laundry from the floor to put in the hamper, while your back was turned, tracy began furiously typing on her phone. “makes me think we’re one big happy family when nate and i were hardly friends when we first started sleeping together.”

“but you're friends now,” she said.

you swallowed and nodded. “yeah, friends.”

but you knew as well as she did it wasn't quite that simple. friends was an understatement of whatever you and nate were.

you'd slept in the same bed since christmas eve where he'd been ready to snatch a scooter from your two year old niece. in the weeks he'd been gone, you'd come to miss the way you woke up with his arm strewn across your waist. you'd missed his froggy morning voice, husky and dry from hours of not using it.

he'd handled you with such care during and after your pregnancy. hands that had been cut open and bled from the impact of skin meeting reinforced plastic helmets ghosted over your back, your hips, guiding you gently. fingers that had most definitely been broken at some point, carefully tied your shoes when you couldn't see your feet anymore.

nate treated you like you were delicate, not in a ticking time bomb way, like he was scared one wrong move would set you off, but in a way one would handle an heirloom, something valuable.

that was it.

you felt valuable to him, beyond just friendship.

and yet, you chalked it up to just being the mother of his child.

it couldn't be anything more than that anyway.

postpartum week ??

a part of you felt like a prisoner, though a prisoner who didn't know she’d been locked up. had you known that from the get go, you would've started marking tallies on the walls to signify how long you'd been in the house with nothing but your baby and tracy to keep you company.

or, another marker, how long it’d been since you'd seen nate in person and not through the screen of your phone.

to his credit, he'd facetimed every chance he could, talking to wyatt like he did when you were still pregnant. he asked how you were doing and listened attentively when you told him how you showered for the first time in days.

“are you okay?” he'd asked one night.

you shrugged and hummed, which is all you seemed to do now. “yeah, we went to the doctor a few days ago, as you know, everything was great. she's still in the 85th percentile for weight.”

he laughed, a deep rich sound echoed through the receiver. and despite it being 9 pm, you could've sworn a little sunshine bled into the room. “my big girl,” he smiled.

you moved the phone to show wyatt snoozing away in her bassinet, something she’d gotten really good at doing. she loved a contact nap, but at night you tried to put her in the bassinet so you weren't always being touched.

“she's been super sweet,” you said. “but when you come back, you're changing all her diapers. i’m done cleaning up blowouts.”

nate smiled and nodded. “deal, i’ll do whatever. i’ve missed you both so much.”

both.

the word rang in your head like a resounding gong.

you cleared your throat to get rid of the tension there. “how’s four nations going?”

he shrugged. “i'd say we’re doing pretty good. sid keeps asking to see more pictures of wyatt.”

“i sent you more this morning, those weren't enough?” the photos were of wyatt laying on her playmat doing tummy time with tracy while the latter read her a book by eric carle. another one was wyatt in the bouncer seat with a paci in her mouth watching you put clothes in the washing machine.

“i can't show him all the photos you send,” he said. “some of them have to be mine and mine alone.”

“right...you realize he's your best friend and not the social media admin?”

“yeah but he doesn't have to see every picture i see. like those photos of the three of us at the hospital? no one sees those but us and our scrapbook.”

you choked out a laugh. “our scrapbook?”

“it’s something i’m working on. the best photos go in there, including the ones on wyatt’s birthday.”

“well, those photos certainly aren't getting posted anywhere else,” you said. “i think my tits were out in one.”

nate rolled his eyes. “they were not out completely. it was...tasteful exposure.”

you blinked. “tasteful exposure? that's what we’re calling it?”

“you were doing skin to skin, it’s tasteful and practical.”

and because you couldn't help yourself, you smiled.

you didn't mention the apartment hunting, or the five tabs open on your laptop looking at different furniture stores. you didn't bring up your new pinterest board dedicated to creating a cohesive aesthetic of your new place.

nathan stayed on facetime until he yawned for the fifth time in the span of three minutes. “you need to go to bed,” you said. “you have a game tomorrow morning.”

“i wanna see her when she wakes up,” he said. “as cute as she is asleep, i wanna see her awake.”

“and you can do that tomorrow, when you've got a full night’s rest and the sun is up.”

for once, he didn't argue, maybe the exhaustion was hitting him harder than you thought. “as soon as you both wake up, call me. i’ll leave my phone on the bench during morning skate, i’ll give it to the equipment guy or whatever. but i want to see you both tomorrow morning before the game.”

“i’m not gonna interrupt your skate—”

“you should. if i don't have it down now, there's no point. besides, you two are more important.”

not important enough for you to be here instead of there, you thought bitterly. it was an unrealistic expectation, but the hormones and late nights didn't give a shit about logic anymore, if they ever did at all.

after another yawn from nate, you said, “goodnight, we’ll talk in the morning.”

seeing as he was fighting a losing battle, he nodded. “i’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

when you called at 6 am, it wasn’t nate who answered, but sidney crosby instead. you were too tired to care about how you looked after wyatt woke you up every two hours last night. you had the phone propped up on a box of cereal while you poured oatmeal into your bowl so your face and wyatt’s were shown without you having to hold the phone.

“hey wyatt!” sidney smiled. “how’s my best girl doing?”

wyatt, only being a month old, said nothing. 

“she woke up every two hours last night,” you explained. “but she’s pretty content for a girl waiting to eat again.”

“are you exclusively breast feeding or are you pumping as well?” he asked. then, a second later. “is that too personal to ask?”

you laughed. “not too personal. i’m doing both, tracy feeds her sometimes so i can shower or eat something.”

he nodded along. “did you get my package in the mail yet?”

and because you couldn't help it, you smiled. “you mean the baby crosby onesie? she wore it yesterday and so far it’s the only outfit she hasn’t shit all over, so you might be good luck, crosby.”

“what about the stuffed penguin?”

“given that black and white are the only colors she can see other than red, it’s a pretty big hit.”

his smile widened. “just call me the baby whisperer.” wyatt shifted and smacked her lips a little. “are you hungry, little mama?” he asked. “god she's so cute, she looks just like you.”

“she's definitely a cute baby, in my humble opinion,” you agreed.

“is her hair getting darker?” he leaned in to see. “looks like it is.”

you nodded, not at all surprised by how observant the pittsburgh captain was. “it used to be dirty blonde, but it’s slowly but surely turning brown. she’ll probably be a brunette when she gets older.”

sidney opened his mouth to reply when the phone was snatched out of his hand. nate’s face filled your screen. “you held my family hostage on facetime and didn't think to come get me?” he grumbled, shoving sidney away. “what the hell did you two talk about anyway?” and despite his words, his tone wasn't bitter, there was a lightness to it even if his resting bitch face filled your screen.

“just seeing how my goddaughter liked her new onesie. apparently, it’s the only thing she hasn’t pooped all over.”

nate looked at the phone, a touch betrayed. “my own daughter, a penguins fan?”

you shrugged while adjusting wyatt in your grasp, trying to get a few bites to eat before she’d eventually demand to be fed. “i guess she’s a huge fan of sidney crosby. gets that from her dad, i think.” you blinked and leaned closer to the screen, still propped up on the box of honey nut cheerios. “aren't you two supposed to be practicing?”

“i was practicing until i saw the captain here yapping away on my phone.”

sidney rolled his eyes. “i’ll talk to you later,” he said, waving at you and wyatt. “send me some pictures of my goddaughter when you get a chance!” he called before skating off.

nate eyed you and wyatt. “how did you get sid’s number?” he asked warily.

you shrugged. “he sent it in the mail with the crosby outfit and the stuffed penguin she's obsessed with.” you stepped out of view of the camera while you unclipped part of your nursing bra so you could feed wyatt, whose lips kept smacking, a sign she was about to start crying in demand for food. she latched pretty quickly.

when you appeared on the screen again, nate was quick to hunch over the phone. “you okay?” you asked, supporting wyatt with one arm and grabbing your bowl of oatmeal with the other. the two of you headed to the couch where you used a pillow to support wyatt’s body while she ate so you could use both hands to eat your breakfast and hold the phone.

“just want to respect your privacy,” he said.

you looked down. “wyatt’s doing a pretty good job of covering up anything unsavory, nate.”

he stands up a little straighter at that. “what do you have planned for today?”

you shrugged. “we’re running low on groceries, might attempt a grocery run while wyatt girl and tracy stay home.”

he nodded. “i think that sounds like a great idea. when’s the last time you left the house?”

“a few days ago for her first vaccines.”

nate’s face dropped. “i missed those?”

“i told you we went to the doctor.”

“i didn't realize it was that appointment.”

“yeah, well you've been a little busy,” you mumbled, unable to hide the bitterness.

nate leaned back, shocked at your comment. “i’m sorry that my schedule worked out this way, honey, but it’s not my fault they selected me for four nations.”

you clenched your jaw before shoving a spoonful of oatmeal in your mouth. “no you're right, i’m just being dramatic.”

“not what i said—”

“she cried at the doctor’s office, if that's what you want to know. she doesn't like needles.” you swallowed at the memory of wyatt getting poked with a needle and nearly screaming her head off. it’s the loudest you'd ever heard her cry. and despite believing in modern medicine, you wanted to scoop your daughter up and never go back to the doctor’s office ever again.

his face sagged, heavy with the weight of his own absence. “i’m sorry, honey.”

“when you come back, you're sitting in there with her when she gets her vaccines. i’m not doing that again.”

he nodded readily. “of course, yeah, i can do that. god i’m so ready to be home.”

“ten more days,” you said, hoping your voice sounded lighter than it felt.

“ten more days,” he said. “we can make it that long.”

postpartum week 6

you woke up with an unfamiliar weight slung over your waist. that sensation coupled with wyatt’s pre meal grunting woke you like a sleeper agent. you picked your head up slowly, nate’s arm tightening around your hips until the tension released.

“i’ll get her,” he said, sitting up faster than you could ever imagine yourself doing and walking to your side of the bed to pick up your baby girl. “good morning, wyatt girl. did you sleep okay?”

you watched in confusion as he scooped her up and laid her on the bed to get her out of the swaddle before he changed her diaper. you didn't remember him coming home last night, nor did you remember waking up past 3 am like usual. “did you feed her last night?” you asked.

he nodded, though his eyes were fixed on wyatt. “got home and saw she was grunting and smacking her lips, so i got some breast milk from your stash and fed her.” he glanced at you. “hope that’s okay. you just looked like you could sleep a little longer.”

“thank you,” you replied.

“do you want to feed her or do you want her to bottle feed?” he asked. nate held wyatt in his large arms, bouncing and smiling at her. her arms waved around at the movement. 

truth be told, part of you wanted to breast feed, but he hadn't seen her in person in a month and given his body language, more than likely, he wanted to feed her again.

“you can feed her, i’ll pump.”

“do you need help with anything before i head downstairs?” he asked.

but you shook your head. “i’m gonna take a quick shower while you have her occupied and then i’ll come down.”

he nodded and left the room while you stripped down and stepped into the bathroom.

the shower was heaven sent. it wasn't that you hadn't showered in ages, tracy had come over nearly every day in the last month to watch and hang out with wyatt so you could have some me time and conversations that weren't one sided.

but it was different with nate. it always was. it was like something inside you instinctively knew your baby was safe and sound with her dad. you weren't tempted to grab her and sit her in the bouncer in your bathroom so you could have eyes on her. that primal feeling that she was safe with her father allowed you to take your time in washing your hair instead of rushing out.

as soon as you got out and dried yourself off, you changed into sweats and a nursing bra, so you could pump hands free before you pulled a zipped up hoodie on top. 

nate and wyatt were laying on the floor, both of them on their backs when you came down the stairs. he was pointing to the toys that jingled on her playmat while she was swatting the air.

“having fun?” you asked.

nate looked up and smiled when he saw you. “she drank her entire bottle, gave a few hefty burps too.” he propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at your daughter. “she's gotten so big since i’ve last seen her.”

“well, that's what happens when you haven't seen her in a month,” you said before you could stop yourself. you turned to the cabinet quick enough that you didn't see a flash of hurt on nate’s face before he schooled it into something more palatable.

“what's the plan for today?” he asked.

you shrugged as you pulled out a box of cereal. “that depends on you, i’m on maternity leave.”

“when’s the last time you left the house with her?”

you blinked. “i haven't, except for doctor’s appointments.”

he blinked back. “why not?”

you blinked again. “because i was a single mother for a month? or did you forget that part?”

nate’s jaw clenched, but he didn't bite back. “wanna go to the grocery store? just the three of us?”

you shifted on your feet. “i don't know nate, there’s people there and she doesn't have enough vaccines for me to feel comfortable in an enclosed space.”

“then let’s go on a walk.”

it didn't feel right. “and take a chance on being spotted out with you and a baby?” you scoffed. “fat chance.”

“okay...” he started. “then let’s take a walk around the neighborhood. and you can't even blame it on the weather, it’s supposed to be like 65 degrees this afternoon. i checked.”

fine. “we can go after her 12 o’clock nap.”

sure enough, as soon as she woke up that afternoon, nate was dressed and ready to go. you, on the other hand, were slower moving. not because you were still in pain, but because you didn't want to go outside, not with wyatt. not when it was still cool outside.

66 degrees your ass. your daughter was used to warm baths and blankets.

but nate was already getting her ready.

“i think she needs the big coat,” you commented. “it’s cold out.”

he looked up at you from where he was changing her diaper. “got it.”

and after dragging your feet, the three of you made it to the sidewalk with wyatt in the baby wrap, snuggled close to nate’s chest.

“how far are we walking?” you asked.

he shrugged. “until she gets fussy.”

“we can't walk until she gets fussy, nate. if we do that, it’s too late.”

“then we walk until we want to turn around.”

you did your best to relax, it was clear nate and wyatt were capable, but you couldn't. for the life of you, you couldn't chill the fuck out. 

and it wasn't even baby related anxiety. it was regular life shit. you still needed an apartment, one close to nate’s place, that was affordable, which given the part of denver he lived in, would be next to impossible to find. you had to get on a daycare list like yesterday and pray a spot opened up in time for you to go back to work in june. and because you're using all your pto to extend your maternity leave, you had to pray yet again to whatever higher power, you didn't get sick for a few months because you couldn't afford to miss work. you—

“—okay? honey?” you snapped out of it to look at nate and wyatt, both of whom were staring at you with matching expressions. to be fair, wyatt probably couldn't really see your face all that clearly. “you zoned out for a second.”

there’s zero chance he didn't see through your fake smile and nod, but he didn't say anything to challenge it either so...

a win’s a win, you guess.

when the three of you got back to the house, you made yourself comfortable on the couch while nate prepared a bottle for wyatt, feeding her with one hand while she rested comfortably in his other arm.

he'd be fine without you there all the time, you thought. sure, it’d be hard in the same way the entire month of february was for you, but he'd adjust. everyone always adjusted to your absence. 

and it wasn't even like you'd be absent forever! you two just wouldn't live together, you'd coparent like you planned, just in separate houses. and wyatt wouldn't be traumatized, she wouldn't remember a time where the three of you were all in the same house. and if she happened upon photos of the three of you together on the couch because nate decided to take a selfie when you were looking your worst, then—

—then you'd just explain to her it was easier to be under the same roof at first, but life shifts and changes. and people come and go like suitcases on the carousel at an airport, sometimes you mix up who’s supposed to be yours and who’s supposed to be someone else’s.

but then you'd look at her and say, “wyatt girl, you were always meant to be mine.”

nate wasn't supposed to be yours, and you'd fooled yourself the last part of your pregnancy, really since christmas eve, into thinking he could be.

“i’m gonna get her ready for her nap,” he said. 

you looked up and over your shoulder to see nate standing behind you at the bottom of the stairs. a quick nod was all you gave him before you grabbed your laptop, not sparing him another glance. you didn't see him linger at the bottom of the staircase, you didn't see him hesitate just for a second.

you were locked in on the zillow home page. your fingers flew across the keyboard, typing in nathan’s address and zooming out to see what would fit your budget and—

not much.

you zoomed out farther, justifying the ever growing distance by saying you could use the money you'd save on rent for gas.

there were a few in your price range, about a ten minute drive to nathan’s place. you clicked on the listing and looked through the photos, they weren't bad but it looked a little dirty.

the next listing was better, but not by much.

and so was the next one.

and the next.

and the next.

really it was nathan’s fault for getting you used to a life of luxury because apartment hunting wouldn't have been this hard had you stayed in your shitty little apartment across town—

“what're you doing?”

you jumped, nearly sending your laptop flying. in your fright, you couldn't hear the way nate’s voice sounded a little pinched, like someone who got hurt in a horror movie but can't make a sound for fear it would give them away.

you spun around and saw his hand shaking a little from where it’s sticking out, gesturing to you.

“you—you're looking at apartments?” he asked.

“y-yeah,” you finally said.

he blinked. “why?”

and because you couldn't do anything else, you shrugged like an idiot. “figured it was time.”

that seemed to snap nate out of whatever trance he was in. he was rounding the couch until he was parallel to the arm of it. “time? time for who? you're six weeks postpartum!”

“and you weren't here for most of it!” you shot back, kneeling on the cushion.

“so you leave? that’s your solution?” he ran a hand down his face. “you gonna take wyatt too?”

“well, she's breastfed so she can’t be without me—”

“—let me get this straight, you're gonna leave and take our daughter and you were gonna tell me this, when?”

“i—i don't know—”

“so i was gonna come home one day, expecting to see you and our little girl and instead of finding the two of you, i’d find, what? a note? a text that i didn't see? or one you timed perfectly when i walked through the garage door?”

you shook your head. “no i—”

“what exactly was your plan, honey? because this feels cruel, it feels mean. and that’s not who i know you to be.”

you stood up on shaky legs and crossed your arms. protection! your mind screamed. protect yourself before he gets too close and sees you.

“well,” you cleared your throat. “maybe you don't know me as well as you think.”

you couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to see the look on his face when he finally gave up. you licked your lips and braced for impact.

nate inhaled, you could feel it in your bones. you'd feared you'd grown accustomed to the sound, it was a part of you now. there was no telling how long it would take to get nathan mackinnon out of your system.

“bullshit.”

your heart stopped. your ears were ringing. you must've heard wrong because there was no way—

“huh?”

“bullshit,” he repeated. “i’m a lot of things, honey, but an idiot is not one of them. don't try to tell me what i do and do not know when i've known you, i know you.”

you shook your head and stepped back. “no you don't.”

“your favorite color is purple,” he said, not moving an inch.

“lucky guess.”

“and i know that because it’s the color of wyatt’s nursery,  it’s the most popular color you wear. it’s the color of your water bottle beside your bed.” he licked his lips. “i know your favorite disney princess is sleeping beauty who you'd insist i call—”

“—auro—”

“—ra, because it’s her name, not the title of her movie. i know she’s your favorite because you watched it when you got sick when you were pregnant with wyatt. and all the faces of the princesses on your childhood scooter were faded or scratched away except for hers, like you were saving her for some reason.”

you swallowed, heat pooling behind your eyes.

nate took a step forward.

you took another step back.

he felt too close.

he was too close. 

you took another step back.

“i know you love your family despite everything. maybe you wished you could hate them because it’d be easier, but you don't. you couldn't. even when they ignore you, assume the worst about you, you love them.”

you shook your head, and blinked. with that one blink, tears fell, soaking your cheeks and chin. “you don't know that—”

“you still go back for christmas eve, you would've let them give away your scooter if it meant they'd accept you.”

“no i—”

he took a step closer to you, then another, and another. he was two feet now, his voice much softer. 

you had nowhere else to go.

“it was your scooter to give away, honey, not theirs.”

you shook your head. “it was just a scooter,” you whispered.

“it was never just a scooter,” he said right back. with sure feet, he closed the distance between you, with shaky hands he cupped your face.

“why?” you asked. “why do you want me to stay?”

“it’s not a matter of want, honey. it’s a matter of needing. i don't want you to go, yes, but i don't think i could let you go even if i tried.”

“i don't...i don’t ...” there were not words for you to say.

he smiled ruefully and pressed his forehead against yours. “i knew i was a goner when you put a band aid over my stitches in cale’s bathroom. i thought you were the prettiest girl i’d ever seen and i’d be lucky if you gave me the time of day.”

“that doesn't make sense,” you shook your head, but he didn't let you pull away. “you're nathan fucking mackinnon and i’m—”

“—the love of my fucking life, the mother of my child, my favorite person.” he smiled. “do you want me to keep going?”

and because you couldn't stop yourself, a little squeak of a laugh came out. “no, no i think i got it.”

“good, because i love you.”

your body couldn't help its natural reaction to his confession. your eyes squinted from the force of your smile. your cheeks hurt, but your heart was singing.

“you love me?” you said just loud enough for him to hear.

“best day of my life was meeting you in that stupid bathroom,” he said.

and it told you everything.

“better than wyatt’s birth?” your hands gripped his shirt nervously in your palms.

“there’s no wyatt without meeting you in our best friends’ guest bathroom.”

and because you couldn't help yourself, you said, “i love you too, nathan mackinnon.”

“just nate,” he said. “to you, i’ve only ever been just nate.”

january 13th, 2026

“nate,” you called as you came down the stairs. “you don't get to hog our daughter on her birthday. i’m the one who did all the hard work.”

you rounded the corner and saw your one year old in her father’s lap on the couch, a scrapbook in their laps.

“dada more,” wyatt said, lightly slapping the book with her little hand.

“more what, wyatt girl? what could you possibly want more of?”

you leaned against the doorframe and smiled to yourself. and, because you couldn't help yourself, you snapped a photo of the two of them. your old lockscreen was getting old anyway. you hadn't replaced it in two weeks.

“mama!” a shout grabbed your attention. your needy toddler held her hands out for you, so you obliged. as lovely a baby wyatt was, she’d proven to be a rambunctious toddler. 

as you walked up to them, you scooped your daughter up and pressed a loud kiss to her chubby cheek. she squealed in response.

“no kiss for dada?” nate playfully scoffed.

you rolled your eyes just because you could. because this was your life.

“sorry, dada, forgot all about you.” he leaned up and met you halfway, kissing you sweetly. “what're we looking at?” you asked. when you took the seat next to nate, wyatt in your lap, your eyes widened. “it’s finished? you finished the book?”

he looked so smug. “finished last night while you were asleep watching real housewives.”

“well, let me see it!”

he pulled away when you tried to reach for it. “patience, honey. i’m about to show you.” a moment later, he grumbled, “i see where wyatt gets it.”

you shoved his shoulder and scoffed. “i heard that, jerk.” you watched and waited for him to open wyatt’s baby book, but he put it on the coffee table. “what're you doing? you said you were gonna show me.”

“later, i wanna show you this one first,” he said, sliding a scrapbook you'd never seen before out from under the couch. 

your eyes widened, it was a lighter brown, like the color wyatt’s hair had turned after her blonde phase as a baby had grown out. “what is this?”

he shrugged. “thought it would be nice to have a family book too.”

he opened the cover.

he flipped the first page.

you immediately started crying.

the scrapbook first few pages were full of pictures that had to have been taken on nate’s phone over the years. there was a group photo from the night you'd met, standing on two opposite sides of the group, not knowing that in two and a half years, you'd have a kid and a future with each other. the pages blurred the further he flipped. photos of when you weren't looking, moments you didn't remember. the book, solid proof that nate had always seen you. there were photos of you at a bar with friends with his hand at your waist, back when you were just sleeping together. there were pictures at nate’s surprise birthday with his arm around your shoulders.

the pictures went on and on. after the games, the baby shower, wyatt’s birth, wyatt’s first avs game. there were so many fucking pages of photos you'd never seen before.

you were seen. there was proof you existed, proof you mattered. right in front of you, there was evidence that if you disappeared, there would be people who’d miss you, who’d need you. you were loved, by a group of people so massive you probably couldn't name them all from memory.

and you had this scrapbook, so carefully put together by the man you loved. a scrapbook full of photos but with lots of empty pages to accommodate anyone else you'd come across.

“god i love you,” you started, tears rapidly streaming down your face. “this whole thing might have been an accident, but if i had the chance to start over, i’d do it all on purpose.”

nate smiled wryly. “i wouldn't even take the chance,” he said. “why would i? this is everything i’ve ever wanted anyway.”

you stared at each other, wyatt had long since wiggled out of your lap to play with the stuffed penguin sidney gave her all too long ago. it'd seen better days, sidney had sent another, but wyatt was attached to the first one, you and nate were just waiting for the right time to switch them out and gaslight her into believing it’s the same toy she’d always loved.

“let’s go to the courthouse,” you said sporadically. “let’s just get married. like right now.”

nate laughed and shook his head. “oh you'll have to do better than that, honey. i have a plan and you're not about to ruin it.” he tossed an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple. “you’re just gonna have to be patient.”

you guffawed. “do i get a timeline?”

“nope,” he popped the p. “you're just gonna have to trust me, trust that i got you, because i know you.”

and because you couldn't stop yourself, not when you had the love of your life, the best little girl, all because the man in front of you ripped his stitches at a house party, you smiled the widest smile you ever thought you were capable of.

“you know me.”

fin.

[andy-15-07]

Can I request an Ilya Rozanov of maybe him x female reader, maybe female reader is like head wag and does something with the team but she's also Shane's twin sister? Something like that

Head WAG Behavior

Pairing: Ilya Rozanov x Reader

Word Count: 1015

Request open!

Ilya Rozanov Playlist | Heated Rivalry Masterlist | Ilya Rozanov Masterlist

Valentine's Day Masterlist

If anyone asks, you’re “very normal” about the fact that your boyfriend is a superstar and your twin brother is… your twin brother.

If anyone asks, the fact that you’re the unofficial organizer of the entire team’s partners is purely a coincidence.

If anyone asks, you did not just walk into the lounge with a clipboard like you run this place.

You absolutely did.

Shane looks up from the couch and immediately groans. “No. No, no. Not the clipboard.”

You tap the paper against your palm. “Yes. The clipboard.”

Ilya, sitting beside him, looks up with lazy interest,then his expression shifts into something fond.

“Privet, solnyshko,” he says.

Shane gags. Loudly. “Get a room.”

You point at Shane without looking away from Ilya. “Don’t start. You started a group chat called ‘WAG NATION’ and tried to add the coach.”

Shane lifts a finger. “I thought it would build team unity.”

“You thought it would be funny,” you correct.

Ilya’s mouth twitches. “It was little funny.”

You glance at him. “Do not encourage him.”

He raises both hands, innocent. “I do nothing.”

Shane points between you two. “See? This. This is why it’s weird.”

You sigh. “Shane, we’ve been over this.”

“It’s weird because you’re my twin,” he insists, horrified, “and he’s,” he gestures at Ilya like Ilya is a complicated math problem “,him.”

Ilya leans back. “I am charming.”

Shane squints. “You’re… a menace.”

You set the clipboard on the coffee table. “Okay. Enough. I’m here for business.”

Shane sits up straighter. “I hate when you say that.”

“You love when I say that,” you reply.

“I don’t.”

“You do,” Ilya says smoothly.

Shane stares at him. “Stop agreeing with her.”

Ilya looks at you. “What business, moya lyubov?”

Your stomach flips a little. Even after all this time, he still says things like that like they’re easy.

You clear your throat. “The team’s charity gala. The partners’ table assignments. Also,”

Shane groans again. “Tables?”

“Yes,” you say, flipping the clipboard around. “Because last year you let the guys seat themselves and they put the rookies next to the sponsor who hates swearing.”

Shane grins. “It was character building.”

“It was a disaster,” you say flatly. “Now. Ilya. You’re with me.”

Ilya’s eyes warm. “Always.”

Shane makes a gag noise again. “Can we stop saying couple things?”

You jab the paper. “Shane. You’re also with me.”

Shane’s smile drops. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m a player,” he says. “I don’t do planning.”

“You do when I ask,” you counter.

He crosses his arms. “You can’t make me.”

You tilt your head. “You want your girlfriend to actually enjoy the gala this year, or do you want her to text me crying because you ditched her to play poker with the defensemen?”

Shane’s face pinches. “…That was one time.”

“It was three,” you say. “And I got her an Uber and a cupcake.”

Ilya’s eyebrows lift. “You saved her.”

“I did,” you say.

Shane points at Ilya. “Do not romanticize this.”

Ilya’s gaze flicks to you, affectionate. “She is head WAG.”

You blink. “Head WAG?”

He nods, serious. “You run them.”

Shane mutters, “I hate that I agree.”

You sit on the arm of the couch, angled toward Ilya. “Okay. Here’s what we need: partners arrive at six. Photos at six-thirty. Speeches at eight.”

Shane waves a hand. “Boring.”

“You’re boring,” you reply.

Ilya reaches for your hand and laces his fingers with yours like it’s automatic. “I like when you boss people.”

You glare at him, but you’re smiling. “Of course you do.”

He leans in a little. “Because it is you.”

Shane makes a strangled sound. “I’m going to throw up.”

You kick his shin gently with your heel. “Shut up.”

He rubs his shin dramatically. “Abuse.”

“You deserve it,” you say, then look at Ilya. “Also, you’re coming to the partners’ brunch tomorrow.”

Ilya nods instantly. “Yes.”

Shane whips his head toward him. “You can’t just say yes to everything!”

Ilya shrugs. “Why not? She asks, I go.”

Shane looks at you, betrayed. “You trained him.”

You grin. “He’s just smart.”

Ilya squeezes your hand. “What do I wear?”

“Something nice,” you say. “No hockey slides.”

He frowns. “But my slides are comfort.”

“No slides,” you repeat.

Shane smirks. “She’s strict.”

Ilya looks at Shane, deadpan. “She is twin. She knows how to handle you.”

“Hey,” Shane says sharply. “Don’t team up on me.”

You flip the clipboard page. “Speaking of handling you,your sister is in charge of the team’s social calendar, and you’re not getting out of it.”

Shane stares. “I hate this.”

“You love me,” you reply.

He sighs. “Unfortunately.”

Ilya’s thumb strokes your knuckles. “I love you,” he says quietly.

Shane points at the ceiling. “There it is again. Couple thing. Illegal.”

You laugh, leaning into Ilya’s shoulder. “You’ll survive.”

Shane stands. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re not,” you say, without looking.

He pauses. “Why not?”

“Because you still haven’t approved the seating chart,” you say sweetly.

Shane drops back onto the couch like his bones are made of drama. “You’re evil.”

Ilya kisses your temple, soft. “She is powerful.”

You smile. “Okay, you two. Sign here.”

Shane squints. “Why do you have signature lines?”

“Accountability,” you say.

Shane looks at Ilya. “Help me.”

Ilya shrugs. “Sign.”

Shane groans, grabs the pen, and scribbles his name like it personally offended him.

“Happy?” he asks.

“Thrilled,” you say, taking the clipboard back.

Ilya watches you with that look,the one that makes you feel seen, treasured, chosen. Like you’re not just Shane’s twin or “a WAG” or an organizer.

You’re his.

He pulls you closer by your hand. “Come here.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

“So I can reward you,” he murmurs.

Shane stands up so fast the couch creaks. “Absolutely not. I’m leaving for real.”

You laugh as he storms out, shouting about “boundaries” and “trauma.”

Ilya’s arms slide around your waist.

“You are very impressive,” he says.

You grin. “Head WAG behavior?”

He nods. “My head WAG.”

You laugh softly, cheeks warm. “That sounds,”

“Correct,” he says, and kisses you like he means it.

[rustedhearts]

myshka (ballet instructor!ilya rozanov x fem!reader)

summary: studying ballet under the notorious ilya rozanov is not for the weak.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♱ the shane & ilya collection

tags: mean!ilya, maybe abuse of power ig, he throws a cigarette at her lol

note: obviously this is a completely original au and has nothing to do with HR other than that Ilya exists. so pls don’t comment ridiculous, stupid shit. also, I’ll preface that this is an adult ballet company (because I never explicitly mention it in the fic). also, obviously they’d be speaking Russian.

moscow, russia.

“Up, up, up, plié. Up, up—Nadiya, point your foot—up, plié.”

Though their eyes are meant to watch the mirror, the sets of gazes at the barres around the room follow only Ilya. He snaps his fingers to the beat of the song, timing the combination as he paces the space before the wall of mirrors.

“Up, up, up—“

Ilya interrupts himself with a sharp sigh, stalking toward the end of the barre. He stops at a dark-haired girl, who grows rigid at his approach. He bends and snatches her foot, previously flexed against her calf, and forces the shape of it into an arch.

“Point the foot, Nadiya. Harder. Harder, feel it in your fucking ass—yes!”

All heads snap back to attention toward the head of the room when Ilya claps his hands together once, like an echoed smack, and returns to his position by the mirrors. Cheeks and spines are flushed with heat, a sheen of sweat gathered under every leotard.

They all want him to look at them, nod his head approvingly, come over and touch their spines to correct. If he does, they’ll murmur about it in hushed voices at lunch in the stairwells, curled up in locked windowsills in heavy coats.

They watch his broad shoulders gleam under the yellow light, bleeding from the rafters above them. The black fabric of his tank top is thin and tight, pulled taut over the muscles earned from years of discipline. Equally dark pants hug his hips, fall to the ankle just above his slippered feet.

Ilya’s eyes roam along the barres, carefully watching the shape of the calves move, the arms change positions. He sees the girls as bodies, moving to his instruction. Each dancer will be molded to perfection when he’s done.

“And finish,” he announces, and the pianist in the corner moves his hands from the keys.

Ilya gazes around at the girls, their heads inclined toward the corner of the room, their hands carefully fashioned before them.

“Stasia, where is your head supposed to be?”

A blonde in the left corner quickly snaps her head in place, mimicking the girls around her. He watches the porcelain of her cheeks stain a wine red and hums.

“Good. Pointes, girls.”

A murmur of movement fills the room, bodies moving quickly toward the hallway where their bags are. Ilya likes to keep a clear studio, refuses to have water bottles and extra clutter filling the clean lines and spaces of the room meant only for dancing. He keeps a close eye on the shoulders shimmying through the narrow doorway, the tightly-wound buns bobbing up and down as they bend to fish their pointe shoes out of their bags.

He finds what he’s looking for as they begin to return. A different bun, a different set of shoulders, a pair of pearl earrings despite the rules.

“And where were you for warmup, Myshka?”

Ilya lifts his chin and watches the girl settle at the barre, eyes avoiding his at all costs. They dart his way fleetingly before returning to the mirror.

“I was late, I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

Ilya folds his arms over his chest, humming. “You are not new. Come up here.”

A swallow visibly falls down the column of her throat. She lets her hand leave the barre, her gaze tossed toward the friends she begins to trail away from. They keep their eyes straightforward, fearful of the penalty of snickers and giggles. They all made the mistake of poking fun at punished girls their first year, and they all quickly learned that Ilya’s discipline was not to be mocked.

If it’s so funny, you can join her, hmm?

Myshka slows to a stop in front of Ilya, who touches his finger under her chin to tip it up. Her eyes meet his slowly, cautiously. The heat in her face is palpable.

“Why were you late?”

Her fingers fidget in front of her, pulling at the skin of her knuckles. “My brother, he was not well.”

Ilya hums, moving his hand back to his arm where they’re crossed. “Late is late. I will be kind and let you use the barre this time.”

He steps aside and gestures with an open palm toward the shorter barre against the mirror, typically kept for his demonstration. Myshka nibbles her lip as she approaches, placing the fingertips of her right hand gently atop the bar, and letting her left arm extend into a graceful second position.

“Acht,” Ilya tuts, and watches her head snap back in the mirror. “Your left leg, Myshka.”

She swallows the huff gathering in her chest and whirls around, switching to stand on her left leg. She pushes to balance on the box of her pointe, arms in perfect position, right foot coupéd.

She turns to Ilya as she begins to lift up and down, a slow and precise relève that brings a swell of pride to his chest. He pushes it down with a curt nod, watching the next few pulses. A bead of sweat gathers at her hairline, a shine over her lip.

“Until I say,” he tells her, almost gently, and turns around to face the room again.

The girls are quick to snap back into stiffness, faces cool and blank. The soft breaths echoed between Myshka’s nose and upper lip fill the silence of the room for only a moment longer before Ilya nods to the pianist, and the next combination begins.

Sometimes, they worry he’s forgotten them. That they’ll be at the front of the room, working their calf to nothing but gelatin strings before he remembers they’re there. But Ilya never forgets. He likes them to think that, though. He likes them to settle in the shame, sit in the humiliation. It should be in their bones, etched like carvings before they’re done.

Myshka’s painted in hues of pinks and reds, bicep quaking in its erect position at her side, knee struggling to stay pulled back in a neat turnout by the time Ilya turns around and acknowledges her.

“Enough,” he says.

She drops to both feet with a heavy breath, but her shoulders never slump. Ilya waits, lets her sit in the bated, exhausted breaths of an earned consequence. And he’s about to tell her to return to her spot at the barre, to join the others for the next combination, when Myshka surprises him.

She whirls around and places her right hand on the barre, delicately hopping up on her right foot. She begins another sequence of one-legged relevés, pushing slow breaths through pursed lips. Her eyes are steady on the blank, eggshell wall. She makes no sound of torment.

Ilya feels a spark ignite like flint, rubbing in his chest. A sharp snap like a rubber-band recoil. He averts his attention back to the other girls before it becomes visible.

“Again,” he demands, hands coming together in another abrupt smack. “Point your fucking foot, Nadiya.”

The pianist hurriedly begins to play the combination again, and the room falls into a hush of focused limbs. Ilya tunes into the soft clunk of pointe shoes hitting the floor. He tries to place Myshka’s movement behind him in the slurry of sounds, but even in her agony, she’s in time with the rest of the group. He bites his tongue to kill a smile.

He turns mid-combo to place two fingers gently on the small of Myshka’s back, where her leotard suctions to her spine with sweat. The spandex is hot under his touch.

“Enough,” he murmurs, leaning over her shoulder to her ear. “Join the girls now, Myshka.”

The girl lowers to both feet, turning slowly. Her eyes flit to Ilya’s momentarily, their gazes snagging, and then she’s joining the herd at the barres. She settles between a bright blonde—Stasia—and a brunette—Nadiya. He sees them together in the stairwells sometimes, or heading off in a line of fur-covered shoulders down the street. Their heads huddled over the same table in the bistro on the corner.

Myshka falls in time with the combo, immediately diving into the motions of up and down, up and out, around and around. Ilya watches her for a moment, watches her eyes glaze over with a certain focus.

He tears his eyes away from Myshka and sets an intense glower on a girl up front.

“You,” he spits. “You are dancing like a fucking bull. Are you a bull?”

Myshka watches near the end of the barre and lets her lip curl up under the canopy of her hand passing by.

♱ ♱ ♱

The girls break for lunch around 2:00. Nadiya and Stasia hurry for the hall, practically begging Myshka with only their desperate gazes to quicken her tired feet so they can berate her.

But Myshka lingers, intent on the mirror before her and the combination they ended on. She repeats the motions, flexing and pointing, arms opening, closing, reaching, legs sailing, lines stretching and spinning.

Ilya returns from down the hall, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He glances over his shoulder at Myshka, the last remaining dancer in the room. She lands from a long-legged leap and pants absently.

“It is lunch,” he tells her. “Go with the other girls.”

The pack taps against his palm once, twice, and then he pulls a cigarette from the foil to place it between his lips. A lighter clicks and hisses, and he turns as he takes his first drag. Myshka hasn’t moved except to wipe the sweat from her lip with the edge of her wrist.

“I need the extra time.”

Ilya puffs a breath of smoke out from the corner of his mouth, but doesn’t remove the cigarette. He makes himself busy with sheet music, arranging the post-break combinations for the pianist to play. Myshka’s arms move in his periphery, miming the different positions of the previous instruction.

He watches from the corner of his eye as she turns.

Ilya pulls the cigarette from his mouth and motions with it. “Keep your leg higher. It slips when you come around.”

Myshka stops, prepares herself for the turn, and repeats it. Ilya watches her leg slip again, just slightly. He places the cigarette back between his lips and closes the gap between them, hands gentle at her waist.

“Bring to arabesque.” He taps on the side of her right thigh.

Myshka brings her leg up, arms assuming proper position. Ilya grips her right leg by the thigh, just above her knee. He braces her waist with the other hand at the base of her spine and pulls the leg up, pulsing it.

She holds all the breath she can in her throat. She makes herself firm for him. She makes herself the wind-up toy he wants them to be—her to be.

“Feel it there?” He pushes on the space above her hip. “Squeeze that muscle when you pull up. Feel it.”

He releases her, stepping back to give her room. He pinches the cigarette between his fingers and watches Myshka turn again. A deep sigh escapes him when her leg slips once more. Though he could tell she tried to take his direction, anything less than perfection could not be tolerated here.

It was how Ilya learned to dance growing up. Damned with instructors much harsher than himself, Ilya spent his formative years with the understanding that with perfection came pain. There could not be one without the other.

If he wanted to be the best, he had to bleed for it.

He teaches his girls the same, though not all of them take it to heart. Myshka does. He can see it in her eyes.

“Again,” Ilya barks, yanking at her hip to pull her leg back. He presses down a little harder on her spine. “Here. Pull the muscle, focus.”

He steps back again, jaw clenched tightly, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. Myshka turns again, but it’s not what he wants. She can go higher, can use the muscle more. He sees the potential in her movements, in the juxtaposing precise freedom of her body.

“Again.”

Myshka steadies, inhales deeply, and perks up on her right foot. She catches her own gaze in the mirror before she turns, and finds it once more when she falls down to both feet again.

Ilya’s breath leaves him like a hiss between his teeth, and in his frustration, the cigarette flings from between his fingers to the floor beside her. The butt bounces off her arm on the way there and she yelps, placing her palm over the small sting.

When she turns to Ilya, he’s glowering, the predatory glare he gave to Sveta earlier—but maybe a little worse. More intense, more focused. He was not being cruel to hurt her, like Sveta. He was pushing her because he knew she had it in her. He knew she could be more.

Ilya takes one step forward, finger pointed at Myshka, fist tight. The lines of his face are hard and stern, the wideness of his shoulders stretched to broad enormity.

“Do it again, and do it fucking right.”

He stays there, leaving himself in the path of her pirouette. But Myshka does not adjust. She inhales deeply through her nose again, inflating her lungs and raising her shoulders. They fall again, squaring to the clean lines Ilya demands. Her arms assume position, she finds her spot in the mirror, and she turns.

Ilya watches her body move closely. In just the short instance of the single pirouette, he finds the tension in her arms, the muscle flexed in her hip and thigh, the bulge of calf muscle in her supporting leg built from years of study. The pearls in her ears gleam under the lights in blurs of opalescent white as she spins.

When she lands, Myshka turns to him with shallow breaths and hot cheeks. Her hands ache to find her hips, to brace herself and heave in much-needed air. But she waits in attention like a well-trained soldier.

And Ilya remains the same. Hard, stern, a commander in black. His eyes flick down her body once, taking note of the tremble in her limbs and the spot of blood on the side of her right pointe.

He turns, crossing the room to the pile of sheet music again. The soft shuffle of papers in his hands fills the silence of the room and masks the pounding of Myshka’s heart in her ears.

“Go to lunch,” is all he tells her.

And Myshka, brandishing a pink half-circle on her arm and an open wound on her small toe, holds her breath, and goes.

♱ ♱ ♱

By the end of the day, Myshka’s done all she can to shake the rattled feeling lunch left her with. She left the studio at Ilya’s request and joined her friends at the bistro on the corner. They shared a cigarette at a cold, open table in the snow, and sipped black coffees between peals of gossip.

“He likes you,” Nadiya insisted. “He doesn’t yell at you. Did you see the way he came after me today?”

“I still had to do the punishment. He treats me just like everyone else.”

The coat she shrugged on as she exited the studio hid the scrape of the cigarette butt on her arm, but she found herself thumbing at it through the dark fur of her sleeve. Her mind wandered to the intensity on Ilya’s face as he threw it, the schooled coolness; the terrifying calm that came when he turned into the man that Russian ballet whispered about. The Ilya Rozanov the women of past years warned all the newcomers to be wary of.

It was a privilege to study under him, to be molded by his mighty hand. But not everyone can survive it.

Myshka isn’t sure she will either.

Back in the studio, she goes through the final hours of practice with her mind elsewhere. Her body moves numbly through the motions, eyes steadfast on the wall, the mirrors, her pointe shoes between combinations. And Ilya does not correct her, does not call out to admonish.

Though, Nadiya’s right—he has it out for her today.

“Fuck’s sake—Nadiya! Who taught you to dance, an idiot? Do you need to go back with the babies? Mama hold your hand on the way in?”

He’s in her face, crowding over her and causing her to shrink back. The other girls avoid looking, leaving only their peripheral as access to the scene. Nadiya’s face is a violent shade of pink.

“Do you want to be here?”

The room hums with silence. Myshka feels like all the air hangs by the ceiling, and trying to breathe down here is like being under water. All remains still under Ilya’s wrath.

“I asked you a question,” he drones. Even when he shouts, he always sounds bored. “Do you want to be here, Nadiya?”

The girl nods, a loud swallow slipping down her throat. Ilya gets a little closer, leveling their gazes. He can smell her lip balm, she can see the faint freckle beside his eye.

“What?”

“Yes, Mr. Rozanov.”

“Then fucking dance like it.”

Bodies around the room flinch at his bellow, including the poor Nadiya under the shadow of his height. He storms away, returning to the head of the room where he claps his hands and spreads his arms. He motions to the pianist, who begins the combination again.

“Again,” Ilya demands. “On fucking time.”

They begin again.

“One, two, three—find it, Nadiya, or get out of my fucking studio—two, three, four—again!”

In the end, either Nadiya finds the timing or Ilya stops caring, because he finishes with a tired sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You’re dismissed,” he sighs. “Come back tomorrow with your fucking brains, please.”

The girls are slow to slip into the hall, casting wary glances at each other as they go. The corridor fills with a low murmur as they mutter to each other, still too fearful that he’ll hear to truly speak.

“Myshka,” Ilya barks as the girl heads to follow.

Myshka stops, pointe shoes clunking over to Ilya when he motions for her to approach. She stops a few feet from him and he curls his fingers in again.

“Come.”

She closes the distance with slow, steady steps. He grips her by the elbow when she gets there, turning her arm over to peek at the half circle on her flesh. He drops her arm and hums, rubbing the edge of his thumb under his eye.

“You kept your leg up, after the break. Was good.”

Myshka gives a small nod. “Thank you.”

Ilya folds his arms over his chest, and her eyes flash toward the pale, silvery circle on his forearm. A similar scar, the same kind of burn. His lip twitches slightly at her recognition.

He reaches out and ticks the underside of her chin with his finger. A bright warmth settles in her chest like hot honey. Sticky and sweet, a deserved treat. This is the closest thing Ilya gives to a ‘well done.’

“Get the lights on your way out.”

Myshka’s thumb finds the scathe on her arm again as she heads to the door. She pulls on the light switches, encasing the room in a grey dullness. Ilya moves in the dark, shuffling, collecting his things. A hat pulled over his head, the fur flaps long to keep his ears warm. A black coat, buttoned to the throat. Gloves kept in the left pocket.

She isn’t thinking when she turns around, listens only to the silence in her head rushing with blood and a heavy heartbeat as she crosses the room. When she reaches Ilya, he startles slightly in the dark, fumbling with his coat.

“Myshka—“

She perks up on her pointes, hands bracing his wide shoulders, and presses their mouths together. His is open, stunned with surprise. She exhales into it, eyes fluttering shut. Ilya’s stock-still before her, rigid in every way.

She knows she isn’t imagining it when he relaxes his jaw and begins to kiss back. He keeps his tongue to himself, though, only lips exploring. Myshka remains polite with her searching tongue. She’s sweet and takes like sweat, and he tastes like the cigarettes she’s smelled every day for ages. Even as she kisses him, as she breaks every rule, she hopes he can’t taste her own lunchtime cigarette in the back of her mouth. She worries for the consequence, even now.

Ilya’s hands are on her hips then, pushing her down with one rough shove. Their lips detach with a noisy smack, and she wobbles off kilter on her shoes.

“Myshka,” he sighs, and her eyes adjust to the light when they blink open. His brows are furrowed above her, mouth flat.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, but the words are stale with dishonesty in her mouth.

Ilya huffs, wiping his hand over his mouth. The other remains near Myshka, hovering above her hip like a doll.

“Fuck.” He hisses, stepping back with heavy boots.

He shakes his head, hands coming to surrender near his shoulders. “Go home.”

Thoughts come back to her like spitballs, firing from all different directions in her head. Shame, guilt, and fear flood her like overlapping tidal waves, smacking left and right. She inhales sharply, and suddenly the full ache in her arm becomes a violent sting.

“But—“

“Myshka,” Ilya bites, running both hands down his face and then motioning toward the door. “Go. Home.”

He turns in the dark, away from her toward the mirrors. He moves like a shadow in the reflection, a mass of black as he brings his hands to his head. Does it hurt him to kiss her? Did she just ruin her career in five seconds flat?

Swollen and thrumming with regret, Myshka scurries out of the dark room and into the dim light of the hall. Her friends are gone, leaving a blank hall that echoes every breath. Her bag sits in a rumpled pile of black fabric, the drawstring for her pointes bloodied.

She collapses on the dirtied grey floor, cold under the thin tights on her thighs. She scrapes and claws at the delicate ribbons of her pointe shoes until they unravel. The shoes make their way into the bag, zipped into the duffel. She swings the strap over her arm, feet finding her snow boots with a numb, unfocused intention. Ilya has not left the room. The stairwell is so quiet. She feels like she might be sick.

Myshka hurries down the winding stairwell, metal rattling with every frantic step as she goes.

Ilya remains in the studio, smoking a cigarette in the dark, and thinks of how soft her lips were.

[darkkdamsel00]

BLUE LINES & BLOODLINES

Pairing: Ilya Rozanov x Pike!Sister!Reader

Summary: After a secret one-night stand with her brother’s biggest hockey rival, she chooses to raise her daughter alone, hiding the truth to avoid scandal and protect her family. Five years later, Ilya Rozanov discovers he has a child and demands to be part of her life, turning a heated sports rivalry into a deeply personal battle.

As anger, betrayal, and legal tensions rise, both parents must confront the past and learn to co-parent for the sake of the little girl who binds them together, proving the hardest game they will ever play is not on the ice, but in building a fragile and unexpected family.

Chapter One - The Secret Between Rivals

Chapter Two - The Hardest Game to Play

Comment if you want to be in the taglist!

[depressednarwhal]

Heated Secrecy

tw: labor

Chapter 29

-—-

The move from the bedroom to the living room felt like a journey across a frozen tundra. Y/N leaned heavily on Ilya, her wet joggers replaced by a soft robe, her steps slow and deliberate. Every few feet, she had to stop, her breath hitching as a fresh wave of pressure rolled through her.

With their help, Y/N stepped into the warm water. The relief was instantaneous; she let out a long, shuddering moan as the buoyancy took the weight off her aching hips. She knelt in the center of the pool, her arms draped over the inflated rim, her head resting on her folded hands.

The boys hovered over her, one on each side. Ilya was a silent, looming presence, his hand resting on the back of her neck, his thumb stroking the base of her skull in a rhythmic, grounding pattern. Shane, however, was a frantic blur of motion. He was adjusting the lighting, hovering with ice chips, and whispering "you’re doing great" every thirty seconds in a voice that was an octave too high.

As the morning sun climbed higher, the contractions turned into something primal. Y/N’s groans shifted into deep, guttural sounds that vibrated through the water. Her body was no longer just tightening; it was getting ready to push, an involuntary force that made her back arch and her teeth grit.

Shane watched her, his face growing paler with every surge. The perfectionist in him—the man who spent hours analyzing game tape to avoid a single mistake—was hitting a wall. He saw her pain, the raw, unshielded reality of it, and a wave of helplessness crashed over him. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick, too hot. His hands began to shake, the bowl of ice chips rattling with a frantic, metallic sound.

"I... I'll be right back. I'm going to get more ice. Or towels. I'll..." He trailed off, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Before Ilya could even respond, Shane practically bolted toward the kitchen.

Ilya didn't move for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Y/N, who was lost in the peak of a wave. Once she exhaled and went limp against the side of the pool, Ilya looked toward the kitchen. He saw Shane leaning over the sink, his head hanging low, his shoulders shaking.

Ilya gave Y/N’s shoulder a final, firm squeeze and looked at Cathy, who gave him a knowing nod. He walked into the kitchen, finding Shane gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles were white.

"Shane," Ilya said, his voice a low, commanding rumble.

Shane turned, his face pale and his eyes swimming with tears. "I can't," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Ilya, she’s in so much pain. I don’t know what to do."

Ilya didn't soften his expression, but he didn't pull away. He stepped closer, invading Shane’s personal space until their foreheads were almost touching.

"You are here," Ilya said, his blue eyes fierce and clinical. "That is what matters."

"But I feel like I'm failing," Shane choked out, shaking his head. "I'm supposed to fix things, and I can't fix this. I'm useless."

"You are being an idiot," Ilya said with his trademark bluntness, his hand moving to grab the back of Shane's neck. "You think she needs you to be a doctor? She has Cathy for that. She needs to see your face when she opens her eyes. She needs to know you are not running away because it is 'too hard' to watch."

He gave Shane’s neck a sharp, bracing shake. "You are strong, Shane. You handle more pressure than anyone I know. Do not fold now when she needs that strength the most."

Shane took a jagged, shuddering breath, the logic of Ilya’s words finally cutting through the fog of his panic. He looked at Ilya and saw the same terror he felt, just buried under a layer of Russian steel.

"Go wash your face," Ilya commanded. "Drink some water. Then come back. We are doing this together."

Shane nodded, a bit of the old captain's steel returning to his spine. He turned to the sink, splashing freezing water over his face until his skin stung. He took a long, deep breath, patted his face dry, and stood up straight.

"Okay," Shane whispered. "Okay. I'm good."

-—-

The living room was thick with the scent of lavender oil and the humid warmth of the birthing pool. Y/N was kneeling in the center, her forehead resting on the cool, inflated rim. The transition was relentless now; Cathy had checked her a short while ago and confirmed she was at 7cm. The "marathon" had turned into a climb up a vertical cliff.

Shane had abandoned his shirt and socks on the rug, stripping down to his shorts to climb into the pool behind her. The warm water swirled around his waist as he sat on his heels, his large, powerful hands splaying across the small of Y/N’s back. He leaned his weight into her with every surge, his muscles bunching as he provided the heavy, steady counter-pressure she craved.

"Right there," Y/N breathed, her fingers digging into the vinyl of the pool. "Don't stop, Shane. Don't move."

"I've got you," Shane whispered, his chest pressed against her back, his skin damp with steam and sweat. "I'm not going anywhere. I’m right here, okay? Focus on my hands."

As the contraction ebbed, Y/N turned her head to the side, her eyes finding Ilya. He was sitting on the floor just outside the pool, his long legs tucked in, his arms resting on the rim so he was eye-level with her. He looked uncharacteristically soft in the dim morning light, his usual sharp edges blunted by the gravity of the room.

"Ilya," she rasped, her voice trembling. "Talk to me. Anything. Just... don't let me think about the next one."

Ilya reached out, his hand hovering before settling gently on her damp hair. He wasn't a man of long speeches, but for her, he found the words.

"I was thinking about the first time we saw the scan," he started, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through the water. "How you looked at the screen and then at me, and I realized my life was never going to be simple again. And I liked it. I realized then that I didn't want it to be simple if it didn't have you in it."

He let out a short, huffing breath, his thumb tracing the line of her temple as her eyes stayed locked on his. "I have loved watching you grow, Y/N. I know you hate the joggers and the heavy feeling, and the way you walk like a penguin sometimes, but to me... you have never looked better. Every week you got bigger, it was just more of you to love. More of this family. I liked seeing the baby move under your skin; it made it feel real, like we were finally building something that couldn't be traded or sold."

Another wave started to build, her body tensing under Shane's hands, but Ilya didn't stop. He leaned closer, his blue eyes intense, pulling her focus away from the tightening in her gut.

"I think about the winter," he murmured. "When we take them out to the pond for the first time. I will buy the smallest skates they make—custom, because they are our baby. Shane will try to teach them how to play nice and follow the rules, and I will teach them how to actually win. I'll teach them how to get under the other kids' skin just like I did to Shane."

"Hey," Shane grumbled softly from behind her, though he didn't stop the pressure on her back.

Ilya ignored him, his focus entirely on Y/N. "I look forward to the quiet mornings here. Just us. No fans, no reporters, no hockey. Just the three of us and this little person who has no idea how lucky they are to have you as a mother. I want to see you holding them and finally getting to sleep without someone kicking your ribs from the inside. We are so close, zoloto. Just a little more."

Y/N let out a long, shaky exhale, the contraction peaking and then slowly, mercifully, beginning to fade. Ilya’s rambling had worked—for a few minutes, she wasn't a woman in labor; she was just a woman being loved by two men who were ready to give her the world.

"Keep talking," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as she leaned toward his touch. "Don't stop. Tell me about the cottage in the summer."

-—-

The humidity in the living room was suddenly broken by a sharp, clinical shift in the air. Cathy, who had been observing Y/N’s vocalizations and the rhythm of her surges, knelt by the side of the pool.

"You're making incredible progress," Cathy said, her voice a calm, grounding anchor. "But I think it’s time to move to the position you actually want to birth in. The place where you're going to meet your daughter."

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, wide and filled with a sudden, sharp anxiety. She looked at the hallway, then back at the water that had been her only sanctuary. "The bedroom," she whispered, her voice fracturing.

Shane moved instantly, his arms sliding under hers to provide the leverage she needed to find her footing. As she rose from the pool, the buoyancy vanished, and the sheer, crushing weight of gravity took over. Ilya was waiting at the edge with a massive, open towel, his large hands immediately locking onto her arms to keep her steady.

The air between the three of them changed the second she stood upright. Shane braced her left side, his shoulder tucked firmly under hers, while Ilya took the right, his grip on her arm unyielding and solid. They shared a single, heavy look over her head—a silent acknowledgment that the long hours of waiting were behind them. This was the final stretch.

Supported entirely by their strength, Y/N made the slow, agonizing trek back to the master bedroom. Each step was a battle against a downward pressure that seemed to increase with every inch they gained. They guided her to the bed, maneuvering her with practiced care until she was settled back against the mountain of pillows.

For a heartbeat, it was just the three of them—a quiet, private pocket of the world. Cathy had lingered back in the living room for a moment to gather the final birth kit and supplies.

But as soon as Y/N's weight hit the mattress, her face transformed. The anxiety shifted into something primal. Her eyes glazed over, her chin tucked into her chest, and her hands gripped the sheets until the fabric groaned.

"Something's different," she gasped, her voice dropping an octave into a guttural, terrifying sound. "Oh god... Shane... Ilya... I can't stop it!"

She let out a low, involuntary grumble, her body arching as her muscles began to work with a force she couldn't control. The sound was unlike anything Shane or Ilya had ever heard. It wasn't a cry of pain; it was a sound of work—relentless and automatic.

Both men froze, stunned into a temporary, wide-eyed silence. Shane’s hand stayed poised mid-air, his heart hammering against his ribs, while Ilya’s grip on the bedpost tightened until the wood creaked. They stared at her, paralyzed.

Shane swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper as he looked toward the open door where Cathy was just entering.

"Cathy..." Shane said, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and pure, unadulterated shock. "Cathy... I think we're pushing?"

Cathy stepped into the room, her presence breaking the spell. She didn't need to be told. She saw the way Y/N was breathing, saw the stunned expressions on the men's faces, and moved into position at the foot of the bed.

"I'm right here," she said, her voice steady and clinical as she snapped on her gloves. "That’s it, Y/N. Don't fight that feeling. If your body wants to push, you follow it."

Ilya blinked, finally shaking off the shock. He reached out and grabbed Y/N’s hand, his knuckles white as she squeezed him, while Shane moved to her other side, bracing her shoulder and pressing his forehead against hers.

"Right here," he breathed, his voice a steady rhythm against her skin. "We’re right here."

The long night was over; the wait was done. In the quiet of the cottage, under the watchful eyes of the two men who loved her most, the real work of bringing their daughter into the world had finally begun.

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