Connor Bedard x fem!reader || fluff, mild swearing
description: Connor Bedard has a lucky routine for everything - until one accidental "good luck" from his sarcastic neighbour ends the Blackhawks' winning streak. Convinced her relentless teasing is somehow his real lucky charm, he comes up with a plan.
Chicago in early November had a way of making the cold feel personal. It wasn't the dramatic, snowy kind. It was rather damp and windy, the kind that crept through your coat and settled in your bones before you'd even reached the corner. At eight in the morning the sun was still half-asleep, the sidewalks glistened from last night's drizzle, and the lobby of your apartment building smelled like fresh coffee and wet wool.
Your dog trotted happily beside you, blissfully unaware that normal people hated mornings. You wrapped both hands around your double espresso, trying to steal whatever warmth was left in the cup as you pushed through the front door.
Someone caught it before it swung shut.
You glanced up. It was your neighbour.
You didn't know much about him beyond the obvious. Quiet. Polite. Lived on the same floor as you. Was a captain of Chicago Blackhawks. Left at strange hours carrying enough hockey equipment to stock a sporting goods store.
Today was no different. A duffel hung off one shoulder, two sticks tucked under one arm. His hair still looked slightly flattened from sleep.
You took another sip of your coffee.
"Against Minnesota, huh?"
"Yeah, right." He looked at you for a second. "Wait, you know who we're playing?"
"I've accidentally learned more about the Blackhawks than I ever planned to."
Your dog decided this was the perfect moment to investigate a neighbour from 3b walking past you, nearly wrapping his leash around your legs. While you untangled the mess, you looked back at Connor.
"Well... try not to fall over today."
You exaggerated an awkward stumble, nearly spilling your own coffee in the process.
"The entire internet has seen it, Bedard."
The clip of him eating ice during warmups had been published a few days ago and went viral. Somehow it ended up on everyone's for you page, yours included.
"It wasn't even during the game," he defended himself and then laughed through an exasperated sigh and shook his head.
He started backing toward the parking garage.
"Don't make friends with the boards this time."
"You too have a nice day." He rolled his eyes with a smirk on his face.
The Blackhawks beat Minnesota that night.
You only found out because ESPN insisted on sending you notifications you forgot to turn off.
Good for them, you guessed. Good for your weird neighbour, too.
A week later you were heading back from your morning walk with the dog when the elevator doors opened. Connor stepped out looking like he'd packed for six months.
Suit, winter coat, one large suitcase and his huge hockey bag.
"No. Flying out to Colorado for the night."
"You have another game already?"
He pulled the suitcase behind him before adding, almost apologetically, "It's basically every other day."
"...That sounds miserable."
"It has its moments." He shrugged.
He was halfway across the lobby when you called after him.
"Maybe hit the net tonight."
"...That's literally my job."
"I know." You smiled sweetly. "Would be pretty embarrassing if you couldn't do the only thing you're paid for."
"I'll remember that." A laugh slipped out before he could stop it.
Chicago won that night again.
By now it had somehow become... a thing. Not that either of you would've admitted it. Of course not.
You ran into Connor again in the mail room a few days later. He was sorting through letters with the same concentration most people reserved for tax returns.
"Funny enough, I'm actually going to your game tonight."
"My friend from Massachusetts is visiting."
You fished your mailbox key out of your bag.
"So apparently I'm spending my evening pretending I understand icing."
"I also bought decent seats."
"So your little skating thing better be worth the money. The tickets were expensive."
"My little skating thing?" Connor leaned against the row of mailboxes. "Where are you sitting?"
You looked at him suspiciously.
"So I know where exactly to shoot the puck."
"So you can properly appreciate how little my skating thing actually is."
You couldn't help laughing.
The Blackhawks won that night as well. Blackhawks' captain Bedard also scored a hat trick. Apparently, the game was indeed worth the money.
Two mornings later you were grabbing coffee across the street when you spotted Connor loading his gear into the trunk of his SUV. The pedestrian light had already started counting down. No chance. You cupped your hands around your mouth instead.
Without thinking, you called back, "Good luck!"
That was it. No joke. No teasing this time. Just... good luck.
That night your phone buzzed. ESPN again. You really should figure out how to turn off the notifications.
Blackhawks lose 4–3 in overtime. Winning streak is officially over.
Before bed you watched Connor's postgame interview out of curiosity. He looked tired more than anything. Frustrated in the quiet way people get, when they know exactly what went wrong but can't change it anymore.
"We had our chances," he said. "Just didn't capitalize."
You closed Instagram and went to sleep without giving it another thought.
Connor was on the other hand still worked up from the game. Somewhere between the locker room and the team bus, a ridiculous little thought wandered into his head.
She didn't make fun of me today.
He actually snorted at himself.
He wasn't twelve. He was playing in the NHL. There were all sorts of ridiculous superstitions but there was absolutely no universe where his performance depended on his sarcastic neighbour roasting him in the apartment lobby... Still.
It was the only thing that had been different today.
Monday evening found you exactly forty-three minutes behind schedule. What was supposed to be a quick shower had spiraled into the full everything-shower - hair mask, exfoliator, shaving... Every bottle currently living on the edge of your bathtub had somehow been involved. The mirror was still completely fogged over, one leg was moisturized, the other definitely wasn't, and you were halfway through rubbing body lotion into your arms when someone knocked.
Three quick raps you could easily ignore, since nobody was supposed to come over. You were about to leave for the bar night with your girls and had absolutely no time for anything else.
Another knock. Longer and louder this time.
Your dog sprang off the bath mat and started barking like the building was under attack.
You glanced toward the clock. You were already late for drinks with the girls. Shit.
The knocking came again. Persistent. For God's sake!
"Alright! Jesus, I'm coming."
You tied your bathrobe a little tighter and padded to the front door, your dog squeezing between your legs, determined to defend you and the apartment.
You opened it. Connor stood there looking oddly frantic - hockey bag over one shoulder, car keys in his hand. He was slightly out of breath. He looked ready to launch into something... Instead he stopped.
He frowned, almost distracted.
You looked down at the bottle still in your hand.
"Oh. Yeah." You held it up. "Lotion. Vanilla lotion."
"So..." you said. "What are you doing here?"
His brain seemed to catch up with the rest of him.
"I need you to do the thing."
"The..." He gestured vaguely between the two of you. "You know.. Before games."
"I honestly have no clue what you're talking about."
"I don't say mean things. They're jokes."
"Fine." He checked his watch. "The jokes. Whatever." Another glance at his watch. "Please."
"I have to be at the arena in twenty minutes."
"And everyone should stick to their routines."
"So I didn't change anything before Colorado." He started counting on his fingers. "Same breakfast. Same workout. Same drive. Same order getting dressed."
"The only difference..." His shoulders dropped. "...was that you wished me good luck last time."
You stared at him for a second and then laughed.
"You think me saying 'good luck' made Blackhawks lose in overtime?"
"I don't know but I also can't prove it didn't."
You rubbed your forehead.
"I've heard hockey players are superstitious... But this..." You pointed straight at him. "...this is clinical."
Connor didn't even look offended.
"Sidney Crosby has routines."
"I'm sure they're nowhere this ridiculous."
"...Probably not. But if Sid's doing routine stuff, I'm doing routine stuff."
"That is some spectacularly bad logic."
It wasn't dramatic or manipulative. Just... weirdly sincere. Like he knew this was completely insane and had decided to commit anyway.
"You told me not to fall over."
"I had a good game after that."
"So..." He spread his hands. "...do it again. Please."
You let out the longest sigh of your life.
"You are unbelievable, Bedard."
"No, I don't think you have." Another sigh. "...Fine."
Connor nodded immediately.
"And maybe try shooting at the net."
"It's literally the biggest thing standing there on the ice."
"I don't know how you miss it, honestly."
Connor let out a breath that almost sounded relieved.
He stopped himself, straightened his shoulders and put on an exaggeratedly offended expression. He pointed toward the elevator.
You looked at the single elevator at the end of the hallway and laughed.
"You're terrible at this."
He checked the time again.
"Oh crap. Gotta run. Bye!"
Instead of waiting for the elevator, he shoved open the stairwell door and disappeared two steps at a time.
You stood there blinking after him. What... Was.. That?..
You leaned into the stairwell.
"YOU'RE OFFICIALLY A LUNATIC, BEDARD!"
Your voice echoed all the way down.
"DON'T FORGET TO SHOOT THE SMALL BLACK ROUND THING!"
A second later his voice floated back up.
It was almost 1 a.m. when you got home. The underground garage was nearly empty, quiet except for your footsteps bouncing off the concrete. You'd barely locked your car when someone yelled -
You nearly had a heart attack. Whirling around, you instinctively held your keys between your fingers. Connor was leaning against his SUV, grinning like Christmas had come early. Your pulse was somewhere in your throat.
He immediately started laughing.
"What is wrong with you?"
"You don't sneak up on women in parking garages at midnight!"
Still muttering, you started toward the elevator. Connor hurried after you.
"Okay." He was still smiling. "I'm sorry."
"...Yea, not really." Nothing seemed to bring him down and erase the grin from his face.
The elevator doors opened.
"You scared at least ten years off my life."
"Media wrapped around eleven.. I've been down here since... eleven-thirty?"
"You've been sitting in a parking garage for almost an hour?"
"I watched highlights from the game." He pointed upward. "Also our Wi-Fi reaches down here."
The elevator started moving.
"The comments. I scored twice."
You couldn't help smiling.
"Well... Congratulations?"
"I still think it's complete nonsense."
"Maybe." He shrugged. "But we're chasing a playoff spot."
"And I'm not risking it."
"The amount of pucks that went to your head over all these years finally shows. You are actually insane."
"Wildberry? The pancake place? You can insult me there before I head to the airport tomorrow."
The elevator chimed and you stepped out together.
"I genuinely think you'd have better games if you spent less time organising breakfast dates... and more time working on your stickhandling."
Connor laughed immediately.
"Save that one for tomorrow."
He started walking backward toward his apartment.
"I'll pick you up at eight. You can take your dog. Actually please take your dog with you."
"You also didn't say no."
His grin somehow got even bigger.
"It absolutely is. I'll see you tomorrow."
He unlocked his door, then looked back.
"And for the record... You are right - I should probably spend more time practicing.."
"But I also want to take you on a date. So we'll start with this tomorrow."
Before you could answer, he disappeared inside and his door clicked shut. You stood alone in the hallway, staring at it for several long seconds.
Somehow, you'd ended up agreeing to breakfast with your hockey-playing neighbour because he genuinely believed your sarcastic insults were good luck. Which was absurd. Completely absurd.
So why were you already wondering what you were going to wear?
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