Hey Jo , I love your stuff , I wanted to request either MacKinnon or Sid , where they invite reader to a game and it’s her first time going and she gets hit with a puck
The Accident – Nathan MacKinnon
When Nathan texted you that morning - “do you want to come to the game tonight?” – it looked casual, like it meant nothing huge, but you knew better.
This wasn’t just any night; this was your first time seeing him play in person, your first time stepping into his world instead of waiting for him to come back into yours.
You stared at your phone longer than you should have before answering: Yeah. I´d love to come.
He sent back a thumbs-up, then, a minute later: I´ll leave your family pass at will call. Text me when you get there. That was how he was – direct, focused, already halfway into game mode even hours before the puck dropped.
By the time you got to Ball Arena, the place was already alive.
People in jerseys filled the sidewalks, some laughing, all of them moving with the same purpose.
You felt slightly out of place in your simple outfit, even though you had tried to match the team colors without looking like you were trying too hard.
Inside, everything was louder.
Music echoed off the walls, screens flashed highlights, and the smell of food hung in the air so prominent it almost made your stomach growl.
You picked up your pass at the place Nathan had sent you to, your hands just a little shaky, and followed the signs until you found the section your seat was located in.
It was better than you expected. Close enough to see faces clearly, not just numbers on jerseys. That alone made your stomach flip.
Sitting down, you clutched your phone like an anchor as you sent him a message: I´m here.
You didn’t expect him to reply this shortly before gametime but a few minutes later it buzzed in your hand: Good. I´ll look for you during warmups.
Warmups were different than you imagined.
The players came out casually, like it was just another routine, but the energy in the building shifted immediately.
Fans crowded closer to the glass, kids banged on it at the same time, and pucks started flying across the ice with sharp, clean sounds.
You stood without realizing it, scanning the ice until you spotted the familiar number 29.
Nathan moved differently than everyone else.
It wasn’t just speed – it was control. Every stride looked deliberate, every pass precise. Even in warmups, there was this intensity to him that didn’t fade.
For second, you wondered if he would actually see you or if that was just something he said casually to make you feel better.
Then, as if he had heard your thoughts, he glanced toward your section, but you weren’t sure if he could pick you out.
There were too many people, too much movement, but then his gaze settled, and you felt his eyes land on you.
He didn’t smile – he rarely did in this setting – but he lifted his stick slightly in acknowledgement before turning back to whatever he was doing.
It was small, quick, but it was enough to make your heart race.
You didn’t know much about hockey beyond basics, but it didn’t take long to get pulled in.
The speed surprised you the most – the was everything happened in seconds, the constant shift from offence to defense, the physical hits that made the crowd react instantly.
You started to understand why people loved this.
Midway through the first period, Nathan scored.
It happened so quickly you almost missed it – a clean pass from Martin Necas, a sharp move, and then the puck was in the net and his teammates were crowding him on the ice and the arena exploded around you.
You stood too, caught up in it, your chest tight with something that felt like pride.
He skated past the glass during celebration, and for a second, you thought he looked toward you again.
You couldn’t be sure, but the idea stayed with you for longer than you wanted to admit.
By the second period you felt more comfortable.
You relaxed into your seat, letting yourself enjoy the game instead of worrying about how you looked or whether you were reacting in the right way.
You even found yourself shouting a few times, joining the crowd when things got intense.
That was probably why you didn’t see it coming.
The play had shifted toward your side of the rink. Players crowded near the boards, sticks clashing, skates scraping against the ice.
The puck got pinned for a second before suddenly popping free and shooting upward.
You barely had time to register what was happening.
There was a sharp, cracking sound, and then something slammed into you.
Pain hit instantly, bright and overwhelming, centered somewhere near your shoulder and collarbone, the force knocking you back against your seat, breath leaving you in a rush.
For a second, everything went quiet.
Then the noise rushed back all at once. People were shouting, someone was asking if you were okay, the game whistle blew.
You blinked, disoriented, your hand moving instinctively to where it hurt. The area was already throbbing, the impact radiating outward in waves.
“I- yeah,” you said automatically, even though you weren’t sure.
An usher appeared almost immediately, crouching beside you. “Are you hurt?”
The pain was sharp, but you could still move your arm. “I think I´m okay,” you mumbled, though your voice sounded uncertain even to you.
“Let´s get you checked out anyways,” he said firmly.
At first, you wanted to argue and tell him that it wasn’t a big deal, but as you tried to stand, the ache intensified enough to make you wince. “Okay,” you agreed quietly.
The walk to the medical room felt longer than it should have.
Your adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a dull, persistent pain.
You replayed the moment in your head – the sudden movement, the impact – trying to make sense of how quickly everything had changed.
The medical staff was calm and efficient around you.
They asked questions, checked your range of motion, pressed gently around the sore area. “Looks like a bad bruise,” one of them explained. “You´re lucky. It could have been a lot worse.”
You nodded, even though “lucky” didn’t quite match how it felt.
They gave you an ice pack after and told you to rest for a bit, leaving you to sit there, holding it against your shoulder, staring at the floor.
Your phone buzzed in your pocked.
Nate: Are you okay? I saw what happened.
Your chest tightened when you saw his name.
I I´m fine. Just got checked out. Bruised but okay.
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately, then disappeared, then came back.
Nate: I´m coming down in a second.
You frowned at the screen.
But just a few minutes after you sent the message the door opened.
Nathan stepped inside, still in full gear except for his helmet. His hair was damp, his expression tight in a way you hadn’t seen before.
“You got hit with a puck,” he said, like he needed you to confirm it to him.
“I´m okay, Nate,” you assured, lifting the ice pack slightly as proof. “Just a bruise.”
He moved closer, his eyes scanning you quickly, assessing. “Where?”
You shifted the pack some more to show him.
He didn’t touch you right away, but his hand hovered for a second before he let it drop. “You should have been sitting further back,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
You almost laughed, even though the discomfort. “I didn’t think I would get attacked.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “Pucks don’t usually care what you think.”
“I´m really fine,” you assured again, softer this time.
He exhaled slowly, like he was trying to release the tension from his body. “I know. I just…” He stopped, shaking his head. “I didn’t like seeing that.”
You studied him for a moment.
This version of him – the one standing in a medical room instead of on the ice – felt different. Less controlled.
“I´m okay,” you repeated again.
He nodded like he was finally accepting that. “Stay here a bit, okay? Don’t rush back out.”
“Says the man that is in the middle of a hockey game,” you pointe out.
He hesitated, clearly not wanting to.
“I´ll be fine, Nate,” you added.
After a second, he nodded again. “Text me if anything changes.”
“I will, even though you won´t be able to read it.”
He lingered for a moment longer, then turned and left again.
You stayed there for the rest of the period, letting the pain settle into something manageable.
By the time the third period was halfway over, you felt steady enough to go back.
You returned a little more cautiously this time, flinching slightly whenever the puck came too close.
The game picked up again, intense and fast. You tried to focus, but part of your attention stayed on the lingering ache in your shoulder.
Still, when Nathan got the puck, you watched.
Near the end of the game, he assisted on another goal.
The crowd roared again, and you found yourself smiling despite the pain.
As the final buzzed sounded, the energy in the arena shifted into celebration. Fans stood, clapping and cheering as the player acknowledged them.
You weren’t sure where to go after.
People started filing out, but your phone buzzed again
Nate: I sent someone to bring you down to the locker room, but I´ll be a bit.
Downstairs you met some of the other wives and girlfriends. Some you already knew, some that were new to you but greeted you like they had known you forever.
It took the first players about an hour to appear.
When Nate appeared, now back in his pre-game outfit, his hair still a little damp from a shower.
He walked toward you with purpose, his gaze locking onto yours immediately. “You stayed,” he concluded.
He glanced at your shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore,” you admitted. “But it´s manageable.”
There was a brief silence before he spoke again. “Not exactly how I planned this night to go.”
You shrugged lightly. “I still had fun and I really enjoyed watching you play in real life.”
That seemed to settle something in him.
“Next time, I´m getting you seats next to the other partners, they´re higher up.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That sounds less exciting.”
“I don’t care about exciting; I care about you not getting hit by a puck again.”
There was something in his tone that made your chest tighten again, but for a different reason.
You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Okay.”
He softened but still hesitated before speaking again. “You still want to come again?”
You didn’t have to think about that. “Nate, I´ll come to as many games as I possibly can.”
He nodded once, leaned down to kiss you properly, before whispering “Good.”
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