Kavkaz fighter x gf!Reader ... including Islam Makhachev, Khabib Nurmagomedov, Usman Nurmagomedov, Umar Nurmagomedov, Khamzat Chimaev đ«§âïžđȘ·
Context: What kind of TikTok couples trend would you film with your boyfriend?
Masterlist link
â.àłàż*:
Islam Makhachev
The "I just found your friend on Hinge" trend
You two are on the couch at home having designated social media doomscrolling time. Your legs are lying lazily atop of his as he mindlessly rubs circles on your thigh with one hand, the other holding his phone. You sneakily line up your camera hit record on TikTok
"Oh my god. I just found Amru on Hinge!" You pretend to look shocked at your phone screen. Islam doesn't even budge, too engrossed with whatever wrestling reel he's watching. "Hinge? What's that?" "You know, the dating app. I can't believe he's on there!"
Islam now looks up from his phone. But it has yet to register in his brain as he stares off into the distance, thinking hard about Amru. "I mean... He is single... But why a dating app? He is handsome, no? Why does he not just.."
He finally snaps his head towards you, brows furrowed and lips downturned in a scowl. "Wait! Why are you on a dating app!"
You burst out laughing as Islam lunges over to grab your phone, only to realise that you had been filming him the entire time. He tuts disapprovingly and tosses your phone aside, giving you an exhausted but amused smirk.
"That is not funny," he says, feigning offence as he pouts. "I knew Amru would never go on a dating app..."
Khabib Nurmagomedov
The "This is my current boyfriend" trend
You and Khabib had just come home from a shopping spree â it was Khabib's treat after being away for training camp. After every shopping spree, it was mandatory that you did a haul for your private TikTok account (which Khabib had grown used to and actually actively participates in).
You two sit on the floor in between your living room couch and the coffee table so you could prop your phone up and film the two of you. Khabib gets comfortable, adjusting all the shopping bags in front of you for easy access before spreading his arm out casually across the couch cushions as you hit record.
"Hi guys! Welcome to another haul! So today, my current boyfriend and I went to the mall at â" Khabib immediately flinched and reels his body back from you in horror.
"What did you say?" You pause, trying to hold in your laughter. "What? I said we went to the mall today." "No, before that. What did you call me?"
You're practically biting down on your lip now trying to contain your giggles, and that just gives the whole prank away. The look of utter shock on Khabib's face starts morphing into a look of amusement.
In the blink of an eye, Khabib jumps at you and wraps his arms around your shoulders. He basically has you in a rear naked choke as he smothers one side of your face with slobbery kisses. "Stop!" You yell out, laughing so hard your ribs are starting to hurt. "I need to film my haul!" "Current boyfriend. Don't ever say this bullshit again."
Usman Nurmagomedov
The "Pretending he forgot about date night" trend
Usman had just gotten home from a midday training session, and as you hear the familiar sounds of his footsteps walking towards your bedroom, you quickly hit record on your phone.
"Hi baby â Oh! Are you going out?" You're sitting at your vanity in front of your phone with a beauty blender in hand, pausing your concealer application to look at Usman through the vanity mirror. Fully committing to the bit, you let your shoulders sag as a disappointed pout appears on your face. "You forgot?"
Immediately, Usman's face drops. You can see the gears in his head turning furiously trying to remember what it is that you're talking about. To no avail. So you double down. "Usman, I can't believe you forgot about this. I've been talking about date night for weeks now!"
You feel almost bad as Usman sputters helplessly trying to find the right words. "Baby! I â I promise you... It's not that I forgot! I just... Wait...." He whips out his phone and scrolls through his calendar app, only to find today blank with no reminders. Now Usman knows for a fact he always, without fail, marks down date nights in his calendar solely to avoid moments like this. And when he looks up from his phone, he spots your phone screen recording and his mouth hangs open.
"Are you pranking me?" You can't help but laugh as Usman throws his hands in the air, absolutely defeated. "You are horrible! I nearly died there!"
Umar Nurmagomedov
The "Asking if you can order fries at a restaurant" trend
You and Umar were out at a burger chain restaurant for date night. You two were sat across each other in the booths looking at the menu when Umar raises his hand to get the attention of the waiter. You smile subtly and set up your camera at the edge of the table.
"Hello. Can I get a beef double cheeseburger with Coke Zero?" The waiter, a young teenage girl, nods diligently as she jots down Umar's order on her notepad. Umar looks up at you expectantly, a genuine and loving smile on his face.
"Hi. I'll have the chicken burger with ranch sauce please, and..." You look up at Umar, faking a look of concern on your face. "Babe, am I allowed to have the fries today?"
Umar's jaw drops open in dismay. He looks frantically between you and the waiter. "What? Of course! I swear I've never â When have I..." He starts to gesture wildly at you, eyes wide and panicked. The waiter, who obviously knew about this trend, covers her mouth with her notepad and stifles a laugh before nodding and walking away to the kitchen.
"Babe!" Umar whisper-yells at you as you erupt in laughter. "You can't do that! I let you eat fries all the time!" You start tearing up with laughter, unable to even answer him. Umar simply rolls his eyes. He isn't angry more so than he is entertained by your antics.
"You know what?" Umar raised his hand and catches the waiter's attention again. "What're you doing?" "I'm ordering you two portions of fries since you wanna be funny now."
Khamzat Chimaev
The "Saying I want to go home" trend
You're over at Khamzat's apartment all tangled up in his bedsheets. Khamzat's sitting at his desk across the bedroom. He had just bought the new UFC video game and he was playing it on his PC for the past two hours while you doom scrolled on his bed. You angled your phone at him and pressed record before faking a big yawn.
"I think I'm gonna go home." Khamzat, who had his headphones covering only one ear, abruptly paused his game and turns to you. "What?"
"I said I think I'm gonna go home now." Khamzat immediately takes off his headphones and walks over to you, his eyes full of worry. "What. No no no, don't." He pleads softly as he climbs onto the bed to lie on top of you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.
"I'm sorry. Did I take too long on the game? I stop now. We can go sleep now." He mumbles, hugging you tightly. You stifle a laugh as you turn the camera to film him â it's such a rarity to capture this soft side of your boyfriend. "Yeah? You wanna cuddle now? My little baby..." you ask with an exaggerated baby voice.
Sensing something was off, Khamzat lifts his head up and spots the camera. He lets out out a groan and snatches the phone away from you immediately before aggressively rolling over to the other side of the bed. "You are mean. I will not cuddle."
daryl dixon would absolutely call his girl âbambi.â
not because itâs cute. because it makes sense.
he notices movement before faces, footsteps before voices. heâd clock immediately that she couldnât make it twenty feet through the woods without catching a root, stumbling over a log, or snapping enough sticks underfoot to send every deer running.
the first time, âstumblinâ around with two left feet like bambi. gonâ get us killed.â brushing past her.
as time passes, i can just hear him shaking his head with that little half-smirk and going, âcâmere, bambi.â
bf!jobe He's definitely the type to wrap his arms around you from behind while you're making food, resting his chin on your shoulder just because he missed you.
bf!jobe Jobe loves making you laugh. If he gets one of those loud, uncontrollable laughs out of you, he'll grin like he's just won a trophy.
bf!jobe He's always finding excuses to hold your hand. Watching a movie, waiting in line, driving his car, it doesn't matter. His fingers somehow always end up intertwined with yours.
bf!jobe Jobe's surprisingly clingy after being away for a few days. The first hug lasts longer than usual, and for the rest of the day he's never more than an arm's length away.
bf!jobe If you're both lying together, he'll absentmindedly trace little circles on your arm or the back of your hand while you talk about your day.
bf!jobe He'll always walk on the outside of the sidewalk without thinking about it.
bf!jobe If you're standing between his legs while he's sitting down, he'll naturally wrap his arms around your waist and refuse to let go for a minute.
bf!jobe He'll whisper little jokes during serious moments just to see you trying not to laugh.
bf!jobe If you get embarrassed after he compliments you, he'll gently tease you about it for the rest of the day.
bf!jobe If you're wearing lip gloss, he'll kiss you anyway, then complain that now he's wearing it too.
Summary: Your reputation as head of creative for the Charlotte Hornets precedes you. The first year on the job helped establish the team as one of the most marketable in sports based on potential and brand identity. This means you constantly have to come up with new things, eye catching graphics, photoshoots, theme nights, the list goes on. That means no time for dating or distractions. But what happens when your little sister is getting married, your parentsâ whispers that youâre allergic to longterm commitment are getting louder and a stable relationship looks better for your personal brand? One harmless lie turns into a seven-month holiday filled, mutual agreement with one of Charlotteâs most beloved former athletes.
franco isn't the only one coming to miami with a new wag; however, kimi was just better at hiding you until now.
kimi antonelli x doe-eyed!f!reader àšà§ warnings : language, fan culture, hate comments, yn is mentioned to have bambi-like eyes àšà§ note : if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!
àšà§ potential new story! an anon asked me like a week ago (maybe, time is an illusion) if i thought about doing like a kimi ver. of lando's heart and originally i didn't have any ideas but then boomâ this just came to me! let me know what you all think!
olliebearman glad to finally get to meet you! really thought kimi was catfishing us for about a month đ
blytheyn would've made a great catfish episode i'm sure!
kimi.antonelli why you gotta doubt me like that đ
anyamarino ahhhhhhhh i hope you have an amazing time!!
blytheyn already so beautiful!! very overwhelming đ but kimi and his family are here as well
đ may 1, 2026
clip #1 â ummm đł WHO is that with kimi's little sister???
the clip starts out shaky before its zooming in on you and maggie. the two of you holding hands, swinging them slightly as you listen to maggie talk.
you smile down at the younger girl, your free hand holding onto your bag to keep it from slipping down your shoulder. you say something in response to kimi's sister which has her nodding excitedly before the two of you walk a little faster. clearly weaving through the crowd of people before taking a corner and disappearing from view.
đ€ : whoever this chick is maggie seems to love her lol
đ€ : wow she has really pretty eyes đłđł and very cute fashion too
đ€ : internet find this girl!! get to it people!!
clip #2 â WHO IS THIS GIRL WITH KIMI đđ
the clip is taken after the fp1 â kimi walking through the paddock back to the mercedes hospitality. the camera catches him signing a few things and taking quick selfies with fans before he's finally reaching the hospitality.
however, the camera keeps recording â showing kimi through the glass, but also catches you jogging up to kimi and the two of you hug. kimi is seen hugging you back, even picking you up before putting you down. clearly teasing you as you are both caught laughing.
the clip ends when the two of you disappear from view and further inside the hospitality.
đŹ comments :
đ€ : this is the same girl that was spotted with maggie earlier!
đ€ : oh her eyes are so pretty...
đ€ : oh the way she ran to him... guys i think they might be dating
đ€ : wow they kind of look cute ngl đ„șđ„ș
đ€ : i give it a day before the internet figures out who this girl is
đ may 2, 2026
f1gossipofficial netizens have reportedly found the instagram of the girl spotted with kimi and his little sister yesterday. her instagram is private but kimi along with ollie, gabi, isack and their girlfriends seem to be following her. could this be kimi's new girlfriend đ
View all 32,389 comments
user no way they already found her
user okay but like "bambi girl" is literally SO fitting for her
user i thought the same thing esp with those eyes
user real life blythe doll
user interior design is actually lowkey kind of cool
user the blythe doll pfp is actually SO cute i'm in love with her already
user you don't even know her...
user this is so fucking weird đ how do you guys know that kimi is even dating her????
user vibes
user okay fair enough
user lol looks like franco isn't the only one trying to debut a new wag to the grid đ€Ș
user hope kimi wins so he can impress his girl đ đ
user o h i just KNOW her instagram EATS with the pfp alone
bambiupdates kimi's new girl "bambi" was spotted at a flea market in miami today before she arrived at the track for quali!
đ· credits to kimis0ul via twitter
View all 10,119 comments
user you all are fucking crazy
user yoooooo what do you mean people are already talking pictures of her in public??? she's obviously private so please respect that đ
user omg i vote we call her bambi đââïž
user i agree!!! bambi is a very cute name and suits her really well
user how do we even know kimi is potentially dating her???? what proof do you all have???
user people are just going based off that one clip of seeing her with kimi's sister i think unless i'm missing something...
user she's probs just a gold digger or clout chaser đȘ
clip #3 â kimi and his new mysterious girl at the paddock together
the clip is shaky and filmed from above to down on the paddock. people are moving around, noise everywhere and it seems like the person filming is just hoping to catch a glimpse of any driver.
"oh my god â there's kimi!" someone behind the camera says. it shakes again before zooming in on where kimi is walking, but he's not alone.
"who is that?"
"i think its his girlfriend."
you are there next to him, the two of you walking closely together through the crowd. kimi is seen looking back at you â probably checking you haven't gotten lost before the camera is catching him reaching for your hand. both your hands are intertwined as kimi continues to guide you both before you're coming up to the mercedes hospitality.
"they're holding hands!!"
you are seen saying something, kimi leaning closer to hear you as you both walk up the ramp. the video cuts once the two of you head inside, kimi opening the door for you and his hand dropping to your waist for a split second.
đŹ comments :
đ€ : so they're at least friends
đ€ : do friends hold hands like that????
đ€ : HIS HAND WAS ON HER WAIST AT THE END đ±đ± that's crazy work chat
đ€ : is SHE the reason kimi and eli broke up????
đ€ : she just looks like a homewrecker honestly
đ€ : new wag alert and i'm honestly obsessed with her
clip #4 â KIMI KISSED BAMBI AFTER HIS WINNNNNN đđ
taken from the actual f1 broadcast and reposted onto tiktok.
the clip shows the camera following kimi as he rushes to his family. hugging and kissing his parents and sister before he's reaching for as many mercedes team members he can. then he's turning back to his family â hand stretched out to reach behind them.
kimi's dad is seen turning to gently push you forward â eyes wide like a deer as kimi grabs you and brings you to the barrier. the camera catches the two of you smiling to each other, your hands resting on his shoulders as his hands cup your face. you say something to him that isn't caught by the cameras and kimi is grinning before he's kissing you.
"oh! and here you have kimi antonelli getting a kiss from his girlfriend! how cute!!"
kimi makes sure to kiss you one more time before he's being pulled away.
đŹ comments :
đ€ : NEW WAG NEW WAG NEW WAG
đ€ : that hard launch is so insane â kimi is iconic for doing it during his win on the official f1 broadcast HFKJSDHFKSDHF
đ€ : even the announcers called her his girlfriend đ€§đ€§
đ€ : she's not even that pretty guys like come on...
đ€ : she even wore polka dots like a lot of the other wags too đ that's so cute â guys i love bambi so much already!!
đ€ : where did kimi even find her lol
bambiupdates kimi confirms in his post-win interview that bambi is indeed his girlfriend! congrats to the new couple đ
KA : [...] and i would also like to thank my girlfriend for taking the time out her busy schedule to be here with me and my family. this is her first race so i'm glad she got to see me do well and win.
đïž : did you promise to dedicate this win to her before the race?
KA : haha, i was going to but she told me "don't you dare" so i'm just going to say no comment on that part.
View all 32,948 comments
user omg it was her first race!! that's so cute!!
user i wonder how long they've been dating for him to say that đ€
user its had to have been at least a few months
user he moved on from eli QUICK if this was relationship is longer than two months
user pls đ two months is still too quick. this new girl must be the reason they broke up â i'm calling it now
user she knew if he promised to dedicate this win to her he was going to lose like that meme where the guy misses the basket đ
user that's exactly what i was thinking lol
user so we are all just agreeing to call her bambi?
user yep!
user i mean... she does look like a deer with those doe-eyes of hers so i mean why not đ
user franco đ€ kimi = bringing their new gfs to miami
user does anyone know anything about kimi's gf??
user nope đ looks like she's going to school for interior design but not much else is known bc her insta is private and the relationship is still too new to us
user that's a shame cause she looks really nice! i seen the video of her with kimi's sister and they are too cute
blytheyn and kimi.antonelli just updated their stories !
replies to kimi.antonelli story
user WAIT SHE'S SO CUTE KIMIIIIIIII
user đđđđ
user thank you for posting your girl đ completely obsessed
blytheyn why did you steal my pic đ„č
kimi.antonelli bc i thought you looked super pretty and wanted to show you off đ„ș
blytheyn đ€šđ€šđ€š
blytheyn suuuuuuuuuure
kimi.antonelli don't be mean i just won a race đ
đ may 4, 2026
f1atelier photos are just placeholders! yn doesn't have an actual faceclaim please imagine yourself or whoever you want in these pictures! thanks.
youngest daughter of Hughes family AU+SMAU masterlist!
the newest addition!
Baby Hughes comes home to her older brothers for the first time. They are little shocked and confused of the new baby girl coming into their family.
Smile If....
Ella doing the smile if you want a new sister trend on her brothers!
Not Today
Hughes brothers trying to rage bait Ella but she doesn't care
Apology Not Accepted
18 year old Jack and 14 year old Ella fighting over something stupid then getting caught (inspired by the scene in lilo & stitch iykyk đ«Ł)
Golf Day
Golfing with the Hughes family will never be normal. Ella spends the morning teasing Jack nonstop on the golf course, picking apart every swing. When she finally takes a turn, she somehow beats her brother's butts and completely loses it laughing. She spends the rest of the day bragging, leaving her brothers and parents totally helpless.
Ow!
late night giggles with the siblings <3
Not so Perfect
after Ella gets her hair done, her brothers ruin it.
BFFs or Sisters?
ella and y/n surprising the media
Nights alone
mainly ella missing her brothers while at college also spoiler where ella goes to college!
"the world belongs to you
they all say you're a light; all I see is a shadow"
warnings: language. mentions of sexual relations. underage relationship. teen pregnancy. abandonment.
summary: you're sure you'll never forgive him for what he did to you, he'll do anything to make it right with you.
request: yes
song: willing and able - noah kahan
word count: 6.2k
a/n: well here's part one!!!!! i hope you guys like it and i hope it makes up for the two month absence :((( i missed you guys and will be back to posting regularly!!! also i won't upload the request for this one yet because it'll spoil the build up and the ending!
part one | next part
â
You were fifteen when you first thought you experienced love. He was fifteen too, and you both seemed so sure. You'd met at a rink, because of course you did. Cole Harbour wasn't that big, and everyone knew everyone, and Sidney Crosby was already the boy everyone talked about. The one who was going somewhere. The one who was special.
But when you were fifteen, he wasn't Sidney Crosby future NHL superstar. He was just Sid. The boy who held your hand during movies and bought you hot chocolate after his games. The boy whoâd talk about hockey for hours if you let him. And you'd let him, because you loved watching him love something that much. You thought maybe one day he'd love you like that too.
Then you were sixteen, and you felt it was love. He'd kiss you goodnight on your parents' porch, and you'd go inside and giggle about him on the phone with your friends like some lovesick idiot. Your friends would tease you about it and you didn't even care. You went to every single one of his games, screamed yourself hoarse in the stands, and he'd find you afterward and pull you into a hug that made everything else just vanish.
Then you were seventeen, and you knew it was love. Because seventeen was the year you were really put to the test. He'd gotten drafted into the QMJHL, was playing for Rimouski, and suddenly there was distance between you. Not just physical distance, but he was chasing something bigger then and sometimes you felt like you were fighting for scraps of his attention. But when he came home, god, when he came home it was like nothing else mattered. He'd show up at your door at odd hours and you'd sneak him up to your room and just lie there with him. He'd tell you about the games, about the pressure, about how scared he was sometimes that he'd mess it all up. And you'd tell him he wouldn't, that he was brilliant, that he was going to do incredible things. You believed it with your whole heart.
You also started having sex that year. Clumsy teenage sex that was so awkward and also so amazing. You tried to be safe, you really did. Condoms most of the time, pulled from his wallet or your bedside drawer with shaking hands. But sometimes you got careless. Sometimes you didn't think, didn't stop, just fell into it like you were drowning and didn't care. And it felt like love, it felt like forever, so what did it matter?
And then you were eighteen, and you knew it was all make believe.
You were barely an adult and fully 100% pregnant. The test sat on the edge of your bathroom sink, those two pink lines unforgiving against the plastic. You'd taken three of them just to be sure and they all said the same thing. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. The word didn't even feel real at first.
Sidney was in Ottawa. The draft was happening and you were home staring at a positive pregnancy test. The timing couldn't have been worse. You knew that. You knew you should wait, should tell him in person, should give him time to process before dropping a bomb on him. But you were eighteen and terrified and you needed him. You needed him to tell you it was going to be okay, that you'd figure it out together, that he still loved you.
So you texted him from your clunky little phone. You don't even remember exactly what you said. Something like, "We need to talk. It's important. Call me when you can." And then, because you couldn't help yourself, because the fear was eating you alive, you sent another one. "I'm pregnant."
You watched the draft with your parents that night. They sat on the couch and you curled up in the armchair. You heard Sidney's name called, first overall to the Pittsburgh Penguins, and your dad whooped and your mom clapped and you smiled and said something about how exciting it was. And the whole time, your phone sat silent in your pocket.
He didn't call or text that night. You told yourself he was busy, that it was the biggest night of his life, that of course he couldn't drop everything to call you. But a cruel voice in the back of your head told you that maybe he just didn't want to. That maybe you'd finally asked for too much.
The text came two days later. You were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the nausea that had been plaguing you all morning. Your phone buzzed, and your heart leapt. Finally. Finally, he was going to call, going to tell you he loved you, that you'd get through this.
But it wasn't a call. It was a text. And it was the meanest thing you'd ever read in your life.
Sid: Do not do this to me.
Sid: I'm not ready to be a dad.Â
Sid: You need to take care of it.
Sid: Don't contact me again. We're done.
The words didn't make sense. They couldn't make sense, because this wasn't Sidney. This wasn't the boy who held your hand and kissed your forehead and told you he loved you. This was some stranger, some cold unfeeling stranger who didn't give a shit about you or the baby you were carrying.
You tried to call him. Of course you did. But it went straight to voicemail. You called again. And again. And again, until your hands were shaking so badly you could barely hold the phone. Nothing. He didn't pick up. Didn't call back. Didn't send another text.
You tried to convince yourself he was just freaking out. That he was overwhelmed, that the draft and the pressure and everything had gotten to him, and he'd come around. He'd apologize, and you'd probably make him beg for your forgiveness, and then you'd figure it out together. You had to believe that. But the days turned into weeks, and your phone stayed silent.Â
It was like you'd ceased to exist. Like the last three years, all those nights whispering secrets in the dark, all those promises of forever, had meant absolutely nothing. You knew that it was over. That it should have been over the second he sent you that text. But you were eighteen and heartbroken and you kept hoping. Kept making excuses for him. Maybe his phone was broken. Maybe he lost your number. Maybe someone else had sent that text as a joke. Stupid, desperate thoughts that you clung to. You knew what you'd done was stupid. You knew you should have been more careful, should have used protection every single time, should have been smarter. But you'd thought it was love. You'd thought love was enough.
On the night of September 21st, the night of Sid's first preseason game with Pittsburgh you had this moment of clarity. You were sitting in your room, ten weeks pregnant and entirely alone, and you finally let yourself admit the truth. It was over. He'd left you pregnant and in the dust for his career. He truly cared so little about you that he couldn't even be bothered to call, to check if you were okay, to ask what you'd decided. You were nothing to him. You'd never been anything to him.
You pulled out your phone and read those last messages over and over again until you memorized the words.
Then you took the phone apart, you pried out the SIM card, and destroyed it. You used a hammer from your dad's toolbox, smashing it against your bedroom floor until it was nothing but tiny, unrecognizable pieces. He'd never get in touch with you again. Ever. You'd made sure of it.
Then you gathered up everything. Every single thing he'd ever left in your room. His Rimouski hoodie that you slept in. The stuffed penguin he'd won for you at a carnival. The pictures of the two of you, grinning and happy and so fucking naive. The mixtape he'd made you, full of songs that would probably make you cry now. The phone, then a useless piece of shit. All of it went into a garbage bag that you shoved into the back of your closet where you wouldn't have to look at it.
That was the night you told your parents.
You found them in the living room, your dad reading the paper and listening to the radio coverage of the game, your mom watching some cooking show. They looked up when you came in, and you must have looked like hell because your mom's face immediately shriveled with concern.
"Sweetheart? What's wrong?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "I need to tell you something."
Your dad put down his paper. "Okay."
"I'm pregnant."
Your mom's hand flew to her mouth. Your dad just stared at you. They said nothing to you for what felt like 10 minutes but you could feel how disappointed in you or maybe ashamed of you they were.
"How far along?" your mom asked finally.
"Ten weeks."
"And Sidney?" your dad said, and there was something in his voice you'd never heard before.
You swallowed hard. "He doesn't want anything to do with it. With me. He told me to... to take care of it. And then he blocked my number."
"That goddamn kid," he muttered, and then louder, "I'm going to kill him."
"Dad... Please. It doesn't matter anymore."
"It does matter," your mom said, and she was crying then. "Oh, baby. I'm so sorry. This is... are you keeping it?"
Were you? You hadn't let yourself think that far ahead. But now, with your parents looking at you you realized you didn't have a choice. Not really.
"I um," you said. "I think so."
Your dad was the quietest he'd ever been in your life after that. The radio, the one that had been a constant presence in your house for as long as you could remember, never turned on again. Not for hockey games, not for anything. He shut it off and that was that.
Your mom, on the other hand, was convinced it was all just a big misunderstanding. "Maybe he didn't get your texts," she'd say. "Maybe his phone really is broken. Maybe someone's doing this. You should try to reach out again, sweetie. I'm sure he'd want to know."
But you didn't because deep down, you knew. He knew. He just didn't care.
Those nine months might have been the worst of your life. You were so lonely. So, so lonely. You had no one. Your friends had all left for college, scattering across the country to start their new lives, and you were stuck in Cole Harbour with a growing belly and a broken heart. You didn't go out. You couldn't stand the thought of people seeing you, of them whispering about you, about how Sidney Crosby got you pregnant and left. About how stupid you'd been to think he'd actually stay.
So you stayed home. You did the appointments, the ones your mom drove you to because you didn't trust yourself behind the wheel when the nausea was that bad. You took the prenatal vitamins she handed you every morning with a glass of orange juice. You did all the prenatal fuckery, the classes and the breathing exercises and the reading about what to expect. All of it. No matter how fucking embarrassed and terribly sad you were.
Embarrassed because you were pregnant by the community hero. By the kid everyone in Cole Harbour was so proud of, the one who'd made it, who was living the dream. And he got to continue on his merry way, playing hockey and winning games and being celebrated, while you were stuck, growing his baby and trying not to lose your mind. Embarrassed because you'd thought you meant more to him than you did. You'd thought you were special, that what you had was real. But you were just another girl.
And sad. God, you were so sad. Sad for the college you were supposed to go to, the acceptance letter you'd gotten to that turned into just a piece of paper in a drawer. Sad for all the games you were supposed to root for Sidney in, all the times you'd imagined yourself in the stands, wearing his jersey, cheering him on. Sad for all the calls and texts you were supposed to share, the late night conversations and the "I love yous" and the plans for the future. Sad for the life you were supposed to have, the one where you weren't a teen mom struggling to figure out how to even change a diaper. Sad for the fact that you'd fucked it all up by being a reckless teenager who thought love was enough.
You gave birth on a rainy afternoon in April. Your mom was there, holding your hand and whispering encouragements, and your dad was in the waiting room because he couldn't handle seeing you in pain. The labor was brutal and by the time they placed the baby on your chest, you were so exhausted you could barely keep your eyes open.
"It's a boy," the nurse said, smiling. "Congratulations, mama."
A boy. You had a son. You looked down at him, at his tiny scrunched up face and his dark hair, and the worst part was that it all felt like it was for nothing. You didn't feel the rush of love everyone had promised you. You didn't feel that overwhelming maternal instinct, that immediate connection. You just felt empty. And then guilty for feeling empty.
"Have you thought of a name?" your mom asked, smoothing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.
You had. You'd thought of a hundred names, written them down in a notebook and crossed them all out. But there was one that kept coming back, one that Sidney had thrown out there once. You'd been lying in his bed, his hand on your stomach even though there was no baby there yet, and he'd said, "If we ever have a kid, we should name him Beau. It means handsome in French, right? And he'd be handsome, just like his dad."
You'd laughed and told him he was ridiculous. But now, looking at your son, you couldn't think of him as anything else.
"Beau," you said quietly. "His name is Beau."
Your mom smiled, though her eyes were wet. "That's perfect, sweetheart."
But it didn't feel perfect. Nothing felt perfect. You were a teenager with a baby on your hip, living in your childhood bedroom, and you were so angry all the goddamn time. Angry at Sidney for abandoning you. Angry at yourself for being stupid enough to get pregnant. Angry at Beau, which made you feel like the worst person in the world, but you couldn't help it. You couldn't help resenting this tiny, helpless baby who'd ruined your life.
You couldn't connect with him. You fed him and changed him and rocked him when he cried, but it felt like you were going through the motions. Your mom did most of the work, cooing over Beau and cuddling him and doing all the things you felt like you should be doing but couldn't. Your dad, who'd been so quiet during the pregnancy, came alive around Beau. He'd hold him for hours, talking to him in this soft voice you'd never heard before, and Beau became his best friend.
And you felt like you were drowning. Like you'd dug yourself into this hole and you couldn't claw your way out. You felt like a terrible mother like you were failing at the one thing you were supposed to be good at. You turned nineteen with a baby. Your mom made a cake, your dad sang happy birthday, and Beau slept through the whole thing. You blew out the candles and didn't make a wish, because what was the point?
Those first eleven months of his life were even harder. Harder than the pregnancy, harder than the labor, harder than anything. You were exhausted all the time, running on maybe three hours of sleep a night. Beau cried constantly, and you didn't know how to soothe him. You'd walk him around your room at two in the morning, bouncing him and shushing him and begging him to please, please just sleep. And sometimes you'd cry too because you didn't know what you were doing and you felt so alone.
But then Beau turned one. Your mom threw him a little party, just the four of you, and he sat in his high chair and smashed his face into a cupcake and laughed. And then he looked at you, frosting all over his face, and started babbling. "Mamamama."
It wasn't his first word. He'd been babbling nonsense for weeks. But this was different. This was on purpose. "Mamamama." He reached for you, his chubby little hands opening and closing, and somehow everything made sense.
You picked him up, and he wrapped his arms around your neck and buried his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since he was born, you felt that all consuming love everyone had told you about.Â
"Hi, baby," you whispered, and your voice broke. "Hi, Beau."
He pulled back and grinned at you and you started crying. Just full on sobbing, holding your son and crying because you'd wasted so much time being angry when you should have been loving him. Because he was perfect. He was so perfect, and he was yours, and he looked at you with this pure adoration that you didn't deserve but were going to spend the rest of your life trying to earn.
That was when you knew you needed to get your life back on track. If not for yourself, then for him. For this little boy who looked at you like you hung the moon, even though you'd spent that first year barely holding it together.
You were twenty when you left Cole Harbour. Your parents were reluctant at first, worried about you being on your own with a toddler, but they did their best to support you. Your dad helped you move into a nice place in Halifax, carrying boxes up three flights of stairs while Beau toddled around getting in the way. Your mom stocked your fridge and your pantry, filling it with more food than two people could possibly eat.
"You call if you need anything," she said, hugging you tight. "Anything at all, okay?"
"I will, Mom. I promise."
And you meant it. But you also meant to prove that you could do this. That you could be a good mom, could build a life for you and Beau that didn't involve hiding in your childhood bedroom and drowning in regret.
Halifax wasn't far. Maybe a twenty minute drive from home, close enough that your parents could visit all the time, but far enough that you felt like your own person. You got a job at a salon, starting as a receptionist and then slowly picking up skills. You watched the other stylists, asked questions, practiced on mannequin heads. You got certified, took the classes and passed the tests, and suddenly you had a career. You were making your own living. A good living, enough to pay rent and buy groceries and put a little aside for savings. You and Beau had your own place that you decorated with secondhand furniture and pictures of the two of you.
By the time you were twenty one, you had it mostly figured out. You had your job, your apartment, your little support system. Beau had his daycare, this bright, cheerful place where he made friends and learned his ABCs and came home covered in paint and glitter. You had your coworkers, who became friends, who invited you out for drinks and listened when you needed to vent. You had your parents, who visited every weekend and spoiled Beau rotten. You had a routine. Drop Beau off at daycare, work your shift at the salon, pick him up, make dinner, give him a bath, read him a story, tuck him in. Wake up and do it all over again. It was exhausting but it was what you made of your life.
Of course, sometimes you had to field questions about Sidney. It was inevitable, growing up in the same community. People would see Beau, this little boy with dark hair and color changing eyes and a smile that was just a little too familiar, and they'd ask. "Is his dad from around here?" Or, "He looks just like Sidney Crosby. Are you two related?"
You learned to lie. It was easier than the truth. "Nope, no relation. Just a coincidence." And you'd smile and change the subject, and most people let it drop. Pretending not to know Sidney was easier than admitting what you truly felt. Easier than explaining that yes, Sidney Crosby was Beau's father, and no, he didn't give a shit.
But Beau. God, Beau didnât make it easy on you. When he started walking he started picking things up and using them as hockey sticks. Anything long and vaguely stick shaped became a stick. Wooden spoons, brooms, wrapping paper tubes. He'd whack at rolled up socks or balled up pieces of paper, giggling and narrating his own play by play in toddler gibberish.
You couldn't exactly take it away from him. What were you supposed to say? "No, baby, you can't play hockey because your dad's a piece of shit and it makes Mommy sad"? That would make you sound insane. This was Canada. This was a community of little kids who grew up loving hockey, who wore Habs jerseys and dreamed of playing in the NHL one day. You couldn't single your son out because of a grudge, no matter how justified that grudge was.
Your dad fucking hated it. Every time Beau picked up a stick, your dad's jaw would clench and he'd find an excuse to leave the room. But he never said anything, because what could he say? Beau was just a kid. Your mom loved it. She'd cheer Beau on, clapping and telling him what a good job he was doing, and you'd stand there feeling like you might be sick.
By the time Beau was two, he had a real mini stick. Your mom bought it for him and he used it like he'd been born holding one, like it was an extension of his body. He'd spend hours in the living room, slapping a foam puck around and laughing.
When he was three, you put him in skates. You didn't want to. God, you really didn't want to. But all his friends from daycare were starting hockey, and Beau begged. "Please, Mama. Please, I wanna play hockey!"
So you signed him up for a learn to skate class, bought him the smallest pair of skates you could find, and watched him wobble around the rink with the other toddlers. He fell. A lot. But he always got back up, always grinning like it was the best thing in the world.
You were both twenty-one. And while you were raising your son, teaching him to tie his skates and reminding him to wear his helmet, Sidney was living out his wildest dreams. He'd just won the Cup, the youngest captain in NHL history to do it, and the whole country was celebrating. You'd seen it on the news, seen the pictures of him hoisting the trophy over his head, seen the interviews where he talked about how incredible it felt.
You tried not to think about it. You tried not to compare your life to his, tried not to wonder what things would've been like if he'd responded differently to that text. If he'd said, "We'll figure it out," instead of, "I don't want anything to do with it." It was hard not to. Especially when Beau started asking questions. "Mama, who's my dad?" And you'd say, "It's just you and me, buddy. That's all we need." And he'd accept it, for now, but you knew eventually that wouldn't be enough.
~
He was twenty-one and winning the Cup was all he ever wanted. Really. To hold those thirty-five pounds of silver and metal over his head after seasons of heartbreak, after being the youngest captain in league history and feeling the weight of an entire franchise on his shoulders. After the think pieces about how maybe he couldn't do it, that maybe he was too young, too inexperienced. After 08 in Detroit when they'd been so close he could taste it, only to have it ripped away. After making it to Game 7 in Detroit again when everything had felt impossible, when his body ached and his lungs burned and he thought maybe this was it, maybe this was the year they fell short again.
But they hadn't. They'd won. He'd won. He wasn't sure he'd ever be as happy as he was in that moment.
But maybe that wasn't the truth.
Because even in the middle of the celebration, even with the Cup in his hands and his teammates screaming his name and the entire city of Pittsburgh losing their minds, there was something missing. Someone missing.
You never left his mind. Even after nearly four years. 3 years, 10 months, and 13 days to be exact, but who was counting? Even after all this time, all this distance, all the silence between you. You were always in his mind. Always in his heart. Always his, even if you weren't anymore.
He wasn't sure what ever happened between you. That was the worst part, the not knowing. His last memory of the two of you was a happy one. He'd been nervous about the draft, about going to Ottawa, about the pressure and the expectations. But you'd been so happy for him, so excited, your eyes bright and your smile wide. You'd kissed him goodbye at your front door, your hands cupping his face, and you'd promised to watch. To cheer for him. To be proud of him no matter what.
And he'd promised to call you. As soon as it was over, as soon as he knew where he was going, he'd call and tell you everything.
He never even got the chance.
He wasn't ever good with his phone. Even now, his teammates gave him shit for it, for leaving it in his locker or his hotel room or the pocket of his suitcase. But it was worse back then, when he was eighteen. He'd gone to Ottawa with his parents, with his rep, with this whole entourage of people who all wanted something from him. And at some point between the airport and the hotel and the extra stuff afterward, he'd just lost it. He wasn't sure if he'd left it at home, if someone had taken it by mistake, if it had fallen out of his pocket in the car. He just knew he couldn't get in contact with you.
And he was wanted everywhere all at once. Interviews, photoshoots, meetings with the Penguins' front office. His camp had a schedule planned down to the minute, and there was no time for anything else. No time to go back home, no time to find a payphone and call you, no time for himself at all.
He told himself he'd make it up to you. That as soon as things calmed down, as soon as he had a second to breathe, he'd find a way to reach out. You'd understand. You always understood.
But if he was being completely honest maybe his pride was a little hurt too. Because you didn't make the effort either. You didn't call him, didn't leave a message with his parents, didn't show up in Pittsburgh when the season started. And a bitter part of him wondered if maybe you'd decided he wasn't worth it. That the distance, the lifestyle, the constant travel and the media attention, was too much. That you'd realized you could do better than some hockey player who was never going to be home.
He couldn't exactly hold it against you. You were both eighteen, just kids really. What did either of you know about long-distance relationships, about the kind of commitment it would take to make it work when he was living in a different city, playing eighty-two games a season plus playoffs, barely keeping his head above water?
And yet.
All he could remember was your mom asking him not to call again.
It had been before his very first NHL game. October 5, 2005. He'd been a mess of nerves, pacing around the Lemiuex family's house in Pittsburgh, trying to remember everything his coaches had told him, trying not to think about how badly he wanted to prove himself. And all he'd wanted, more than anything, was to hear your voice. To know that you were okay, that you were proud of him, that you still cared.
He'd borrowed the landline, dialed your home number with shaking hands, and waited. One ring. Two. Three. And then your mom had picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Mrs.â" He'd barely gotten the words out before she cut him off.
"Sidney."
Her voice had been cold. Colder than he'd ever heard it. Your mom always liked him, had always welcomed him into your house with a smile and a plate of cookies. But that day, she'd sounded like she hated him.
"I, uh, I was wondering if I could talk toâ"
"No."
"I just want to make sure she's okay. I haven't heard from her in a while and Iâ"
"She's fine, Sidney. I think it's best if you don't call here again."
His stomach had dropped. "What? Why? Did I do something? If I did, I canâ"
"Goodbye, Sidney."
And she'd hung up. That was the last time he ever even got close to you. He'd tried a few more times over the next couple of weeks, but your mom always answered, always told him the same thing. Don't call again. And eventually, he stopped trying. Because what else could he do? You clearly didn't want to talk to him. And Sidney had a season to focus on, a team that was counting on him, a city that expected him to be their savior.
So he moved on. Or at least, he tried to.
He still kept a photo of you in his wallet. It was stupid, probably. Pathetic, even. But his mom had given it to him during his first real week in Pittsburgh, when he'd been homesick and ready to quit. She'd thought it might remind him of all the good things he still had at home. Thought it might keep him grounded, keep him connected to the person he was before all of this. Thought it might help when he missed you too much.
It was painful keeping it. That love he had for you never faded, never waned. It should have. Four years was a long time. He should have met someone else, fallen for someone else, built a life with someone who was actually there. But he hadn't because every girl he met, he compared to you. Every date felt like a pale imitation of what he'd had. And none of them measured up.
It made him dream the silliest of dreams for a guy his age. Dreams of a life the two of you had talked about when you were young and dumb and he was dumb enough to hope for. You'd lie in his bed in his parents' house, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm, and you'd talk about the future like it was a guarantee.
"When you make the NHL, I'll come to every home game," you'd said once.
"Just the home games?"
"Okay, fine. Every game. I'll be your biggest fan."
"You already are."
"And we'll get a dog," you'd continued, ignoring him. "A big one. A golden retriever, maybe. Or a husky."
"Can we name it something cool? Not, like, Spot or Buddy."
"We'll name it something ridiculous. Like Mr. Pickles."
He'd laughed so hard he'd almost choked on his spit. "Mr. Pickles?"
"Or we could go the other way. Something tough. Like Killer."
"Killer the golden retriever."
"Exactly."
"I love you," he'd said, and he'd meant it with his whole heart.
"I love you too, Sid."
Now he didn't know anything about you. If you'd gone to school like you'd planned, if you were still in Nova Scotia or if you'd moved somewhere else. If you'd found someone else to love, someone who could actually be there for you, who didn't spend half the year on the road. He mostly hoped that you were happy. That whatever had happened between the two of you, you'd landed on your feet. That you were living the life you deserved.
But selfishly, bringing the Cup home, he maybe hoped that he'd see you somewhere in the crowd of people. He knew it wasn't realistic. Cole Harbour wasn't that small, and you'd probably moved on, probably didn't even think about him anymore. But still.Â
Like he had this big shiny thing he wanted to show you. Look, he wanted to say. Look what I did. Look what we dreamed about, and I made it happen. Aren't you proud?
And he had his dog, Samantha. Sam. He'd gotten her a couple of years ago, this sweet, goofy yellow lab who went everywhere with him in the off-season. She wasn't Mr. Pickles or Killer, but she was perfect. He thought you'd like her. Thought maybe you'd laugh at the way Sam got excited over nothing, the way she'd bring him her toy and drop it at his feet and lick his knee until he threw it.
Honestly, he had nothing else to offer you but those two things. The Cup and Sam. His entire world, condensed into thirty-five pounds of metal and sixty pounds of dog. It felt like nothing. But it was all he had.
He thought maybe you'd want to hold the Cup. Everyone did. It was tradition, passing it around, letting people drink out of it and take pictures with it. He could see it so clearly in his mind, you standing next to it, your hand on the silver, your smile soft. Maybe you'd want to know what it felt like, to hold something he'd worked his whole life for.
Maybe you'd like how long his hair was now. It was longer than it had been when he was a teenager, curling at the ends, brushing his ears. You'd always liked it a little longer, used to run your fingers through it when you kissed him, tugging gently when he'd kiss down your neck. "Don't cut it too short," you'd say, and he never did.
Maybe you'd surprise him at his parents' house for the get-together. They were throwing this thing for him, inviting half of Cole Harbour, it seemed like. Friends, family, neighbors, people he barely knew but who wanted to celebrate with him. His mom had been planning it for weeks. And Sidney kept thinking that maybe you'd show up. That someone would invite you, or you'd hear about it and decide to come, and he'd turn around and there you'd be.
Maybe you could catch up. He'd ask you about school, about work, about your life. And you'd ask him about Pittsburgh, about the season, about what it felt like to win. And maybe, if he was really lucky, you'd smile at him the way you used to. Like he was the only person in the room. Like he mattered.
Maybe you could make up. He didn't even know what you'd be making up for, what had happened to drive you apart, but he'd apologize anyway. For not calling, for losing his phone, for not trying harder. For whatever he'd done to make you walk away.
Maybe he could just do something. Anything. Heâd fix it, he was sure of it.
pato tries his very best to get dating rumors with you. it works, sort of.
êź starring: pato oâward x best friend!reader.
êź social media au.
êź includes: romance. profanity. idiots in love, friends to lovers, indycar photographer!reader, pato is a little shit (affectionately), pato is down bad. title is from taylor swiftâs paper rings.
êź commentary box: okay we GET ITTT đŁïž iâve been going crazy over pato lately and, to no oneâs surprise, @landoscarino is the one to finally convince me to write for him. pato oâward, i am free on thursday night if youâre free on thursday night đŠ đŠđČ đŠđđŹđđđ«đ„đąđŹđ
yourusername
â« Keep Driving - Harry Styles
Liked by patriciooward, alexpalou, and others
yourusername  after years of capturing motorsports across different series, iâm happy to share that iâm officially joining indycar as one of their official photographers this season. lfg! đ€Â
View all comments
user1 queen behavior omfg
user2 Loved your work for F2, so psyched for you !
caiocollet đ â„ Liked by author
user3 INDYCAR PHOTOS ABOUT TO GLOW TF UP
coltonherta So excited to see you around đȘ â„ Liked by author
patriciooward iâm still your favorite driver right
âł patriciooward right yourusername
âł patriciooward RIGHT yourusername???
âł yourusername can you please develop some shame
elbaoward replied: so happy you liked the rescue we chose âŁïž hola bueno! and congrats again, my love!
davidmalukas replied: can i pet that dawg
patriciooward replied: wtf why am i cropped đđđđđđđđđ so you hate me and you want me to die
yourusernamepriv ê
â« Youâre On Your Own, Kid - Taylor Swift
Liked by patriciooward, kyle_kirkwood, and others
yourusernamepriv  doing my rounds and i swear iâm a #strong #independent #woman but i lowk wish i had a boyfriend to carry around my shit lol
View all comments
lundgaardofficial patriciooward
elbaoward patriciooward đ€
nolansiegel Yo patriciooward
yourusernamepriv oh lord here we go
patriciooward I VOLUNTEER! I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE
patriciooward *pointing aggressively to self* pick meee PICK MEEE
patriciooward i know youâre seeing these comments ayo yourusernamepriv just one chance please
âł yourusernamepriv win a race n then we talk
âł nolanseigel Why would you say that. Now weâre all fucked
patriciooward
â« Crash My Car - COIN
Liked by lando, oscarpiastri, and others
patriciooward  st. pete was ok. redemption arc incoming. just keep watching yourusernameÂ
View all comments
elbaoward đ
user1 the tag??? did i miss a couple of chapters
user2 Whatâs the lore Whatâs happeninggg
user3 SerĂĄs campeĂłn Pato đ§Ą
yourusername đ€Ą thought we were having a nice little jokey joke
âł patriciooward i donât play around when it comes to U
âł user4 pato f2l arc?!
âł user5 Is she Patoâs girlfriend?
âł yourusername user5 no
âł patriciooward yourusername âŠt yet
yourusername replied: CAN YOU STOP
âł patriciooward replied to yourusername: canât stop wonât stop đ€
yourusername
â« Moves - Suki Waterhouse
Liked by 12willpower, robertshwartzman, and others
yourusername  somebody was feeling a lil put out from my âsoft launchyâ (his words, not mine) stories so hereâs my official post. happy international best friend day to the ogÂ
View all comments
user1 Did i just watch Pato get friendzoned in 4k hd
josefnewgarden LOL.
lundgaardofficial Getting this framed and printed for the garage. Thanks for the top tier ragebait.
user2 girl that last pic. he wants to eat you alive /pos
user3 đ€Ł poor pato
user4 If heâs not yours can I have him??
user5 did anybody else come here from patoâs most recent post because omfg
patriciooward
â« Circus Music - The Hit Crew
Liked by conordaly22, alexanderrossi, and others
patriciooward  yea happy âbest friendâ day
View all comments
user1 this is INSANE work.
user2 WHY IS NOBODY TALKING ABOUT THE FIRST PIC!??!
elbaoward đ€Š no words
âł patriciooward đŒ
user3 only driver ever to pray for dating allegationsâŠ
user4 The hand placement is making me dizzy
user5 thoughts? yourusername đ€
yourusername get help. â„ Liked by author
âł patriciooward iâd rather get you
âł user6 sheâs so much stronger than me bro
âł user7 Can they just date already please???
yourusername TAKE THIS DOWN
âł patriciooward only after i get to take you out
âł patriciooward eyes on me @ iowa, baby
patriciooward replied: âwin a race n then we talkâ iâm here to talk â„ Liked by author
davidmalukas replied: etsy link please?
lando replied: tagging her username 3x... we saw it the first time bruv
yourusername replied: why couldnât you be normal
SYNOPSIS. lost alone in barcelona you ask a stranger for directions â only for him to assume you are a fan asking for a photo, even though you donât even recognize him.
GENRE. fluff. meet cute?
WORDS. 2.1k
WARNINGS. lamine being cocky. not proofread. use of y/n
visiting barcelona has always been a point on your bucket list. something youâve dreamed of crossing off for years. so when your best friends suggested a girlsâ trip to the city, you were overjoyed.
now, standing alone in some narrow alley, that joy feels far away.
this street is quieter than the others youâve walked. less crowded than the bustling subway stations or lively avenues of the city center. the buzz of barcelona fades here, although you can still hear faint conversations in catalan and the soft hum of a spanish song playing from an apartment window above.
the alley is barely wide enough for two people to pass between the old stone buildings. the walls on either side are a patchwork of weathered stone, rough and sun-warmed, worn smooth in places by time and touch.
overhead, clotheslines stretch between balconies like festive bunting, draped with fluttering linen and colorful shirts that catch the welcome breeze.
you donât even remember how you lost them. one minute, you were all together. the next â poof. gone. youâre left alone. just great.
youâre not someone who panics easily, but right now, you want nothing more than to cry. lost in a city you donât know, and you donât even speak the language. you know very little spanish, but catalan? a whole different story.
you try calling your friends again, only to go straight to voicemail. your texts wonât even deliver. maybe their phones are dead, just like yours will be soon.
you recalled wanting to go to a restaurant youâd picked the night before, hoping your friends had gone ahead without you. so you tried finding it via maps, but after wandering around aimlessly for over an hour and somehow ending up back in the same alley you stood in an hour ago, you gave up.
you let out a frustrated breath and turn in a slow circle, scanning your surroundings and trying to find something familiar.
âgreat,â you mutter. âtotally, completely lost.â
breathe, y/n, breathe. youâre going to find them. you try to convince yourself, even if it barely works.
whatâs your best option now? probably asking someone local, but the thought alone makes you shiver. with your pride being too big, youâd rather do anything than admit you need help. but pride wonât get you anywhere right now, since itâs the last chance you have.
so, you scan the street, searching for someone who looks approachable. maybe a nice elderly woman, not too old â maybe even someone your age.
thatâs when you notice him.
tall, brown-eyed, with a boyish grin. heâs just stepped out of a small shop you hadnât noticed before. his hair, bleach blonde, sticks to his forehead, damp from the warm weather. heâs got a hoodie up and sunglasses on, despite the cloudy sky.
something about him seems familiar, but you donât focus on that. you just need directions.
you approach slowly, thinking through your options. should you ask in your broken spanish? or rather english? what if he doesnât understand either? well, catalan is out of the question. you settle on english as being the best option.
âexcuse me?â you ask, gathering your courage.
the boy looks up from his phone, surprised at first. then his expression shifts to slightly annoyed. rude.
âah, vols una foto?â he asks.
âhuh?â
âÂżquiere una foto o un autĂłgrafo?â he asks again.
you blink and reply, dumbfounded by the strangerâs questions. âiâm sorry, i donât speak catalan or spanish. english?â
he sighs but switches languages. âi asked if you want a photo or an autograph.â
what the actual hell? you think. what have i gotten myself into? who is this weird boy thinking heâs some celebrity?
âa photo? why would i want that?â
now itâs his turn to look dumbfounded and slightly embarrassed.
âoh. sorry. i thought you were a fan.â
you raise an eyebrow. his ego must be huge.
now that youâre taking a closer look at him, you kind of get the feeling that youâve seen him before. still, you donât recognize him. maybe he was someone your friend had shown you as one of her many celebrity crushes?
âuh, no. actually, i just wanted to ask how i can get to carrer de blai? iâm completely lost,â you say, holding up your phone awkwardly.
his eyebrows shoot up. âwait, you really donât want a photo? you donât know who i am?â
you tilt your head. âno? are you famous or something?â
he laughs. âno â forget it. what were you asking again?â
you repeat the street name.
âoh yeah, alright. itâs not far. just walk straight until you reach plaça de sant jaume, the square with the city hall and the generalitat building. then turn right onto carrer de joaquĂn costa and follow it downhill. after a few blocks, youâll reach carrer de blai. turn left, and youâre there.â
he gestures with his hands to help you visualize the route.
although he speaks slowly to help you follow, itâs still hard to remember all the directions, so youâre already overwhelmed.
âcould you repeat that? iâm not sure i got all of it.â
he chuckles. âcarrer de blai is like ten minutes that way. i can walk you there if you want.â
âare you sure? i donât want to bother you.â
âitâs alright. iâm not really busy. iâm lamine, by the way.â
lamine. that sounds familiar⊠but you still donât quite place him.
you start walking side by side in easy silence. he keeps his hood up, not nervously â just low-key.
âso,â he says eventually, glancing over at you, âwhat brings you to barcelona? shopping? sightseeing? or just⊠wandering until your phone dies?â
you groan. âha ha, very funny. the last one, unfortunately. no, actually i came here on a girlsâ trip but i lost my friends like an hour ago. i was trying to find this restaurant we picked for lunch, figured theyâd be there, but maps was zero help.â
he nods slowly, walking a bit ahead before glancing over his shoulder. âyeah, the signal gets weird in these side streets.â
you both fall into step again, your footsteps echoing lightly on the cobblestones.
you let out a breath, thumb swiping across your phone screen again. still no signal. still barely any battery. you hold it up hopelessly like the sky might magically fix it.
âi think my phoneâs about to give up,â you mutter, checking the screen again. âno signal. two percent.â
lamine glances over. âwant to use mine? you can try calling your friends.â
you hesitate, surprised by the offer. âseriously?â
he nods and digs into the front pocket of his hoodie, handing you his phone.
âyeah. go ahead.â
you dial your friendâs number, pressing the phone to your ear. it rings. once. twice. thenâ
âhello?!â
you nearly sag in relief. âoh my god, where have you been?â
âwhere have you been? weâve been looking everywhere!â your friend says, breathless. âyour phoneâs off!â
âyeah, itâs basically dead,â you explain. âiâve been trying to find the restaurant, but i got totally turned around. i think iâm close now, though.â
âweâre already there. letâs just meet at the restaurant.â
âokay. iâll be there in ten.â
you hang up and hand lamine his phone back with a grateful look. âthank you so much.â
you glance at him from the corner of your eye. heâs looking ahead, sunglasses still on despite the shadowy street. he doesnât seem in a rush.
still, guilt tugs at your chest.
âiâm really not keeping you from anything, am i?â you ask suddenly.
he shakes his head. ânah. just needed some air.â
âdonât you have somewhere to be? school? work?â
he snorts. âsomething like that.â
you glance at him suspiciously. âyouâre not one of those street scammers, are you? pretending to help and then demanding money afterward?â
he grins. âwow. thatâs how i come across?â
âsuspiciously helpful.â
he laughs, and something about the way he tosses his head back makes a passing couple double-take. you notice but donât think much of it. maybe he just has that kind of face.
you cross your arms tightly across your chest, cocking your head with a teasing squint. âdo you usually assume strangers want a picture with you?â
he smirks and tilts his chin slightly, stuffing his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. âonly when they run up to me looking all nervous and awkward.â
your eyebrows shoot up. âi ran up to you?â
he lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching. âclose enough.â he pauses, then adds casually, âyou havenât told me your name yet.â
you shift your weight to one foot. âitâs y/n.â
a slow grin spreads across his face. âwell, nice to meet you, y/n.â
you narrow your eyes, unconvinced. ânice to meet me? you looked like you wanted to rip my head off when i first approached you.â
he lets out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. âyeah⊠sorry about that. bad day.â
by now, youâve stopped checking your phone. between the winding streets and the ease in his voice, youâve almost forgotten how stressed you were fifteen minutes ago. almost.
âyou sure itâs this way?â you ask again, scanning the street with furrowed brows. âit still feels like weâre walking in circles.â
lamine stops for a second to glance around, then points vaguely ahead like heâs mostly sure. âpretty sure.â
you raise a skeptical brow. âthatâs not very comforting.â
he shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting. âwould it help if i said it with more confidence?â
you throw an arm out toward the corner. âiâm telling you, every street looks the same. i swear iâve passed that bakery like three times.â
he chuckles, hands still tucked in his hoodie. âtrust me.â
you shoot him a look. âyou said that five blocks ago.â
âbut i said it with more confidence,â he replies, flashing a grin as he walks a step ahead of you, glancing back.
youâre halfway through rolling your eyes and making a snarky reply when the alley suddenly opens up to a sunlit plaza. your steps slow to a halt.
âwaitââ you blink in disbelief. âthis is it! oh my god, thank you!â
he turns to you, one brow raised, his lips curving into a sly smirk. ânow i actually want something in exchange for bringing you here.â
you groan and throw your head back dramatically. âknew it. why are there no nice boys anymore?â
he steps just a little closer, tapping his finger lightly against his phone. âi want your number.â
you cross your arms again, smirking. âmy number? only if i get a picture â just in case youâre actually very famous and i end up regretting not getting proof later.â
he laughs and lifts his phone. âdeal.â
later, back in your hotel room, full from dinner, reunited with your friends, but still replaying the day in your head, you finally give in to curiosity.
you sit cross-legged on the bed, phone in hand, and type âlamineâ into google.
the first suggestion pops up instantly.
you tap it.
and nearly drop your phone.
lamine yamal.
the lamine yamal.
barcelonaâs golden boy. the breakout star of the euros. one of the most talked-about young players in the world.
you stare at the screen, your heart skipping a beat.
âoh my god,â you whisper into the hotel room air. âi made fun of lamine yamal.â
you scroll through images, articles, fan edits â trying to reconcile the cocky, hoodie-wearing guy who led you through the winding streets.
your fingers hover over your screen for a long moment before you finally give in and text him.
youâre lamine yamal??
you couldâve told me. i totally embarrassed myself.
the reply comes quicker than you expect.
donât worry. iâm glad you didnât know.
are you free tomorrow?
Hiiii guys! Iâm new to actually posting on Tumblr, but all my writing will be linked below. Also Iâd love some feedback Iâm welcome to allâ„ïž
Iâm open to requests, so feel free to ask! Iâm comfortable writing angst, fluff, smut, slow burns, and jealousy/possessive themes.
I wonât write anything rude or disrespectfulâwhether thatâs toward the person, their family, or their real lives. I also donât write male x male.
Disclaimer: this is all purely fan fiction! I donât know these people personally and Iâm not trying to impersonate anyone!
