this used to only be an anime/kpop place but I have since changed my mind and interests, I STILL write for kpop and anime but I have broadened my horizons sooo these are some movies/shows I'll write for MAINLY NHL buttt
The first thing Trevor noticed about you was that you never stayed long enough for anyone to get comfortable.
You slipped into rooms like you belonged there, laughed with strangers like you’d known them your whole life, and disappeared before anyone could ask where you were headed next. There was something almost unfair about it, the way people gravitated towards you only to realize they couldn’t keep you.
Trevor was supposed to be no different.
At least, that’s what you told yourself.
You sat cross-legged on his kitchen counter, stealing pieces of fruit from the bowl beside you while he rummaged through the refrigerator after practice. The late afternoon sunlight poured through the windows, catching the gold flecks in his hair and making everything feel softer than it should.
“You’re staring.”
A grin pulled at Trevor’s lips as he shut the fridge door.
“No, I’m not.” “You definitely are.”
He laughed quietly, leaning back against the counter opposite yours. The sound wrapped itself around your chest in a way you tried very hard not to think about.
“Maybe I am.”
The honesty caught you off guard.
Most people played games.
Trevor never really did.
His eyes stayed fixed on yours, warm and impossibly patient, like he was waiting for you to run and already knew he couldn’t stop you if you did.
That should’ve made leaving easier. Instead it made you linger. You hated that.
The two of you had been dancing around whatever this was for months now. Late-night phone calls that stretched until sunrise. Random drives with no destination. His hand finding yours in crowded places like it belonged there.
Nothing official.
Nothing defined.
Exactly how you liked it.
So why did your stomach twist every time someone asked if Trevor was your boyfriend? Why did you always change the subject?
Why did the word feel too small and too terrifying all at once?
“You’ve got that look again.”
You blinked.
“What look?” “The one where you start overthinking everything.”
Trevor stepped forward, resting his forearms against the counter beside your legs. Close enough that you could smell his cologne. Close enough that your heart immediately betrayed you.
“I don’t overthink.”
His raised eyebrow made you roll your eyes.
“Okay, maybe a little.” “A little?” he teased.
You nudged his shoulder with your knee.
“A lot.” “There she is.”
The fondness in his voice was dangerous.
You’d always been good at leaving.
Good at keeping one foot out the door.
Good at convincing yourself that needing people only ended badly.
But Trevor never demanded anything from you. Never asked you to change. Never made you feel guilty for wanting space. And somehow that made everything harder.
Because if he had pushed, you could’ve run.
If he’d pressured you, you would’ve had an excuse.
Instead he simply stayed. Patient.
Weeks later, you found yourself at one of his games. You told everyone you were only there because you had nothing better to do. The lie sounded pathetic even in your own head.
Trevor spotted you the second he stepped onto the ice for warmups. His entire face lit up. Not a polite smile. Not casual recognition.
The kind of smile reserved for someone who mattered. Your chest tightened painfully. The arena disappeared. The crowd disappeared.
For a few seconds it felt like there was only him.
Only those bright eyes and that ridiculous grin.
Only the realization that maybe you weren’t as detached as you’d spent years pretending to be.
The thought followed you home. It followed you into bed. It followed you through every unanswered question you’d carefully avoided asking yourself.
And eventually, it followed you straight to Trevor’s front door. He opened it wearing sweatpants and a confused expression.
The second he saw your face, concern replaced both.
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
You laughed nervously.
Of course that was his first question.
Not why are you here.
Not what are you doing.
Just what’s wrong.
As if your problems were automatically his. As if they always had been.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You drove across town at midnight.” “Okay, maybe something’s wrong.”
Trevor stepped aside immediately. You walked into the familiar warmth of his apartment, suddenly unsure why you’d come. The speech you’d rehearsed vanished.
The confidence disappeared with it. He waited. Just like always. Patient.
“Of what?” The answer felt embarrassingly simple. “Of wanting this.”
Silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable. Just honest. Your eyes dropped to the floor.
“I’ve spent so long making sure nobody could keep me,” you admitted quietly. “I don’t know how to be someone’s.”
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Trevor reached for your hand. Slowly.
Giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. His fingers threaded through yours effortlessly. Like they belonged there. Like they always had.
“You know,” he said softly, “I’ve never wanted you to be someone’s girl.”
You looked up. Confused. A small smile appeared on his lips.
“I just wanted you.”
The breath left your lungs.
Tears threatened unexpectedly as Trevor lifted your joined hands and pressed a gentle kiss against your knuckles.
“You don’t have to stop being yourself,” he continued. “You don’t have to stay still. You don’t have to become someone different.”
His thumb brushed over your skin. “I just want to be the person you come back to.”
Every wall you’d spent years building suddenly felt exhausting.
And standing there in the middle of Trevor’s apartment, with his hand wrapped around yours and his eyes looking at you like you were something precious, you realized you’d never actually been afraid of commitment.
You’d been afraid of losing yourself. But Trevor had never asked for that. He’d only ever asked for you. The real you.
The complicated, restless, stubborn version. The one standing in front of him now.
For the first time in a long time, staying didn’t feel like surrender.
It felt like freedom.
And when Trevor pulled you gently into his arms, you went willingly, letting your forehead rest against his chest as his heartbeat settled around you.
genuinely a freaking oasis in the middle of a void- thank you for the zohran fics -????? lowkey need the slow burn progression STATTTTT- love the tension and pacing ugh truly living for the dynamic fr, beautiful writing :,,,) can’t wait for more when you have the time !!
- a very grateful anon
hehe thank youuuu, I posted a new part so make sure yall check it out
a/n: back on dat Mamdani grind, i got inspired by the knicks CAN U TELL??? n e wayssss have fun ans make sure to not die in ts heatwave
Zohran Mamdani x secretary!reader
New York had changed its mood overnight. It wasn’t just the snow anymore.
It was the Knicks.
The city had that particular kind of energy only basketball could create, strangers smiling at each other on the subway, car horns turning into celebratory rhythm, bodegas keeping their TVs on past closing time just so nobody missed the highlights.
Even in Astoria, even in your small district office, it had seeped in.
A voicemail you played on speaker between constituent calls summed it up best:
“Hey, uh… sorry, this is unrelated, but the Knicks? We’re actually doing it this year. Anyway, my heat still doesn’t work.”
Zohran had buried his face in his hands for a second after that one.
“You cannot legislate morale,” he said. “You can when the Knicks are winning,”
you replied without looking up from your spreadsheet.
That got him to laugh, tired, real, distracted in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.
But even then, something about him felt more on edge than usual. Because winning seasons made people come outside.
And people outside meant visibility.
The office was technically closed early that day. Technically. But you were still there. So was he.
And that already broke enough rules that neither of you said it out loud.
He stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, watching the street below where someone had hung a Knicks flag from a fire escape. The city looked louder even through glass.
“Yes, I understand the parade permit situation,” he said evenly. “No, I’m not saying we should plan anything before the series is over.”
A pause.
Then, lower: “I said after.” He ended the call and exhaled slowly.
“You’re coordinating parade hypotheticals now?” you asked.
He turned. “I’m trying to prevent 600,000 people from spontaneously reorganizing Midtown.”
“That sounds like a public service.”
“It sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
You smirked, but he didn’t fully return it this time.
There was something else underneath his calm, something watchful.
Like he was aware, more than usual, of being seen.
Or potentially seen.
It was getting dark when the second wave of texts started coming in. Not constituent calls this time. Staff chatter.
Someone saw you on 42nd Street yesterday?
Did you go to the game?
Media might be asking for reactions from elected officials attending playoff watch parties.
You glanced up.
He saw the shift in your expression immediately.
“What is it?” he asked.
You hesitated, then turned your screen slightly.
His jaw tightened, just a fraction.
“I didn’t go to any watch party,” he said.
“I know.”
That was the problem. It wasn’t what happened. It was what people assumed.
Because the Knicks winning meant attention. And attention meant risk.
For you, especially.
A knock at the door made both of you freeze.
Too sharp. Too late. You instinctively stepped back toward your desk.
He straightened, posture shifting instantly, like a switch flipped between him and the office.
“Come in,” he called.
A staff intern poked their head inside, breathless. “Sorry—uh—there’s a reporter downstairs. Said they’re doing a ‘feature on local leaders during the Knicks run’ and they wanted a quick quote.”
Silence.
You felt it immediately, the invisible tightening of space between you and him. The kind that only existed when something unspoken needed to stay that way.
He didn’t look at you when he answered.
“Tell them I’m unavailable at the moment.”
The intern nodded and left quickly. The door clicked shut.
And the silence that followed felt heavier than the storm had been.
You didn’t move right away. Neither did he. Outside, somewhere in the city, people were screaming at a TV screen.
Inside, the radiator hummed faintly like it was trying not to get involved.
“You should take the back stairs,” you said finally.
His eyes flicked to you. “So should you.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was acknowledgement.
Because if a reporter saw you both leaving together right now, late, alone, after a day of shared work and closed doors, it wouldn’t matter what the truth was.
Neither of you spoke as you moved toward the door, keeping distance that felt more intentional than physical.
But when he reached for the light switch, the bulb flickered, just once, and for half a second the room dimmed.
Not dark. Just softened.
Enough that the edges blurred.
He paused.
So did you.
The city roared faintly through the glass, Knicks chants somewhere far downtown, horns, life, noise, momentum.
In here, everything slowed.
“You ever think,” he said quietly, “that the city knows how to distract itself at exactly the right time?” You looked at him.
“That sounds like something you’d say before a very bad idea.”
A faint smile.
“Probably.”
Neither of you moved closer. But neither of you moved away.
And for a moment, suspended between politics, responsibility, and everything you weren’t supposed to feel, it looked like the world had decided to hold its breath with you.
Then footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.
Real ones.
Close.
You both snapped back instantly, distance restored, expressions reset, roles reassembled like armor.
Secretary. Assemblymember. The door handle outside turned.
And the moment shattered before it could be caught.
The city didn’t just celebrate the Knicks.
It belonged to them.
By the time the celebration event was announced, a public rally-cum-fan gathering in Manhattan, the entire schedule of City Hall, borough offices, and half the political class had been rearranged around it.
You weren’t supposed to be there. Not officially.
Neither was he.
Not in any way that overlapped. That was the rule. That was always the rule.
The message came in at 9:14 a.m.
Chief of Staff: Assemblymember will attend Knicks celebration at City Hall Plaza. Separate arrival required. No press interaction beyond scheduled remarks.
You read it twice. Then a third time, slower.
Then locked your phone.
Because “separate arrival” didn’t just mean logistics.
It meant distance. Visibility control. Containment.
It meant: do not be seen together under any circumstances.
By noon, Manhattan was already louder than usual.
Blue and orange banners hung between buildings. Strangers wore jerseys over winter coats like armor. Even the traffic felt celebratory, horns less angry, more rhythmic, like the city had decided to cheer in its own language.
You arrived early with staff, clipboard in hand, posture professional, expression neutral.
Secretary.
That was all you were supposed to be today.
Nothing more. Nothing that could be misread. Nothing that could exist in headlines.
Across the plaza, you saw him.
Standing with other elected officials, slightly off-center, exactly where he was supposed to be. Cameras nearby but not yet fully locked on him. He was listening, nodding at something another speaker said, expression composed in that carefully practiced public way.
But even from that distance, you felt it. The awareness. Not looking at you. Not allowed to look at you. But knowing you were there.
It was absurd, how someone could feel like a secret in a crowd of thousands.
A producer waved you toward the designated staff zone. You moved. Of course you did. You always moved where you were told.
That was part of the role. That was part of keeping everything intact.
The rally began. Speeches. Cheers. Applause that rolled like waves through cold air.
The Knicks had become something bigger than basketball today, a narrative the city could agree on without arguing for once.
Hope, simplified. Victory, visible. A distraction that felt like joy.
Then his turn came. Zohran stepped forward. And the crowd shifted. Not dramatically, not visibly, but enough that you noticed.
People leaned in. Phones lifted. Attention sharpened. His voice carried clearly across the plaza.
“We talk a lot about what New York deserves,” he said. “But sometimes we forget that joy is part of what we deserve too.”
A cheer rose. You kept your expression steady. Clipboard angled down. Professional distance maintained. He continued.
“And when this city wins, when it really wins, it reminds us that collective effort isn’t theoretical. It’s real. It’s visible. It’s us.”
Another wave of applause. You should have been watching the crowd. You weren’t. You were watching him.
And then —
just for half a second —
his eyes shifted.
Not toward you directly. Not enough to be caught. But enough that your body reacted before your mind did.
A microsecond of connection across space, noise, policy, and rules.
Then gone. Like it never happened.
Like it had to never have happened.
After the speech, everything fractured into motion. Officials moving one direction. Staff another. Security tightening pathways. Reporters shouting questions that no one had time to answer.
You were ushered toward the back corridor with your team. Different exit. Different route. Different reality.
And then you saw him again. Not planned.
A hallway intersection behind the stage setup, narrow, temporary, half-lit by portable lamps and cables taped along concrete.
He was walking in the opposite direction. Alone for once. No microphones. No crowd. Just the controlled aftermath of performance.
You both stopped at the same time. Too sudden. Too precise. A mistake in timing. Or something worse.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The noise of the celebration outside felt distant here, muted, like another city entirely.
He spoke first. Quietly.
“You made it.”
Not good to see you. Not hello. Just acknowledgment. You swallowed. “I had to coordinate press logistics.”
A pause.
Professional cover laid down like a shield between you. He nodded once, like he understood exactly what you weren’t saying.
“You should go,” he said.
But neither of you moved. Because the hallway was too narrow. Because there was no staff nearby yet. Because for a brief, dangerous second, there was no audience.
No city. No rules except the ones you both refused to name.
A voice called from somewhere behind him, indistinct, impatient. He didn’t turn. You didn’t either. Your hand tightened around your clipboard.
His hand shifted slightly at his side, like he’d almost reached for something, then stopped himself mid-motion. The space between you felt thinner than it should have been.
Like it could collapse if either of you exhaled wrong.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you said softly.
“I know,” he replied.
But he didn’t leave.
Footsteps. Closer. Real now.
Approaching the corridor. Someone turning the corner any second. Your pulse spiked.
This was the moment where everything either stayed buried…or didn’t. He looked at you. Not for long. Not enough to be caught.
But enough that it changed something in the air.
“Go,” he said again, quieter this time.
Not an order. A warning. A restraint.
You stepped back first. Professional reflex. Secretary. Always secretary.
He turned away immediately after.
Assemblymember again.
Already gone before anyone else arrived.
When you reached the exit, the city hit you like a wave, sound, light, celebration spilling down every avenue.
Behind you, the hallway was already closing into memory.
Ahead of you, the crowd roared for a team that had given the city something it didn’t know it was missing.
And in the middle of all that noise, you realized something sharp and unsettling:
The hardest part wasn’t keeping the secret anymore.
a/n: needed to do this cutesy thing while writing a long ahh zegras fic hope u enjoy
wc: 1.6k
based on THIS request
pt.1
The cart hums softly as you roll it down the path, wheels crunching lightly over the gravel edges where the manicured grass gives way to something less perfect. The sun is higher now, warm enough that the iced drinks on your shelves are already sweating through their plastic sleeves.
You’ve learned the rhythm of the course by now.
Left turn after the oak tree. Slow down near the bunker. Smile at people who think they’re funnier than they are. Keep moving.
You spot them before they spot you this time.
Will Smith is mid-swing correction, talking with his hands again like the club is only loosely involved in what he’s trying to accomplish. Beside him, Macklin Celebrini is watching in that quiet way of his, like he’s mentally replaying physics rather than the moment itself.
Will notices you first, of course.
“Oh, it’s you again,” he calls out like this is a reunion instead of the third time in an hour.
“I work here,” you reply, stopping the cart.
“That’s exactly what someone trying to avoid us would say,” Will says.
“I assure you, I am not trying that hard.”
Macklin looks up at that, faint amusement in his expression. “She’s better at this than you are.”
Will points at him immediately. “See? That’s favoritism.”
You lean slightly against the cart. “Do you want drinks or just emotional validation?”
Will gasps like you’ve wounded him personally. “Both.”
Macklin shakes his head. “Gatorade again.”
You hand it to him. Same motion as before. Same brief brush of fingers. Still nothing you can justify paying attention to, and still something your brain decides to keep anyway.
“Thanks,” he says.
It’s simple. Always is with him.
Will is still complaining. “Why does he get Gatorade like he’s training for something and I get judged for wanting flavor?”
“You’re both training for something,” you say.
“See?” Will turns to Macklin. “She gets it. She understands my journey.”
“I don’t think she’s supporting your journey,” Macklin replies.
You move to refill a cup, hiding the small smile that keeps trying to form.
They’re easier than most groups. Not in a polite way, just in a less exhausting way. They don’t tip poorly. They don’t make you feel invisible. They talk to you like you’re part of the environment instead of an extension of it.
That alone makes them stand out.
By Hole Ten, the dynamic has shifted slightly.
Will is still loud, still performing for no audience in particular, but Macklin has started asking questions.
Not many. Just enough.
“How long have you been working here?” he asks when Will is distracted arguing with a sand trap that cannot hear him.
“Long enough to know this course better than most of the people playing it,” you say.
He nods like that makes sense. “You like it?”
It’s a simple question. It shouldn’t feel like anything.
But it does.
You glance around, the symmetry, the quiet, the endless repetition of care disguised as leisure.
“It’s peaceful,” you say finally. “Most of the time.”
Macklin hums softly. Like he’s filing that away somewhere.
Will interrupts immediately. “She’s saying we ruin the peace.”
“I didn’t say that,” you reply.
“You didn’t not say it,” he counters.
At Hole Twelve, something changes slightly.
Not dramatically. Just enough to notice.
Will is farther down the fairway when Macklin lingers near the cart.
“You deal with a lot of groups like us?” he asks.
“Depends what ‘like you’ means.”
He considers that. “Annoying?”
You look at him. “Confident.”
That earns a quiet laugh from him again.
“Fair,” he says.
There’s a pause. Longer than before.
Then he adds, “You’re good at this.”
“At serving drinks?”
“At reading people,” he corrects.
That lands differently than anything else today.
You shrug lightly. “It’s not that hard. Most people want the same things.”
“Which is?”
“To be seen,” you say simply. Then, after a beat, “and not bothered too much while it’s happening.”
Macklin looks at you like that answer makes more sense than he expected. Before he can respond, Will’s voice cuts across the fairway.
“Hey! Are we bonding without me? That’s illegal!”
The moment breaks easily, like it was never meant to fully form in the first place. But something about it sticks anyway. Later, when the group slows down and the heat becomes heavier, you find them again near a shaded bench.
Will is sprawled like the world personally owes him comfort. Macklin is sitting properly, bottle half-empty, watching the course with a kind of calm focus that feels out of place for someone his age.
“You always this quiet?” Will asks him.
“Only when I’m thinking,” Macklin says.
“That sounds dangerous,” Will replies.
You stop the cart beside them.
Will immediately perks up. “Refuel station!”
You hand him a drink. “Try not to crash emotionally this time.”
“No promises.”
Macklin takes his water again. Same motion. Same brief contact. Still nothing said about it.
But this time, he doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he looks at you for a second longer.
“You don’t play?” he asks.
“No.”
“Ever wanted to?”
You think about it. The clean lines of the course. The control. The patience.
“I think I like watching people try more than doing it myself,” you say.
He nods slowly. “That makes sense.”
Will groans. “You two are having a philosophical conversation without me again.”
“You’re welcome to join,” you say.
“I don’t have the emotional bandwidth right now,” he replies dramatically.
The sun starts to dip slightly as the round continues. Shadows stretch longer across the fairways. The course begins to feel quieter again, like it’s slowly returning to itself after tolerating noise for a few hours. By the time you reach the final hole, something has settled.
Not a story.
Not a connection with a name.
Just familiarity.
Will is still Will, loud, unfiltered, impossible to fully ignore. Macklin is still Macklin, quiet, observant, saying more with pauses than most people do with sentences.
But when they both come up to the cart one last time, it feels less like strangers interacting and more like a rhythm you accidentally learned.
“Last drinks?” you ask.
Will sighs dramatically. “Last emotional support beverage of the day, yes.”
Macklin shakes his head slightly, smiling faintly. “Just water.”
You hand it over.
Same motion. Same touch. Still nothing you can point to.
Still something your mind decides to remember anyway.
As they walk off toward the final green, Will is already talking again. Macklin listens, occasionally responding, occasionally glancing back at you like he’s not entirely done with the moment.
You don’t follow.
You don’t need to.
The cart starts moving again, down the path you already know by heart. And for the first time all day, the quiet doesn’t feel like something missing anything.
summary: You and Will Smith fall into an easy, undefined connection that quickly becomes more than just casual, but neither of you is willing to call it love. Even as your feelings grow, you both avoid labels to keep things from getting complicated or ending. In the end, you choose to stay in something real but unspoken, keeping it safely as anything but love.
SO CLOSE TO WHAT??? masterlist
<- prev. next->
It’s not supposed to be anything. That’s the rule, even if neither of you says it right away.
It exists in the way you sit a little too close, in the way conversations stretch longer than they should, in the way neither of you asks the question that would make this real. Whatever this is, it’s not serious, not defined, not something that turns into something else.
It’s anything but love. You don’t remember the exact moment it shifted from casual to something else, just that one day it was easy and the next it was… still easy, but heavier somehow, like there was something underneath it you weren’t acknowledging.
“You always stay this late?” he asks one night, dropping onto the bench beside you like he belongs there. “Sometimes.” “Or just when you don’t want to go home?”
You glance at Will Smith, narrowing your eyes slightly. “You ask a lot of questions.” “You don’t answer them.” “Maybe I don’t want to.” “Maybe you do.”
You don’t respond, just look out at the empty rink, the ice smooth and untouched. He doesn’t fill the silence, doesn’t push, just stays like he knows you won’t leave either. And he’s right. That’s the problem.
“This isn’t anything,” you say finally. “I know.” “It’s not going to be anything.” “Okay.” You glance at him. “You’re agreeing way too easily.” “I’m not arguing.” “You should.” “Why?” “So I have a reason to stop.” That earns a quiet laugh from him, softer than usual. “You don’t need a reason.” “I do.” “No,” he says, looking at you properly now. “You just want one.”
You look away first, because he’s right, and that’s becoming a pattern you don’t like. It keeps going like that after. Nothing changes, except everything does. You don’t call it anything, but you fall into it anyway.
Late nights at the rink turn into a routine. Conversations that start as nothing turn into something you think about later. He leans a little closer, you don’t move away.
You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just easy, and that’s all it is. But easy things aren’t supposed to stay in your head like this.
“You overthink everything,” he says one night, watching you retie your laces for the third time. “I don’t.” “You do.” “You don’t know that.” “I do.” You glance at him. “You’re very confident.” “I’m right.” You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. “Even if I was overthinking, it wouldn’t matter.” “Why not?” “Because this isn’t anything.”
He nods slightly, like he’s agreeing, but his expression doesn’t quite match.
“Right.” You hesitate. “It’s not.” “I know.” “Then why do you keep looking at me like that?” “Like what?” “Like it is.” He pauses, just for a second. “Maybe you’re overthinking that too.” You huff quietly, shaking your head. “You’re annoying.” “You keep saying that.” “Because it’s true.” “And you keep staying.”
Again, you don’t have an answer. Because again, he’s right. It would be easier if he wasn’t. If this felt forced or complicated in a way you could point to and walk away from. But it doesn’t.
It just fits. Too well. That’s what makes it dangerous. You start noticing things you shouldn’t.
The way he looks for you when he walks in, even if he doesn’t come over right away. The way he listens when you talk, actually listens, not just waiting for his turn.
The way he doesn’t try to impress you, doesn’t try too hard, just exists in a way that makes you feel like you don’t have to try so hard either. And that’s new.
You don’t like new. New turns into something else, and something else turns into something that can end. So you keep it here. In this undefined space where nothing has a name and nothing can technically go wrong. One night, it almost changes.
You’re sitting closer than usual, shoulders brushing just slightly, neither of you acknowledging it. The rink is quieter than normal, lights dimmed, everything softer around you.
“You ever think about it?” he asks. “About what?” “What this would be if we didn’t pretend it was nothing.” Your chest tightens. “No.” He glances at you. “That’s a lie.” “It’s not.” “It is.” You shake your head, more defensive than you mean to be. “I don’t want it to be anything else.” “Why?” “Because this is easy.” “And that’s bad?” “Yes.” He frowns slightly. “That doesn’t make sense.” “It does,” you say, quieter now. “If it stays like this, it doesn’t get ruined.”
He’s quiet for a second, like he’s thinking about that. “So you’d rather keep pretending?” “I’m not pretending.” “You are.” You turn toward him. “You’re doing the same thing.” “I know.” “Then why are you pushing it?” “I’m not pushing it.” “You just asked what it would be.” “That’s not pushing.” You exhale, frustrated. “It’s close enough.”
He studies you, then nods slightly.
“Okay.”
And just like that, he drops it. That should make you feel better. It doesn’t. Because now it feels like the only thing keeping this from changing… is you.
After that, you try to pull back. Not completely, just enough to prove to yourself that you can.
You leave earlier.
Sit farther away.
Keep conversations shorter.
You tell yourself it’s better this way. It has to be. But it doesn’t feel better. It feels off. Like something’s missing that you didn’t realize you’d gotten used to. And of course, he notices.
“You’re doing it again,” he says a few days later. “Doing what?” “Acting like this is nothing.” “It is nothing.” “No,” he says quietly. “It’s just not love.” You freeze. That word, love, you’ve both avoided it completely until now. “Exactly,” you say quickly.
“So it’s fine.” He looks at you for a long second. “Is it?” You hesitate. “…It has to be.” He nods, but there’s something different in his expression now.
Not frustration. Not confusion.
Just understanding. And somehow, that makes it worse. Because now he knows exactly what you’re doing, and he’s letting you do it anyway. No argument. No pushing.
Just… letting you stay in it. You look away, focusing on anything but him, because if you don’t, you might say something you can’t take back. And that’s the line.
Not feelings. Just the moment you admit them. So you don’t. Days pass, and nothing changes again, except it does. The distance you tried to create doesn’t stick.
You find yourself drifting back, sitting closer, staying later, falling into the same rhythm like it’s something you can’t quite break.
And he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t call it out again. Doesn’t push. He just meets you where you are, like he’s decided that if this is all you’re willing to let it be, then he’ll take it. That should make it easier. It doesn’t.
Because now it feels like you’re the only one pretending it’s nothing. One night, you’re the last two there again.
No one else in the rink, no noise except the quiet hum of the building. You’re sitting close, closer than before, your shoulder pressed lightly against his without either of you moving away. “We’re bad at this,” you say quietly. “At what?” “Keeping this simple.”
He lets out a small breath of a laugh. “Yeah.” You glance at him. “We said it was nothing.” “We did.” “And it’s not supposed to turn into something.” “It’s not.” You hesitate. “But it feels like it is.” He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is softer. “Yeah.” That’s it.
No denial. No pretending. Just agreement. And somehow, that’s what makes everything shift. Because now it’s real, just not in a way either of you is willing to define. You swallow slightly, looking down at your hands.
“We shouldn’t…” you start. “I know.” “We said we wouldn’t…” “I know.” You look up at him. “Then why are we still—” “Because you’re still here,” he says, cutting you off gently.
You don’t have an argument for that. You never do. The silence settles again, heavier now. You can feel the line right in front of you, the one you haven’t crossed yet. The one that would change everything if you did.
“Say it,” he says quietly. You frown. “Say what?” “That you want this to be more.” Your heart stutters. “I don’t.” He holds your gaze. “That’s not true.” You shake your head. “I don’t want it to be more.” “Why?” “Because more means it can end.” He doesn’t respond right away. Then, softer, “So you’d rather stay in something that’s not real?” “It is real,” you say quickly. “It’s just not…” “Love?” he finishes.
You nod slightly. He watches you for a long second, then looks away, leaning back against the bench. “Okay.” That’s it. Just okay.
No argument. No pressure.
And somehow, that hurts more than anything else he could’ve said. Because now there’s nothing stopping you from walking away. Nothing keeping you here except your own choice.
And you don’t leave. You stay right where you are, shoulder still pressed against his, silence stretching between you.
Because as much as you tell yourself this isn’t anything… you don’t want it to be nothing either. So you keep it here.
a/n: AHHHHHHHH first fic of the series!!! i hope yall like it!!
wc: 2k+
summary: You arrive at a new rink feeling out of place, struggling to feel like yourself again. Luke Hughes sees right through it, calling you out but also quietly helping you settle in. By the end, things still aren’t perfect, but they feel a little easier, and so does being around him.
SO CLOSE TO WHAT??? masterlist
->next
You don’t feel like yourself.
That’s the first thing you notice when you step into the rink, not the cold air biting at your skin, not the sound of blades carving into ice, not even the low hum of voices echoing off the walls. It’s the feeling in your chest, like everything about your life has shifted just slightly out of place.
New city. New routine. New people. New expectations.
You adjust your bag on your shoulder as you walk down the hallway, forcing your expression into something neutral. You’ve done this before, new environments, new teams, new beginnings. You know how to blend in, how to act like you belong even when you don’t quite feel it yet.
Still, something about this feels different.
The locker room door creaks when you push it open. A few conversations dip for a second as people glance over, assessing, curious. It’s quick, subtle, but you catch it anyway. You always do.
You nod slightly, like this is normal, like you’re used to it, and head toward the stall with your name on it. Seeing it there, printed, permanent, feels strange. Like proof that you’re supposed to be here, even if you don’t fully believe it yet.
You set your bag down and unzip it slowly. Your movements are careful, deliberate, like if you go too fast everything will feel more real than you’re ready for.
Your skates are the last thing you pull out.
They feel heavier than usual in your hands.
You stare at them for a second longer than necessary before sitting down and starting to lace them up.
You’ve always loved skating, so why does it feel like this now?
“New, right?”
The voice breaks through your thoughts.
You glance up.
Luke Hughes is leaning against the lockers across from you, arms loosely crossed, watching you with a kind of casual focus that feels a little too observant for someone you’ve never spoken to before.
“That obvious?” you ask.
“Little bit,” he says, pushing off the locker and stepping closer. “You’ve got the ‘where do I put my stuff’ look.”
You let out a small breath of a laugh. “I thought I was hiding it better than that.”
“Not really.”
“Good to know.”
There’s a pause, not uncomfortable, just unfamiliar. You go back to your laces, tightening them a little more than you need to.
“You’ve skated before though,” he adds, nodding toward your hands. “Not your first time.”
“No,” you say. “Just new here.”
He nods once. “Yeah. That part’s worse.”
You glance up at him again. “You’re not very reassuring.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“That’s… comforting.”
He smiles slightly, just enough to notice. “I’m honest.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s more useful.”
You don’t argue. You just keep tying your skates, pulling the second one tight.
He doesn’t leave.
Most people would’ve by now. Said hi, moved on, gone back to their own routine. But he stays, leaning casually against the locker beside yours like he has no intention of going anywhere.
“You nervous?” he asks.
You pause, fingers still on the laces. You could lie, you usually would, but something about the way he asks makes it feel pointless.
“…A little.” “Good.”
You look up. “Good?”
“Means you care.”
You exhale quietly. “I always care.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But not everyone shows it like that.”
You don’t respond. You finish tying your skates and stand, grabbing your gloves. You brush past him, not quite making contact, but close enough to feel the presence of him there.
“I’m fine,” you add.
“Of course you are.”
You glance at him. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I don’t need to be.”
That annoys you more than it should.
“You don’t even know me,” you say, heading toward the rink doors.
“I know enough.”
You stop. Turn back.
“Oh yeah?” you ask. “Like what?”
“You’re trying too hard to act like this isn’t a big deal, and you don’t like feeling out of place, so you pretend you’re not,” he says easily.
You stare at him for a second.
“You’re guessing.”
“Am I?”
You don’t answer.
You just push the rink door open and step onto the ice.
The cold hits differently out here, sharper, cleaner. You push off immediately, not giving yourself time to think, letting muscle memory take over.
The first lap feels stiff. The second is better. By the third, your breathing evens out, your edges settling into something more natural.
Still not perfect. Still not quite right.
When you loop back toward the boards, he’s there again.
Of course he is.
“You always skate like that?” he calls out.
You slow slightly. “Like what?” “Like you’re trying to outrun something.” You huff softly. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“I make a lot of observations.” “That’s worse.”
“Is it wrong?”
You hesitate. “…I don’t even know you.'
“You don’t have to.”
“That sounds like something someone says right before they become a problem.” “Am I a problem?”
You rest your arms on the boards, meeting his gaze. “Not yet.”
He smiles slightly at that, like he enjoys the answer more than he should.
“You look fine out there,” he says after a moment.
“I don’t feel fine.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
He shrugs. “You’ll get there.”
You shake your head, pushing off again. “You make it sound easy.”
“It is.”
You circle back, slower this time. “For you.”
“For anyone who stops overthinking it.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s not helpful advice.” “It works.”
You glide closer to the boards again, stopping in front of him. “You’re very confident for someone who just met me.” “I’m not confident,” he says. “I just know what I’m looking at.”
“And what’s that?” “Someone who’s good, but doesn’t trust it yet.”
That hits harder than you expect.
You look away first, back out at the ice.
“You don’t know that,” you say quietly. “I do.”
You shake your head, but it’s weaker this time. “You’ve seen me for like ten minutes.”
“Didn’t need more.”
There’s something in the way he says it, casual, but certain, that makes it harder to brush off.
You push off again, skating a wider lap. This time, you don’t think about what he said. You don’t think about anything, really. You just skate.
And for a moment, it feels like it used to.
When you come back, he’s still there. Still watching.
“You’re thinking less,” he says.
“You’re still watching me?” “Yeah.” “That’s a little weird.” “Is it working?”
You hesitate. “…Yeah.” “Then it’s not weird.”
You shake your head, but there’s a small smile there now.
You rest against the boards again, closer than before without realizing it. “Do you always do this?” “Do what?” “Talk to people like you’ve known them forever.”
He thinks about it for a second. “No.”
“So I’m special?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” You smile slightly. “Too late.” He laughs quietly, shaking his head.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward.
It’s… calm.
“You’ll be fine here,” he says after a moment.
You glance at him. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” “Why?”
“Because you care too much not to be.”
You don’t argue this time.
You just look out at the ice again, letting the words settle somewhere deeper than you expected.
For the first time since you walked in, the weight in your chest feels lighter.
Not gone, but manageable.
You glance back at him. “You staying here the whole time?”
“Probably.” “Why?”
He shrugs. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t start overthinking again.”
You roll your eyes. “I wasn’t overthinking.”
“You were.” “…A little.”
He smirks. “Exactly.”
You push off again, skating another lap. This time, when you turn, your edges feel cleaner. Your movements sharper. More like you.
When you come back, you don’t stop right away. You slow near the boards, glancing at him.
He’s still watching you. But it doesn’t feel intimidating anymore.
It feels… grounding.
Like no matter how unfamiliar everything else is, there’s at least one thing here that already makes sense.
And that thought—
more than anything—
is what makes this place start to feel like something you could grow into.
Hiiii I’m not seeing any links on ur profile or master list
hm thats wierd, on my intro post there should see the word 'masterlist' but underlined and you'll go to my main masterlist, but if you mean my anything but love masterlist its still in progress♡
21 songs, 21 fics, 21 players, each decided and divided to a player. the stories will have to do with the title or meaning of the song. (THIS IS DELUXE VERS.)
im planning on writing a smau series but like one of those things where each chapter is named after a song and the whole series is named after an album if you get me PLEASEEEEE HELP IDK WHAG ALBUM ALSO
a/n: HELLOOOOOOOOO!!!! any1 wanna buy my 1k hand beaded necklaces🥹
wc: prob like 2k
Macklin Celebrini x Social media girl!reader
@nauljise
Being the social media manager for the San Jose Sharks sounds cooler than it is. Okay, that’s not entirely true, it is cool. But it’s also constant pressure. Every post, every caption, every clip goes through you. One wrong upload and it’s not just your mistake, it’s the team’s image.
Which is why you’ve learned to keep things professional.
Especially with the players.
Especially with Macklin Celebrini.
“Can you not post that one?” he asks, leaning slightly over your shoulder as you scroll through photos from morning skate.
You don’t look up. “It’s a good shot.”
“I look weird.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I always do.”
You turn your laptop just enough for him to see. “You scored ten seconds before this was taken. You look fine.”
He squints at the screen. “My eyes look off.”
“You blinked.”
“Exactly.”
You sigh, clicking the image anyway. “It’s going up.”
He straightens, clearly unimpressed. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re overthinking it.”
He lingers for a second like he wants to argue more, then just shakes his head and walks off. You don’t need to check to know he’ll look for the post later anyway. He always does.
That’s the thing about Macklin, he complains, but he pays attention. More than most.
At first, your interactions were strictly work. Short conversations, quick directions during content shoots, occasional feedback on what he was comfortable posting. But somewhere along the way, things shifted. He started staying longer after shoots. You started noticing when he walked into a room without even looking up.
It’s subtle. It’s gradual. It’s dangerous.
You know better.
You’ve always known better.
That doesn’t stop it.
One night after a game, you’re still in the arena long after most people have left. The media team cleared out hours ago, but you’re behind on edits and you’d rather finish now than deal with it in the morning. The building is quiet, the usual noise replaced by the low hum of lights and distant echoes.
You don’t hear him walk in.
“You’re still here?”
You glance up.
Macklin.
Hoodie on, hair still damp, like he just finished showering and was halfway out the door before deciding not to leave.
“I could say the same thing,” you reply.
“I was leaving,” he says. “You’re clearly not.”
You shrug, closing one of your tabs. “I’ve got a post to finish.”
He steps closer, glancing at your screen. “That one’s good.”
“You’ve seen two seconds of it.”
“That’s enough.”
You shake your head slightly. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is when I trust you.”
You pause.
That word lands heavier than it should.
You look back at your screen. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes this weird.”
He leans against the desk beside you. “It’s already weird.”
You exhale slowly. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“Then why does it feel like it is?”
You don’t answer that.
Because you know exactly why.
You close your laptop, finally giving him your full attention. “You should go. It’s late.”
“Walk with me.”
“I can walk myself out.”
“I know,” he says. “I still want to.”
You hesitate for half a second too long before nodding. “Fine.”
The hallway outside is empty, your footsteps echoing slightly as you walk side by side. It feels different without the usual crowd, no cameras, no teammates, no noise. Just quiet, and him next to you in a way that feels a little too noticeable.
“You ever get tired of it?” he asks.
“Of what?”
“All of this. Being around us all the time.”
You think about it. “Sometimes. But I like it.”
“Even when we’re annoying?”
“Especially then.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “That’s concerning.”
You glance at him. “You’re the worst one, by the way.”
“I know.”
“At least you admit it.”
“Only with you.”
You look forward again. “You don’t talk like this to everyone.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
You hesitate. “…Because that would be a problem.”
He stops walking.
You take another step before realizing, then turn back to face him.
“What kind of problem?” he asks.
You cross your arms. “The kind that gets me fired.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
He steps closer, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you notice.
“I’m not going to get you in trouble,” he says.
“You already are.”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
There’s a beat of silence.
You shake your head quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
You look up at him, and for once he’s not joking, not teasing. Just serious.
“You think I don’t notice?” he says.
“Notice what?”
“You.”
That doesn’t help your heartbeat at all.
“At games, after practices, during media stuff,” he continues. “You’re always there, but you keep your distance.”
“I’m working.”
“I know. But it’s not just that.”
You don’t respond.
You can’t.
Because he’s right.
“This is a bad idea,” you say finally.
“Yeah.”
“Really bad.”
“Probably.”
Neither of you moves.
“You should go,” you add.
“Yeah.”
He still doesn’t move.
Instead, he steps closer.
Your heart is beating way too fast now.
“Macklin—”
“I know.”
And then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed, not messy, just careful, like he’s been thinking about it longer than he should have. Your hand grips the front of his hoodie before you even realize what you’re doing.
When you pull back, you’re both a little breathless.
“Well,” you say quietly.
“Yeah,” he replies.
You stare at him. “That was a bad idea.”
“Definitely.”
You hesitate, then shake your head slightly. “Still worth it?”
He doesn’t even think about it. “Yeah.”
You let out a quiet laugh, stepping back. “This can’t happen again.”
“Okay.”
“You’re agreeing way too easily.”
“I’m agreeing with you.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yeah,” he admits.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re still here.”
“That’s the problem.”
He glances toward the exit, then back at you. “I’ll walk you out.”
“You already did.”
“I’ll do it again.”
You shake your head, but you don’t argue.
Because the truth is, the rules are still there. The lines still exist.
But they don’t feel as clear as they did before.
And as you step out into the night beside Macklin Celebrini, one thought lingers—
