summary: Young, reckless, and rash, an unplanned pregnancy causes a massive rift in your relationship with then, cup-hungry 27 year-old Sidney Crosby. As he gets caught up in his own childish and selfish ways, confused to what was once certain, he lets you struggle alone. His absence reasons a miscarriage scare that leads you to end the relationship. Years after losing you, having to live a life that’s surrounded with the families his friends have built through the years embodies his greatest regret. Now with three cups and tons of awards at his disposal, Sid is given a chance to right his wrongs and win what was once the biggest loss of his life.
pairing: sidney crosby x fem!reader
gen. warnings: language and theme, co-parenting, mentions of pregnancy & false miscarriage, sexual/suggestive themes, 18+
ch. warnings: angst, fluff (YES), language, harsh arguments, swearing
genre: hockey rpf, fluff, angst, kid-fic, exes to lovers
length: series; 10.8k
masterlist: the barn, series masterlist
track: just hit up the track on the series masterlist
note: LONG WAIT IS OVERRR. seriously, nothing but love for yall for understanding the slow update. i tried not closing in on a one year hiatus but i failed mb! immaculate patience i gotta say. love u all sm and i hope you are still here to see this update and enjoy it. happy reading! <3 (gif used: mine)
disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. teasers, interviews, events, and the like that are included in the series are purely made for fictional purposes and do not/should not represent any of the names involved in real life. please proceed with caution.
Sidney meets up with Charlotte for a day he has planned with another special person in his life. It starts off a bit rocky but ends up being quite a fun night where Sidney and Charlotte see a different side of each other
(Sorry for the delay ! Gonna try to be consistent with this fic. Please let me know what you think, feedback means the world 💕)
This is chapter one of Sidney’s sequel from Till Forever Falls Apart (here) You don’t need to read the fic but it’s linked in case you want to. I hope you guys enjoy meeting Charlotte and of course that you enjoy seeing where Sidney is at after a bit of time. For those of you who constantly encouraged me and were there asking about this, thank you ❤️. Hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think !
Are there any good hockey romance novels or series you or your readers recommend? Looking for some new books to read.
I love love anything by Maren Moore, she's on kindle unlimited too. My faves from her are the enemy trap, newspaper nanny and her totally plucked series
Teagan Hunter also has good series, her carolina comets series is my fave
and of course there's Elle Kennedy with her off campus and briar u series, those are college hockey based though
That wasn’t the text message he was expecting from his teammate. Maybe are you ok? Did it hit you? Have you heard from anyone else? What was more unexpected was what was on the link he sent. A link to a tweet. A tweet that had a picture of his house on it. Not the house he currently lives in, but the house he currently still owns. It wouldn’t have been for much longer. He was weeks away from closing on the sale. The sale he had been waiting one long year for. It didn’t look like his house anymore, though. It was in shambles. It looked like a tornado hit it. It looked like a tornado hit it because a tornado actually did hit it.
As soon as he got over the initial shock he went right into panic. Was his girlfriend there when the tornado hit? Ex. Ex girlfriend. They’re not together anymore. Sometimes he forgets. Sometimes he is in denial. Sometimes he’d rather not remember. The decision was a mutual one, but that didn’t make it any less harder. It was about a year ago that they realized that they were looking for different things. He wasn’t looking for forever, although neither was she. Sometimes people just grow apart and that’s what happened to them. It didn’t mean they stopped wondering about each other and it sure as hell didn’t mean they still didn’t love each other.
He didn’t care that there could be potential for another touch down. He didn’t care that it wasn’t safe to be driving. He didn’t care that roads were closed. He didn’t care that the neighborhood he used to call home was in shambles. He had to make sure she was ok. It was dark but he could still see the devastation on people’s faces. Some of them lost everything. At least they were ok. Maybe she’d be ok too. The pictures of the house looked bad. Could she survive that? He didn’t waste time in trying to get in touch with her, not even knowing if he’d get through, he just knew he had to go.
the handshakes at the end of series just make me feel better??? idk, the idea of them being like “okay it’s done, good game my dudes” is comforting dhjdhfhfhf
Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic, not just particular chapters.
Word Count Chapter: 4677
Word Count Total: 58,279
Author’s Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Reminder, that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV change. Flipping between Mark and Clementine. This part begins with Clementine. THERE BE SMUT (kinda).
Part Thirteen*
When I woke, my heart was racing, Daze was planted on my chest with her head tucked under my chin, and Barbs was in a towel, soaking wet; standing over me. Absurdly, the first thing I noticed was how the droplets of water followed the trail of his chest hair down to his belly button.
I petted Daze and took a few deep breaths, focusing on the water dripping down Mark’s chest, the nightmare featuring Bill fading into the recesses in my mind where he would lurk until next time.
When my heart rate approached a reasonable rate, the Border Collie lifted her head and licked my cheek.
I was still focused on watching the water trail down Barbs’ body, and without thinking, I reached up to chase a droplet with my finger.
HIs brows disappeared into his hair, as he asked, “What the fuck, Lemon?”
Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic, not just particular chapters.
Word Count Chapter: 6570
Word Count Total: 53,604
Author’s Note: Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Reminder, that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV change. Flipping between Mark and Clementine. This part begins with Clementine. THERE BE SMUT (kinda).
Part Twelve*
I was sucking down a latte at a speed that was going to give me a stomach ache while Daze peed on every single patch of dirt we came across. Barbs had a small Americano he was nursing with a look of amusement on his face, and the fingers of his free hand were twisted into my belt loop, keeping me tucked into his side as we meandered in the sunshine.
We wandered along the river contentedly until the temps seemed to rocket into the 80s. The elevation in Denver always made it feel at least 10 degrees hotter than it was, and by the time we made it back to Mark's apartment, I was pretty sure the smell invading my nostrils wasn’t coming from Barbs or Daze.
The bottom layer of my hair was soaked with sweat and I was sure there was a pool in my underwear, which may-- or may not have been heat-related. As further proof life is entirely unfair, Mark was barely glistening and looked handsome as ever, but, to his credit, he was a professional athlete and that walk probably didn’t even register on his exercise-o-meter.
As we made our way through the front door and back to the blissful existence that is climate control, I asked him, “Is there a place where I could shower, maybe?”
He was unclipping Daze’s leash and hung it on a hook by the door, “Yeah,” he confirmed, “there’s a guest room with an ensuite through the door at the end of the kitchen.”
I looked at my bag, torn. What started as a casual conversation about a shower (if there was such a thing), seemed to have evolved into a bigger discussion, which, it occured to me, had been entirely avoided by my ability to fall asleep on the couch. “Do you want me to stay there?” I ventured.
He arched a brow; I could sense that he and I were on the same page and again, I was both irritated and impressed by his perceptiveness. But he remained unfazed as he told me coolly, “The master is down the hall, and you’re welcome to as well.”
I looked down at the weekender bag, which was still sitting by the door, and shifted my weight on my feet in an effort to buy myself some time. Maybe the silence would drive him crazy and he’d cave first and just tell me what to do. Instead, Mark trailed his hand across my back and pulled me into him, kissing the top of my head, before he headed to the kitchen and grabbed two bottles of water. “I’m not making the decision for you, Lemon,” he informed me, “you’ve had enough of that.”
“But…”
He smirked, though his lips were wrapped around the mouth of the water bottle. With his head tilted back, he downed all 16oz in a single drink; watching his throat move as he swallowed almost gave me heatstroke. At least, that’s what I’m saying it was, if anyone were to ask. The self-loathing I felt creeping through me was, I realized, entirely unrelated to all of my usual neuroses but instead, likely triggered by the level of “thirsty fangirl” I was feeling about the handsome man standing in front of me. It was then that clairity dawned on me: I didn’t know what was going to happen if I put my bag in his bedroom, but I knew what wouldn’t happen if I went to the guest room. Thus, I snatched the bag from the floor and disappeared down the hall toward the master, making a sincere attempt to look cool, unhurried and 0% desperate, though I probably failed on all three accounts.
His bedroom, like the rest of his house, was masculine yet warm and comfortable. A huge bed with a heavy looking dark wood frame fit the large space well, and I didn’t know what size it was, but it seemed larger than a King. I’m sure there was some super special athlete sized bed only professional athletes could buy. The sheets were dark gray and crisp, and his bed was made. He didn’t seem like the type to make his bed in the morning so I assumed the cleaning service had changed the sheets and made the bed.
The bathroom was also huge; the shower and tub were enclosed in the same glass room and it honestly just looked like a bitch to clean, although I suppose one could just spray the entire thing with windex and use a squeegee. And yes, this was the first thing I thought about upon entering it, despite all of the lust and hormones swirling around in my brain. You can take the housewife out of the house, but short of a lobotomy, I was still wired to think about cleaning and cooking, it seemed. With gratitude, I gleefully realized that cleaning the bathroom was entirely not my problem and I set my bag on the bed. Daze hopped up, circling three times before curling into a ball, right in the middle of the huge monstrosity, her keen eyes studying me carefully.
True to form, Nora had packed my half my bathroom and exactly one change of clothes, I loved her optimism that I wouldn’t *need* clothes, but I did like having the option of wearing them, which was the main reason I had run home the day before and now the bag was straining at the seams.
In the bathroom, there was a set of lush towels hanging on the towel bars and an entire additional set folded and set on the counter. The ones on the bars near the shower room were obviously the ones Barbs used, and therefore, I presumed the ones on the counter were for me. Suddenly furious, I narrowed my eyes; that assuming, idiotic moron man. He obviously assumed I’d be sleeping in his bed and using his shower. Despite my rage, a little voice in the back of my head, which sounded most concerningly like Nora, immediately wondered if there was an identical pile of towels in the guestroom.
Answering that question at once preempted all other activities, sweaty hair be damned. So, I marched down the hall and into the kitchen, prepared to give Mark the what-for, and much to my surprise, I was hit with the smell of onions and garlic sauteeing in olive oil. Mark was in the kitchen, tea towel thrown over his shoulder, the spitting image of, like, all of the hottest fantasies I’d ever had of him. My eyes widened and, distracted by the vision in front of me, my stare was fixated on him instead of where I was going, meaning, I hit the back of the couch with quite a bit of momentum from my march of irritation. Unceremoniously, I flew over the back of it in the most ungraceful somersault that had ever been done by a human and smacked my head on the coffee table. The resulting “thwack,” which echoed loudly through the space, functioned as an entirely too perfect soundtrack accompaniment to reality’s literal smack in the face. I sat on the ground, waiting for the rest of the life’s laugh track to kick in. I was only 50 percent positive the tweeting cartoon birds were my imagination.
“Holy shit! Clementine!!” I heard Mark yelp.
Unlike the birds, I was sure I hallucinated Mark vaulting over the back of the love seat that sat perpendicular to the couch to get to me.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
If getting to Tine just then depended on my sinking the winning puck in the Stanley Cup final, I know I could do it with one arm tied behind my back and my eyes closed. By the time I vaulted over the couch like Simone Biles, she was already sitting up, hand on her head as I knelt down.
“It’s fine, I’m fine. I’m totally fine,” she shushed me, before I could even say anything. “The good news about being crazy is I can’t possibly get MORE fucked up due to trauma to the head, so it’s fine.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said, sounding a little more exasperated than I intended, “Shut up and lay down on the couch.” As I picked her up under her armpits and deposited her there, I realized she didn’t really have a choice. I was considering plopping down on top of her to make her stay put, but that seemed a little excessive. Instead, I directed her firmly, “Stay there.”
Clumsiness and head trauma apparently didn’t fall under Daze’s duties, because it was a few minutes before she wandered in from the bedroom, mostly seeming curious as to what all the commotion was about. After retrieving a flexible ice pack from the freezer, I yanked the towel off of my shoulder over and wrapped the ice pack in it, making my way back to Clementine. I was half-surprised that she was actually laying down where I left her; leaning over the arm of the couch, I moved her hand from her head and put the ice pack on it. Curiosity got the better of me and I found myself asking, “What were you even doing out here? I thought you were taking a shower.”
She had hit her head over her right eye and sure enough, there was a big bump quickly forming there. She looked a little like a lopsided unicorn when she pulled the pack away, checking to see if there was any blood. She sighed, “It’s dumb.”
Once again, I was thankful for my taste in big furniture, because I stepped over the side table and settled onto the couch next to her, trapping her against the back, and held the ice pack to her head for her. “Try me.” I deadpanned.
She mumbled, words falling out of her mouth in one fell swoop. Were I not more well-versed in mumbling as a language (thank you to so many of my teammates for this unforeseen boon), I might not have followed her, but sure enough, when she uttered “Iwantedtoseeifthereweretowelsintheguestroom,” I knew exactly what she meant.
“I had towels set out for you, babe.”
She rolled the one eye I could see— well, I assume she rolled both, but I just saw the one not obscured by the ice pack, as she grumbled, “I KNOW. In your bathroom. I wanted to see if there were towels in the OTHER bathroom too.”
I cocked my head to the side, half-concerned I was following her inane “logic” and half-grateful I was able to as I clarified, “So you came out here all stomping mad because I laid towels out for you? And actually, let me note, that I personally didn't; I had the service do it yesterday. And you’re mad?”
“IN YOUR BATHROOM, BARBS,” she maintained shrilly.
“No,” I corrected her, “In both bathrooms. I wanted the place to be prepared for you to stay, in whichever way you felt comfortable.”
Her voice was small as she replied, “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” I couldn’t fight the smile on my face if I wanted to, and frankly, I didn’t want to. “Now who’s the idiot?” I teased her.
She traced her fingers across the portion of my chest revealed by the several open buttons at the top of my shirt and innocently, played with the hair that peeked out. She always seemed to be touching the hair on my arms or, in this case, my chest and oddly, I liked it. “I mean,” she feigned consideration, “Probably still you. As a rule.”
I lifted the ice and gently kissed her new horn as I agreed, “Probably, but also you a little bit.” She smiled at me and it was so sincere and beautiful that I almost got lost in it.
We sat quietly for a few moments and she intertwined the fingers of her free hand in mine. Replaying the events of the minutes prior in my head, I realized I was missing a piece and as evenly and straight-faced as I could manage I asked her, “But how did you go from mad to tripping over the couch? It’s huge and kind of hard to miss.”
She squirmed away from me slightly, which was a feat, since there really was nowhere for her to go. “Nothing. It’s nothing,” she said breezily and I grinned, there was definitely something.
“Lemon,” I insisted, my smile practically reaching my ears.
“Barbs.” her tone was the one she frequently used when she was tired of my antics.
“Clementine.” I wasn’t going to let her off the hook.
“Mark,” she declared, almost petulantly.
I stuck out my bottom lip and gave her the sad eyes. It always seemed to work for Mikko. “Please?” I asked, with as much earnestness as I could muster.
A faint smile appeared on her face as she acquiesced, albeit resignedly as she griped, “Okayyyyyyyyyyy.” She looked me dead in the eyes, quirking an eyebrow at me as she added the disclaimer, “But you can’t make fun of me.”
“Ok.” I nodded, “I promise.”
She sighed again, pausing before she spoke, “I just… you’ve been bringing me food “from your mom” and I know she’s not sending a bunch of meals to you from Montreal, so I just figured you’ve actually been cooking them yourself this whole time and I have this fantasy of you with a towel tossed over your shoulder cooking dinner for me and I was, for once in my life, NOT the one cooking dinner and instead, I was drinking wine watching you cook and…..and that’s like, exactly what you were doing except it was breakfast not dinner and it’s all very hot.”
If I were a better man, I would’ve wiped the smirk off of my face. But I’m not. So I didn’t. “Do I fuck you on the counter?” I suggested. “Is that where it gets hot?”
“No,” she answered, “The whole fantasy is just you cooking.”
“That’s it? That’s what made you trip over the entire fucking couch?” This information was not what I was expecting and as much as I wanted to tease the shit out of her about it, it was so sweet and pure and genuine, I couldn’t find it in myself to do it. Plus, I’d promised.
She squirmed away from me again, frowning as she reminded me, “You said you wouldn’t make fun of me.”
I pulled the ice off of her head and set it on the coffee table. Gently, I took her chin between my fingers, turning her head toward mine so I could give her a soft kiss. “Baby…” I whispered, “I’m about to blow your mind.”
I kissed her again, sloppy and fast and stood up, scooping her up too.
“Ohmigod, BARBS!!” She shrieked, “Put me down!! I am NOT telling Bednar I’m the reason you can’t start the season.”
I ignored her and instead, deposited her on a bar stool, skirting the island and making way to the fridge to grab a bottle of prosecco and a carton of orange juice. “I know you said wine,” I remarked, “but it’s not even noon yet. SO, if you take sparkling wine and mix it with orange juice and call it a Mimosa, you’re allowed to drink before noon. I learned that from Landy.”
The look on her face said she was not at all surprised that Landy drank mimosas and was the party who had clued me in to this novel fact.
I set the champagne flute in front of her, filled with the boozy mixture of sparkling wine and Vitamin C. She fingered the stem absently, looking like she was approaching, though not necessarily imminently, a panic attack.
I lit the burner and put the pan back on it, grabbing another towel and throwing it over my shoulder before I added more olive oil to the onions and garlic.
Tine took a sip from the flute and after a moment, followed it up with a much larger sip. “Lemon,” I looked at her plainly, “Just down it if you want, zero judgment from me. I will pour you another.”
She eyed me over the top of the glass before taking another sip. I took my glass and raised it toward her, then downed the whole thing in a single gulp. It was about four seconds before my face contorted into a grimace and I choked out, “Oh bubbles, that was a bad choice.” I screwed my eyes shut as the carbonation tickled my sinuses. Maybe she was onto something, sipping on her mimosa. I was gonna have to serve myself a side of humble pie along with this omelet.
My eyes watered a bit which, I’m sure, did nothing to bolster my reputation in that moment. I raised my eyebrows to stretch out my face and hopefully, make the sensation go away as well as perhaps be so adorable that she wouldn’t totally roast my ass for my terrible and frattish suggestion.
I pushed the onions and garlic around the pan to make sure they caramelized evenly and turned to pull some veggies out of the fridge. When I set them on the island, I caught Clementine’s gaze and she was looking at me like a timbits player looks at the Stanley Cup: with awe, adoration, and a lot of hope.
“What’s on your mind, Clementine?” I prodded.
She took another lazy sip of the mimosa and rolled the drink around in her mouth before swallowing. “This is a good Prosecco,” she complimented, “Did you choose it?”
I was quartering a zucchini before slicing it as I responded, “I think we both know Gabe brought that over once and it’s been in my fridge ever since. And that can’t be why you’re looking at me like a cop looks at a donut.” The words were barely out of my mouth before I realized what I said. Hurriedly, I tried to backpedal, “Fuck, shit. I’m sorry, Lemon. I didn’t mean…”
Her face didn’t change much, but nonetheless, her expression solidified just a bit and her expression became more wooden. She traced one of the veins in the quartz countertop as she said slowly, “You can make jokes, Barbs. It’s ok. Cops do love donuts.”
I sighed and put down the knife, bracing my hands on the counter and berating myself inwardly as I grumbled, “And now I’ve ruined the moment.”
She drained her glass and set it down on the bar, filling it with Prosecco and adding just a dash of orange juice before taking another swig. I arched a brow at her, intrigued.
She jutted her chin in the direction of the clock on the microwave behind me, and said, almost daringly, “What? It’s 12:01. Don’t judge me.”
I resumed chopping, and we sat quietly for a bit while she watched me, the only sound in the kitchen coming from the vegetables sizzling away in the skillet. Finally, I had to fill the silence and I asked, “So, why the cooking fantasy?”
She took another sip of her mimosa, if you could even call it that now, and shrugged, responding with an offhanded “I don’t know.”
I scoffed, not even half surprised with her answer and refusing to settle for it. “That’s such a crock of horseshit.”
She looked around, almost like she was looking for something to throw at me and took another sip of her drink instead. “Excuse your language,” she admonished me.
I scoffed again and suddenly, I realized how much time we spent rolling our eyes around each other and trying to figure out if that was a bad thing or a good thing. “Oh, please” I huffed, “You can ‘shit, fuck, damn’ with the best of us, honey. Don’t think I don’t hear you when you miss a good shot of me.”
“It’s because I have to work harder to make you look good,” she threw back easily.
A bark of laughter escaped my mouth and it sounded a little bit deranged but hopefully still manly. “I own a mirror,” I informed her, rejecting her chirp, “So that ain’t flying.” I gave it a minute, sensing that this could be a bit of a loaded issue and wanting to allow her a little bit of time and space. Maybe she wasn’t ready to talk about it, and I didn’t want to push her so hard that she was uncomfortable. I turned to look at her and my eyes met hers.
Softly, I asked again, “Seriously, Clementine.”
She sighed and took a deep breath before she explained, “I don’t think I’m comfortable going into the details, but Bill really wanted to be born in the 30’s so he could have a 1950s housewife instead of me. So, dinner was always at a certain time and I always made it, regardless of anything— even if I was sick, I made dinner. He insisted on approving any activities I might want to do at night, and if I wanted to join a book club that started before his dinner time, it was a no go. So, I …..I don’t cook anymore.”
I had a feeling my penalty minutes were going to skyrocket this year as I listened, letting everything she told me flow into a box labeled “Discuss with therapist later.”
She seemed to be waiting for a reaction from me and I started breaking some eggs into a bowl as I replied, “That sounds like it would suck any joy of cooking. So, it’s a good thing I love how you pause when you eat the first forkful of something you didn’t have to make and savor it, because, that moment right there? Because of that moment, I’ll cook for you anytime.”
The little wrinkle appeared between her brows and the sight of it made me smile. She eyed me over the top of her glass again and smiled at me in return as she chuckled, “That was a surprisingly insightful answer, and it is appreciated on many levels, Mr. Barberio.”
I continued cracking eggs, congratulating myself inwardly. “Weren’t you going to take a shower?” I wondered outloud.
She lifted her arm and took a whiff of her armpit, which made me smile again because she made a disgusted face, which was actually quite adorable. “Ugh, yes,” she sighed.
“Can you do it in 15?” I countered, “Brunch is almost ready.”
“Just for that, I can do it in 15. I don’t need to wash my hair today anyway, just get the sweat out.”
I continued chopping vegetables for the omelets while she climbed off the barstool. “I’m going to make you work out with me soon.”
She blanched and I laughed, “What? it’s good for you and it makes sex better.”
She rolled her eyes so hard I was certain she could see through the back of her skull, and wandered down the hall without a word. Daze stopped and looked at me, the giver of treats and back down the hall the way Clementine went. “You should probably follow the walking accident waiting to happen, Dog.”
Daze let out a huff in what I assumed was agreement and followed her charge down the hall.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Daze wandered in and I closed the door to the master bedroom behind her, since the bathroom didn’t HAVE a door, per se; the toilet was in its own little closet, but the rest of the bathroom had an open doorway and a half wall of glass bricks to let the light shine in.
I looked at the tub— it was wide, long, and deep, and for a brief moment, fantasized about filling it with gallons of steaming hot water and hopping in and sinking up to my chin in bubbles, but I knew that was going to take longer than 15 minutes. However, Mark’s shower looked equally luxurious and, from even a cursory inspection, seemed to have enough showerheads to ensure that no portion of your body would go untouched.
Turning on the shower, I was proven correct; Water streamed out from what seemed like an uncountable array of showerheads (Spoiler alert, it was actually 3), including a giant rain one that hung down in the middle of the space. I had died and gone to heaven and heaven was Mark Barberio’s bathroom -- who knew. I had to pause for a moment and I leaned heavily on the counter while the water warmed. I was about to take a shower in God’s bathroom, while a man--scratch that, while a stupidly hot man-- made me brunch. It was a lot to absorb, and there was a definite tingle between my legs that, honestly, had been there since our makeout session on the balcony.
I just wanted to attach my face to his and put him inside me and that was how we were now. Freaky siamese twins attached at the mouth and genitals. In the sexiest and most not insane way possible. I didn’t think that was normal, but considering Bill was my ONLY relationship, I didn’t know what normal was. So maybe it was normal, because I had certainly NEVER felt that way about Bill.
I shrugged out of the clothes I had been wearing, which I realized had been marinating on my body for over 24 hours. The crotch of my panties was totally soaked, and even though I was alone, I made a face as I shoved all my dirty clothes into a small pile in the corner of the bathroom.
By this time, the glass shower enclosure had filled with steam and I swear, the minute I stepped in, I could feel my pores open up. All of the stress just leaked out of my body and into the swirling mist, and I realized that the only thing that could possibly improve this moment would be if the shower included some sort of eucalyptus oil diffuser to imbue the steam with all of its relaxing goodness. If Mark managed to figure that one out, he could probably charge admission fees for a visit to his shower.
The spray hitting me from 400 different angles felt amazing and I seriously wondered how Barbs didn’t fucking live in this shower and become some kind of landlocked merman.
I twirled my wet hair and plopped it on top of my head and, after doing so, realized too late I had left all my shower paraphernalia on the counter; however, I was so zen at that moment that I said fuck it, whatever, (three words I was pretty sure I’d never uttered in my life). Barbs had to have something in here, I figured, and I’d just use that. I saw something sitting on a small built-in ledge and I grabbed it: it was one of those homemade soaps with the loofah molded right in, which would suit me just fine. I was familiar with that type of item, as I had one just like it, and it was actually one of my favorite instruments of torture when I was trying to cleanse myself of the voices. I lathered it between my hands and realized that whatever this soap was, it was definitely one element of the fundamental smells that combined to make Barbs’ unique sexy manly smell - as I continued to lather, I detected hints of sandalwood and pine.
I ran the bar over my body and let the suds cover me before I flipped it to the other side, letting the water-softened loofah scrape against my skin in the way I would imagine rough but gentle hands would feel. I dipped the bar across my hips and then, between my legs and the rough edge of the loofah dipped between my lips, just catching my clit.
The sensation made me gasp. I had obviously tried to masturbate over the past years-post Bill, and considering the last time I was successful was pre Bill, my therapist and I speculated it was because of the trauma I suffered. But maybe, I didn’t need to ‘get over’ my trauma or learn to work with it, I just needed to be...turned on? What an entirely insane concept. That intense need I had felt that morning with Mark, I had never felt with Bill, even before the abuse started.
I made the same motion with the loofah again, and my hips twitched. I did it again and again and I could feel the euphoria building in my body. Eventually, I traded the loofah for my fingers and I swirled circles around my clit until I had to brace my free hand against the glass wall to keep my legs from going out from under me, hips twitching as the wave crested.
Mark’s name may have been on my lips and a pleasant roaring muted the rest of the world and I thought I heard my own name but I wasn’t sure.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The omelets were done, and I debated with myself about whether or not to set the table in the dining area, or if we should eat on the bar side of the island. I set the table, but it looked too formal and maybe too reminiscent of Tine’s old life, so I took the placemats and put them on the bar. In the end, it looked like a planned but informal meal and I was wondering what was taking Tine so long.
I knocked on the door to the bedroom, but didn’t get an answer. So, I knocked again, opening the door a little as I said her name.
“Lemon?” I spoke softly, words softly echoing through the mist rolling out of the bathroom.
Her hand against the glass was the only clear thing I could see, but it didn’t take a genius to see the shadow of her other hand between her legs, body bent as she came and I heard her say my name.
I closed the door quietly and leaned my head back against it. Holy fucking shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit. I was aching behind the zipper of my jeans, dick bent at an awkward angle and stuck my hand down there to straighten him out. I had no idea how I was going to function for the rest of the day without bending her over the back of the couch and fucking her until my balls were empty. I don’t think I had ever been so hard or turned on in my life, and as a professional athlete I felt like that was significant.
It took more than a few moments for me to compose myself but when I did, I knocked on the door again, this time being sure to stay on the outside of it. “Lemon?” I forced out, casually, “Food is ready.”
After a moment, she opened the door and smiled at me as she padded back into the bedroom. Her hair was still wet, held on top of her head with a clip, and she was in simple leggings and an oversized Avs shirt. Its neck was so stretched that it was hanging off of one shoulder and I could see the strap of her tank top or bra or whatever. Her cheeks were flushed, skin still dewey from the shower.
“That shower is amazing,” she sighed, “I might just live there.”
I didn’t know what to say since “I want to cum on your chest” was probably inappropriate. So I settled for nothing, raising my brows and nodding slowly in acknowledgment of the shower’s awesomeness which had been raised to another level since I was never ever ever going to be able to take a shower without thinking of that moment.
Her nose crinkled and I could tell she was on to me. Fuck. As she made her way through the bedroom, she looked at me over her shoulder and asked, “Lunch ready?”
I nodded, that seemed safe, and watched as she made her way down the hall, her gait a lot more relaxed than I had ever seen it. Daze followed behind her, avoiding my gaze.
I honestly had no idea what to do; she seemed unaware I had seen something so intimate and HOT and I didn’t know how to bring it up and explain WHY my horniness went from a normal 100 to a supercharged 1000 and I was acting like a totally awkward and lovestruck teenage boy. Or, more like one than usual.
She stopped short of the kitchen and looked at the island, where our places were set and the food was waiting for her. Daze whined and shoved her nose into Tine’s hand. When Tine turned her head and looked down at the dog, it seemed like she was trying to blink back tears. I cleared my throat and she looked over her shoulder at me again, a small smile on her lips.
“What are we eating, Chef Barberio?” She took the seat she’d occupied earlier, setting the napkin in her lap and leaning forward toward her plate, wafting the smell of the omelet toward her face with her hand.
“It’s just an omelet, Lemon.” I said modestly.
She snorted. “It’s about to be the best omelet I’ve ever eaten.”
I slid into the chair next to her and she lifted her glass, which I had refilled while she was in the shower. “To hockey players slash chefs slash playboys who turn out to be actually decent guys,” she toasted.
She took a sip from her glass and I followed suit; then, she dug into the omelet and let out a moan that made the situation in my pants a lot more dire than it had been and I didn’t think that was possible.
I shifted uncomfortably, she noticed but seemed to mistake why as she said quickly, “I’m sorry, it’s just really good, Barbs. I’m not exaggerating.”
I sighed, about to reinforce the playboy image and not the actual decent guy part. With my arm settled around the back of her chair, I confessed, “Lemon, it’s not that. Your moan gave me a hard on.”
She tried not to smile, holding her hand in front of her full mouth. She chewed several times before swallowing and apologizing, “Sorry. I’ll do my best to keep my pornagraphic food noises to myself.”
“God, no, don’t do that,” I objected. It was my turn to take a bite of my creation and I let out an exaggerated moan of my own; two can play at that game. As I chewed and swallowed, I smiled at her as I agreed, “But you’re right, I’m good.”
She smacked my arm lightly and admonished, “Stop making fun of me, it’s not nice.”
I stood up and cupped her head in my hands, pressing a kiss to her temple, and went to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. “Eat up, Lemon,” I encouraged. “Trying to make sure you eat enough is a full time job.”
She frowned, pushing a mushroom around on her plate absently. “But what if I get fat,” she retorted.
Oh my god, that fucking ex-husband of hers. I leaned down on my forearms and stared at her over the island, resisting the urge to verbally rip him to shreds and ruin our brunch. “Babe,” I chose my words carefully, “You’re not thin now, and I like you a lot. I care more about your health than your size. You wanna be fat, get fat. But healthy, so you gotta be like one of those chubby instagram workout girls.”
She glowered. “Your sentiment is nice,” she acknowledged sarcastically, “But your execution leaves much to be desired.”
I didn’t choose carefully enough, it seemed. But even so, I grinned. “There’s my girl,” I teased.
We finished our meal in comfortable silence, with maybe some juvenile knee shoving under the countertop. Which was maybe started by me.
When she finished, she sat back in her chair, looking like she was contemplating licking the plate. I stood, grabbing her head and pressing a kiss to her temple again, which was starting to become a habit and I found that I couldn’t care less. I started clearing the plates.
She grabbed my forearm and rose from her own chair, saying “No, Mark, stop. I’ll clean up.”
I pried her fingers off of my arm with my free hand, and gently pushed her hand away. “No, Lemon,” I insisted, “Just go watch TV or something. I got it. I made you a meal and I intend to finish making that meal by cleaning up.”
“Mark, please.”
I gave her a pointed look, “Lemon, no.”
She practically pouted, “Fine, but I’m going to sit here and keep you company.”
I scraped crumbs off the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, having cleaned up the rest of the dishes while she was in the shower. The petulant silenced stretch uncomfortably, “Lemon,” I asked, “Can you see if there’s anything good on the Food Network?”
It was a small manipulation, just a small one. But it got her on the couch, trying to bring up the TV while I finished cleaning.
By the time I was done, her head was back against the cushions and she was snoring softly. She was almost too predictable, and it pissed me off to no end that some asshole managed to use that against her for who knows how long. Daze accompanied her sleeping human on the couch and was keeping a weather eye on her, like she knew something about Clementine I didn’t know. Which, to be fair, she probably did.
I took the mean looking torture device out of her hair, laid her down on a pillow, picked her feet up and sett them on the couch before I pulled the blanket off the back of it and covered her with it.
I’d probably get so much shit if the guys knew most of my second stay over date was Tine catching up on a decade of sleep, but if I was honest, I didn’t mind. Partly because I felt some pride in the fact that part of her subconscious had decided I was safe and honestly, partly because of how intense it was being with her. I never knew when she would casually drop a small bomb of information on me, because her experiences were normal for her though they were absolutely not normal for me. I tried to be conscious of the language I used and the words I chose, but it occurred to me that maybe that was one thing I shouldn’t worry about doing. Like Stephanie said, maybe that was my burden and I didn’t need to watch myself that carefully, because that was work she needed to do and not work I needed to take on for her. It was a bonus that while she was here she was out of reach of her awful awful parents.
I kissed her forehead and decided to work off the sexual frustration in the building gym instead of utilizing Rosie Palm and her five sisters.. I left a post-it on her phone, knowing she would check it immediately when she woke, mostly, I assumed, to appease Nora, who had been texting Tine every hour on the hour, it seemed.
After changing clothes, I headed for the door, going to utilize the basement gym in my building.
PAIRING: grumpy divorced dad!erik johnson x sunshine nanny!reader
SUMMARY: on the night of their first date, erik and the reader have more on their plates than just nerves and years of built up tension
WARNINGS: arguing, swearing, spoilers for the movie an affair to remember, hospitals, blood, broken bones, erik being a mean dumbass
LENGTH: 7k
NOTE: i did not intend for this to become a series but here we are :) and i couldn’t be happier about it. also…don’t hate me for this lol
“Did my Daddy buy you those?” Josie asks, pointing at the large bouquet of red roses threatening to spill out onto your dresser.
She's laying on her stomach at the edge of your bed in her pajamas, a matching set she had to have after she saw yours a few months ago. She said they made her feel like a grown-up or a princess, because apparently to a seven year old, you can’t be both at the same time. Her ankles are crossed in the air behind her, and her sweet little face is resting in one of her palms. Each of her nails is painted a different color because she couldn't pick just one. She said she wouldn't want any of the colors to feel left out. Josie is doing her best to keep her head from drooping down, like you didn't know her well enough to what she looked like when she was exhausted.
Her ticks and tells, like how heavy her head got when she was close to falling asleep or how her nose twitched when she was lying, served as little reminders of the person you were watching her grow into. Right before your eyes, she was the forming habits and quirks that made her, her. Josie was becoming Josie, and it was nothing short of amazing. Reese had them too - he flinched a little when he cursed, like he didn't like the way the word tasted in his mouth, and he always needed some kind of background noise to concentrate.
They'd blossomed in the five years you'd known them, and sometimes it was hard to imagine they were the same kids Erik introduced you to that afternoon at the local park.
It was only a year or two after their mother left; Josie had just turned two and Reese was eleven. According to Erik, the former hardly remembered her mother and the latter didn't mention her.
They were well-behaved, but quiet and distant. They hardly said anything until you coaxed them into a game of "I Spy" while their father took a phone call, and you'd gotten the job because of it. Apparently, none of the other nanny candidates could get a word out of either of them no matter how hard they tried. Now, you were lucky if you could get them to stop talking long enough to get a word of your own in.
You hadn't done anything special or revolutionary with Josie or with Reese, but that's probably why they'd warmed to you as quickly and as fiercely as they had. You didn't treat them as though they were made of glass, like one wrong step would shatter their fragile hearts. You didn't stare at them like they were lost puppies in a cardboard box, wet and shivering and begging to be loved. You didn't ask about their mother, or if they missed their father when he was away for work. You simply loved them and let them be. You allowed them to just be kids, trusting that they would come to you if and when they wanted to talk about any of it.
They had, but neither in great detail.
When Reese was a freshman in high school, he was supposed to give a presentation on his parents' occupations for a class. Talking about his dad was easy enough - everyone knew about Erik Johnson and his career, but unfortunately, everyone also knew about his mother and her sudden departure.
At first, you'd written off his attitude as typical teenager moodiness but after a week of foul language and sulking around the house, you put Josie to bed, fixed him the biggest ice cream sundae for dinner and put Texas Chainsaw Massacre on in the living room.
At first, he pretended like that was his first time seeing it - or any horror movie, for that matter. He jumped at all the right moments and covered his eyes when he thought he should, but you both knew it was already one of his favorites. He'd watched it during a sleepover with Mel's twins a few months prior, even though his dad told him he wasn't allowed to. He had nightmares for weeks after and you were the person he confided in.
As the credits scrolled across the screen, Reese curled into your side and cried. Through choked sobs and heavy breathing, he told you about the project and how he couldn't stand in front of his classmates and talk about the mother who didn't love him enough to stay. The teacher wasn't willing to be lenient with him, so you let him stay home sick. "A bad case of mono," is you told the school and what you told Erik when he called to check in. When Reese went back to school, after a week of horror movies and 1v1 street hockey, all the teacher asked him for were the slides. No presentation necessary.
Josie's moment was more recent. She goes to the same elementary school Reese had, but unlike her brother, she hadn't had a mom to take to the annual tea party the teachers put on the Friday afternoon before Mother's Day.
Erik had thrown a fit about how alienating parent-specific holiday celebrations were, and for a few years, they let it slide. This particular year, however, they stressed the social importance of the event as an opportunity for her to bond with her peers.
Her father would have taken her himself, but he was going to be two states away in St. Louis, playing in Game 4 of the Conference Finals. He didn't ask you to go and you didn't volunteer, fearful of overstepping, but Josie did.
On Thursday night, she knocked on your bedroom door and shoved a card into your hands. It was large and pink and had Elastigirl's face printed in the middle. The gold letters above her head read "Incredible Mom," but she'd crudely crossed out the second word with a red Sharpie and had Reese write "Nanny" below. Through misty eyes, you read the singular question written inside: "Will you go to the tea party with me?"
Halfway through the following afternoon, you could tell Josie was upset. Watching all her peers with their moms stirred big emotions in her small body, even if she never admitted it. After what felt like the millionth child asked why she'd brought her babysitter instead of her mom, Josie stood atop a table - knocking trays of finger-sandwiches and macarons to the floor, smiled for the first time that day, and announced that she celebrated “Nanny's Day” because Mother's Day was more special.
The adults in the room were furious, but she didn't care and neither did you. Josie found a way to smile despite her pain, and that was all that mattered.
Henceforth, Mother's Day became Nanny's Day, and Josie declared it was the best holiday in the world. She always made you a card full of glitter and sequins that would inevitably find a permanent home in the carpet, and preformed a song from whichever musical she was fixated on at the time.
Reese would decorate the kitchen with streamers and balloons and make macaroni and cheese for breakfast - the only thing he could make without setting off the smoke detector.
Erik, whether he was a few feet away or across the country, made sure there was a vase of flowers waiting when you came downstairs for breakfast. There was never a note, but Reese let it slip once.
The roses arranged next to you now were the same as your Nanny's Day flowers. Except they had a note.
"Why would you think that?" you ask cheekily, glancing at the bouquet before looking at Josie through the mirror.
Josie smiles, wide and bright. "Because I saw his handwriting on the card. He does his vowels weird. Can I read what he wrote?"
"I spent 5 years ignoring what was right in front of me and I will spend the rest of my life making up for it, if you'll let me. Starting tonight. I'll pick you up for dinner at 8pm.
- E"
He winked at you across the kitchen after you'd read it before heading to the rink.
"Sure," you say as you sit down beside to her to pull on your shoes. "But only if you let me read whatever you've been writing in the notebook of yours."
Josie's face scrunches for a second as she mulls over the offer. "I'll think about it."
You're about to tell her you liked the outfit she picked out when you hear two male voices bickering outside the front door of the secondary unit you'd move into a few months ago.
"I just want to have a few friends over from school," Reese says as he steps forward and blocks Erik's path. "They're all on the team, so you know them and you know their parents! We just want to watch the new Scream in the theater. And didn't you make your old office into a theater last summer so we could "entertain" our friends?"
Erik massages his tense brow with his hand. "Yes, I did. But not tonight. The only "entertaining" you'll be doing is your sister until her bedtime."
"I'll make sure JoJo is in bed by 9, Dad. You don't even have to worry about that," he says, frustrated. "We'll watch the last half of How to Train Your Dragon, I will make sure she doesn't dump toothpaste or your cologne or rocks from the garden down the drain, and then she'll go to sleep. We'll be so quiet! She won't even know we're there. And they'll be gone before you even get home."
"Reese, it's a school night. No."
Reese's face pinches. His cheeks flame and he says something colorful under his breath. Erik chest rises as he inhales sharply, his face as red and as wrinkled as his son's. He opens his mouth, no doubt to say something he'll regret later, but you speak before he can.
"How about a compromise?"
Erik looks from his son to you, and its like he's seeing you for the first time. His gray-blue eyes lighten in a way that should be impossible, framing huge, dilated pupils. His tongue moves along the inside of his lower lip before his pink lips pull into a smirk. Its slightly higher on one side and it makes your insides flutter like you've just eaten a packet of Pop Rocks.
"Well?" Reese asks excitedly, knowing you'd always find a way to get him what he wanted.
"No company tonight," you say and he groans. "But you can have the team's end of the season party. I'll get the number of that DJ you liked at Tucker and Jack's sixteenth birthday party from Mel and your dad will grill whatever you want."
"He will?" Erik asks, brows raised.
"He will," you smile, knowing he would likely do anything if you asked nicely enough. "How does that sound, Reeses Pieces?"
"Throw in an ice cream truck and you have a deal."
You look at Erik and he nods. "Finish your King Lear annotations before we get home and you have a deal," you counter.
"Fine," he agrees with a shrug, trying to disguise his excitement.
Josie coughs behind you, still perched at the foot of your bed. "Do I get a bribe too?"
Erik chuckles. "Name your price, JoJo."
"10 o'clock bedtime and I get to sleep with Teddy," she says.
Teddy was a teddy bear Erik won from a ring toss at a traveling carnival two summers ago. One of the shiny eyes was already missing and the stitches were crooked, but the bear was pink and fluffy...and the only prize left in the stall. He'd won it for Josie, but her arms were already overflowing with a mountain of other stuffed animals from earlier booths. You offered to carry it back to the car and when you tried to give it to her later that night, she insisted you keep it because "Daddy forgot to win you one." She asked to sleep with it at least once a week and always dutifully returned it the next morning.
"That's all? I thought you were going to ask for a pony or a trip to Disney World," Erik says as he picks her up off the bed and tosses her into the air.
Between mischievous giggles she says, "I'm saving those for later!"
"Don't you two have a dinner reservation to get to?" Reese asks, looking down at his watch, which he nicked from Erik's closet during his last roadie. If his father noticed, he didn't say anything.
Erik looks at his own wrist and curses.
"Language!" Josie shouts as he gently sets her back down onto the floor. "I'll give you a free pass on the swear jar tonight, though. You can use the extra money to buy her ice cream after dinner. You're welcome."
Reese and Erik both roll their eyes.
"Have so, so much fun and don't stay out past your bedtime! It's my turn to be line leader tomorrow and I can't be late. I have to be early," Josie says in a panic as she squeezes you around your waist. "Lydia said she would take my turn again if I was even a minute late!"
You run a hand over her golden head and promise you'll be up and ready to get her to school with plenty of time to spare. You'd sooner let Hell freeze over than let Lydia take Josie's turn as line leader again.
Josie hugs her father before taking Reese by the hand and tugging him out the door. Through the big front window you can see her instructing him to hop from stone to stone, all the way up to the deck. He does it, though begrudgingly.
"You look absolutely beautiful," Erik says once he hears the backdoor slam shut.
He steps forward and you swear the world around you disappears. For just a moment, it's just you and him. And that's all that matters.
Slowly, he leans in and kisses your cheek. It's one of those barely-there kisses. Gone before you can really feel it, but it's more than enough to make sag in his absence. He doesn't go far, only a few steps, but it's still too much. Your palms itch, begging you to reach forward and drag you back to him like you had that one New Year's Eve.
"You don't look so bad yourself," you reply shakily, eyes raking over his body.
He's wearing a simple black t-shirt, but the material is stretched over his muscular chest like it was painted on. In the light, its a bit see-though. You aren't complaining. As he breathes, the fabric thins further, and the teasing is almost painful. Over top, Erik had thrown on the black bomber jacket you'd bought him from Everlane for Father's Day. He thought it looked ridiculous, but he knew you liked when he wore it. His jeans were blue, dark but faded with years of love and wear. Their hem kissed a pair of white Nikes - Court Legacys, you think.
Reese would kill you if he knew that you weren't sure. He talked your ear off about sneakers whenever you could, but unfortunately, it never seemed to stick.
"Do you want to go, or do you just want to stand here and stare at each other all night?" He asks teasingly. You roll your eyes, playfully shoving him backward. "I'm honestly good with either. I don't think I could ever get tired of looking at you."
"When did you become such a cheeseball?" you say, matching his tone and his smile.
Erik's grin grows. "I used to be one. I haven't been in awhile, but you bring it out in me - when I stop standing in the way."
He continues to flirt with you as he leads you to the car, opening the door to help you in, and as he drives away from the house to the main road you feel like you're a teenager again, going on your first date with the cute boy from your History class.
Behind your giddiness, your heart aches. This was the Erik Melanie knew, the one she'd told you about during Reese's game three weeks ago. Pre-divorce Erik. The Erik that left roses with signed cards and winked at you across the room over his son's head when his daughter wasn't looking. The Erik that overused cheesy pick-up lines - all in the same sentence, and laughed as you sang along to the radio with all the wrong words before joining you.
The Erik that didn't exist under a perpetual storm cloud and who didn't think the world was a terrible place full of terrible people.
You hoped he could stay this Erik, but you don't want to be the only reason he does. You can't be. He can't bank his healing or his happiness on you. You'll gladly be a reason, but you can't be the reason.
Ten minutes into the drive, you start to tell him about the mounting tension between Josie and Lydia, but he stops you.
"Tomorrow," he says softly, hand sliding from the gear shift to rest on your thigh. The heat from his palm makes you feel tingly all over. It's suddenly very, very hard to concentrate on what he's saying. "We agreed no kid talk tonight. Just you and me, and the best Chinese food you will ever have in your entire life. Tomorrow, we'll go back to who the kids need us to be. Tonight, we're just two people going on a date."
"Okay," you say, and it's more of an exhale than it is a word. "Just two people. Going on a date."
"At least try and sound excited," he says lightly as he shakes your leg with his hand. "You are excited, right?"
"No, no. Yes, no, yeah," you start, but internally cringe when you realize how negative the jumble of answers sounds. "I mean, yes. Yes, I am excited."
"You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure," you answer, laughing a little at yourself. "Just nervous."
"Nervous," Erik repeats. "Do I make you nervous?"
"Yes."
"Why?" he turns his attention away from the road for a second, brows furrowed with confusion as he stares at you.
"Why not?" you say. "Up until tonight, you were just my boss. You're still my boss. There's a lot more a stake for me than there is for you, and I feel like there is so much pressure on this - whatever this is, because of our situation. I know how it will look to everyone if this ends poorly, or even if it ends the way I hope it does. The slutty nanny going after her rich, single boss. And there's also Josie and Reese to think about. They're invested and I would hate if I hurt them in any way. It's just...a lot on top of trying to see if there's something viable between us. And it doesn't help that you're ridiculously intimidating."
"And ridiculously handsome. You can't forget ridiculously handsome," he says through a toothy smile.
"Oh, of course," you snort as he looks back to the road. "How could I ever forget such a crucial detail?"
"I understand what you're saying, though," Erik goes serious. He squeezes your thigh, but keeps his eyes trained on the cars lined in front of you. His voice is soft, barely loud enough to hear over the radio, but it's there and it's clear. Even though he's on the other side of the car, it feels like he's whispering in your ear. "This isn't a normal situation. Fuck, it's not easy either. For me, yeah. But, God, it has to feel impossible for you. I need you to know I recognize that. I can't even imagine how scared you must be, but I'm going to try. I'm going to try and try and try, until you're begging me to leave you alone."
Despite your anxiety, you grin so hard it hurts.
"I don't think I would ever beg you to leave me alone," you whisper.
He squeezes your thigh again but says nothing else.
When you're about five minutes away from the restaurant, a bright sign on the side of the road catches your attention.
"How mad would you be if I asked you to skip the reservation?" you ask hesitantly.
Erik looks over, "Mad? At you? Never."
"Take the next exit," you say, pointing to where the highway veers off to the right.
He listens, flipping on the turn signal and following the car in front of you to the light. He waits for you to give him the next direction and dutifully follows it when you do. As you navigate him into a busy parking lot, you look over. He's grinning. Big and full. His golden, Reese-and-Josie smile, just for you.
"When was the last time you went to a drive-in movie?" you ask as he pulls into one of the remaining empty spots near the back of the lot.
"Fuck, I don't know. Ten years? College maybe?"
"Are you sure you're okay with missing the reservation?" you ask again. "You planned this whole night and now I'm hijacking it."
"This is way better than what I planned," Erik smiles as he parks. "However, dinner is still my thing. Popcorn, a diet coke, something fruity and something chocolatey?"
"What?" you blink.
He opens his door and steps out onto the pavement. "You still like one of each, right?"
You couldn't believe he remembered.
Five years ago, you took the kids to the local movie theater during your trial period. Erik let you take them alone, but sat a few rows back to observe. They could feel him hovering, but didn't say anything. They were having too much fun to care. When you brought them home - Erik made sure to leave ten minutes before the movie ended to make it look like he'd never left the house in the first place, Josie told her about candy combination you bought and how genius it was. He'd said asked if you had trouble making all decisions, or just with candy.
You never forgot that day, but never thought he would remember it.
"Any preference on your sugar, milady?" he asks.
"Surprise me."
His eyes widen. "You trust me?"
"Yes, I trust you," you nod in confirmation.
He winks at you before closing the car door. You feel like you could melt into a puddle right there on the passenger seat.
You watch a few teenage boys stop him for a picture on his way to the little snack shack across the parking lot, smiling to yourself as he gestures towards the car when they try and continue the conversation. The boys see you and smirk, each of them giving him a congratulatory pat on the shoulder.
Erik comes back less than ten minutes later, arms overflowing with a giant bucket of popcorn piled high with buttery yellow popcorn, two diet cokes, and four kinds of candy - two of the fruity variety and two kinds of chocolate. He hands you the popcorn and pops the drinks in the cupholders, then settles back into the driver's seat. You thank him for the treats and he kisses you on the cheek again. The skin warms where his lips had been and you miss him all over again.
"Do you have any idea what we're about to see?" he asks before taking a long sip from his cup.
"An Affair to Remember," you say in a terrible transatlantic accent. "A handsome playboy falls madly in love with a beautiful nightclub singer while on a cruise from Europe to New York."
He coughs, choking on the Diet Coke. "Don't think I've seen it."
"I didn't think so," you say, laughing.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" he asks, hand full of popcorn freezing halfway between the bucket and his open mouth.
"Its a romance movie from the 50s."
"So?"
"So," you say, continuing to laugh at his mock-offense. "You don't exactly strike me as the kind of guy who has the time or an interest in watching romance movies from the 50s, but maybe I'm wrong." You shrug, "Maybe you're about to surprise me."
"I am full of surprises, baby." Another wink.
Before you can say anything else, the floodlights lining the parking lot shut off and the gigantic blow-up screen positioned at the front flickers on. Erik fiddles with the radio, tuning it to the station posted all around the drive-in. The title card appears, followed by Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr.
"Dump the M&Ms in," Erik whispers halfway through the film. "I know you want to."
He was right. You'd been thinking about it the entire time. In fact, it'd been the first thing you thought about when he handed you the bucket of popcorn and the box of M&Ms.
Smiling, you peel the top of the brown box and sprinkle the candy over the popcorn. You're surprised he let you muddle his popcorn. He hated how messy the melted M&Ms made his hands. Maybe he'd finally seen reason, or maybe he just wanted to make you happy. Either way, the gesture made your heart thump jovially in your chest.
He doesn't say anything else for the rest of the movie, and neither do you. Too wrapped up in the drama unfolding just outside the windshield.
"If you can paint, I can walk. Anything can happen, don't you think?" Deborah Kerr, as Terry McKay, says to Grant's Nickie Ferrante as the two tightly embrace at the end of the film. The screen goes dark and through the windows, you can hear the crowd around you clapping.
You turn to Erik to gage his reaction. It had been years since you'd seen it and it was just as good as you remembered. Your face falls when you see his. He looks like he might be sick.
"What did you think?" you ask gently.
"What did you think?" he parrots.
"No fair, I asked you first," you protest. When he doesn't budge, you do, "Beyond romantic. What are the chances you randomly meet your true love aboard a cruise ship, miss the meet-up you planned to have six months later because of a terrible accident, and still end up together? It makes me believe in fate because how else could something so wonderful happen under those circumstances?"
He doesn't smile. Or nod. Or agree.
"Those circumstances?" Erik repeats, his face becoming cold and hard. "Do you mean cheating? On their fiancés?"
"They were in love," you insist, grabbing his hand across the center console. "And they couldn't exactly phone home and break their engagements off."
His jaw ticks. He pulls his hand away. "That isn't a reason to fucking cheat. Don't try and justify it. They made a commitment. A promise. They were going to marry other people. They can't just throw everything away for someone they just met because they think they might love them. It's an incredibly selfish thing to do."
You pause, giving the gears in your head a second to turn before you speak again. Delicately, you ask, "Erik, what's this really about?"
He sighs and looks away. You follow his eyes, watching as the cars around you stream out onto the main road. You're one of three cars still left in the lot. An attendant will probably come around soon to ask you to leave so they can shut down for the night.
You hoped he'd say something before that happened. Before the outside world ruined this rare moment of vulnerability just as you were on the verge of peaking behind the curtain.
"Bridgette cheated on me." The weight of those four words weigh heavily in the air. "Maybe once. Maybe twice. Maybe with all of fucking Denver. I don't fucking know and I don't want to. I don't see the point in knowing how many times she broke her vows to me."
"God, Erik. I'm sorry," you sigh, remorse seeping out with your words. "I'm so, so sorry. I'm such an idiot. Taking you here to see a movie about an affair and then rambling on about how romantic was..."
"It's okay," he says, even though you know it's not. "How could you have known? I never told you. Hell, I never told anyone. Not even Mel or my lawyer. I couldn't. It didn't matter though, she was the one who wanted the divorce. She wanted out. She didn't even want custody of Josie or Reese. God, you should have seen the look on her face when she signed away everything. It was like she was walking out of prison after getting her life sentence reduced and feeling the sun on her face for the first time."
"Erik...," you start to say.
You don't even know what you would have said had he not interrupted you.
"We weren't happy. Hadn't been for awhile, but I was willing to put in the work and I just kept hoping that one day I would be enough - that the family we built together would be enough. But, it wasn't," Erik says, swallowing hard to shove the emotion his throat. "Honestly, I'm not sure she even wanted kids in the first place. She knew I wanted them, and always had, and she loved me. Maybe she assumed she would love them eventually because I did. This sounds fucked up, but I'm glad she left. I'm glad she's not in their lives anymore. I mean, imagine the kind of damage having a mother who didn't want you would do?"
Erik's shrill ringtone breaks the melancholic quiet. You always hated that ringtone, but right now you hated it most.
The screen flashes: Reeses Pieces
Erik is still, looking straight forward as his words settle around him. The first call goes to voicemail before her can answer it. A second starts as he goes to call him back. Panic glazes over his eyes. Reese never called twice.
"Reese?" he asks, voice strained by resurfaced emotions and mounting worry.
You can't hear everything, even though Reese is screaming. The words are jumbled, muffled by his sobs. He's frantic. Reese didn't get frantic. He had a temper but it rarely reared its ugly head. He was the problem-solver. The leader. Calm in the face of chaos. It's what made him such a good captain. Something had to be really wrong for him to get so worked up, and just the idea made you sick to your stomach.
"I'm on my way," is all Erik says before hanging up.
He slams his phone onto the center console. The screen shatters. You don't have to look to know. His palms come down hard on the steering wheel three times in quick succession before he struggles getting the keys out of the pocket of his bomber.
"Stupid fucking jacket," he bites under his breath.
When he finally fights them free, he jams them into the ignition.
"Erik?"
He flinches like you scared him. Like he forgot you were even there.
"Josie is in the emergency room."
Your throat tightens painfully as your stomach sinks to your shoes. You immediately regret the all candy popcorn you shoveled into your mouth earlier because you knew it wouldn't be pretty when you saw it again.
"How bad is it?" you croak.
"Busted chin. Needs stitches," he says as he whips the car out the spot and charges toward the open road. "They need to do more tests to...to see the full extent of her injuries."
"W-what happened?"
"I don't know."
In retrospect, you should have offered to drive. Or just taken his keys and called someone to pick you up. He wasn't fit to be driving, running off adrenaline and guilt. As he sped over the highway - nearly 50 over the speed limit, he kept muttering under his breath that tonight had been a mistake. That he should have been home, that you should have been home, and this wouldn't be happening.
You didn't take it personally.
Erik was in pain. He was scared and needed someone to blame. You would gladly shoulder the burden if it meant Reese, who would never intentionally harm a hair on his sister's head and who was likely tearing himself to pieces over this, didn't.
Erik doesn't wait for you after he parks the car and runs into the hospital. He barely shuts the car off. He doesn't even lock it. There were more important things to worry about than locking a fucking car.
Reese, sweatshirt torn and covered in reddish brown blotches, is pacing in front of his father in a long, sterile hallway when you round the corner. His hand is twisted in his matted blonde hair, tugging so hard it has to be painful. His face his pale, stained with tears.
"Dad, I'm so sorry," Reese rasps, all but choking on the words. "I promise I thought she was asleep in her room. There weren't supposed to be that many people, just a few guys from the team, but they kept inviting all these girls and I couldn't say no -"
"You couldn't say no?" Erik growls. "You couldn't say no? I told you no. No party. No people. I asked you to watch your sister, to do your homework, and to go to bed. How the fuck did you confuse that with throwing a fucking rager on a Thursday night?"
"I'm sorry! I told her to stay in her room, but she d-didn't listen to me. She never listens to me," he looks at you desperately for help, but you can't throw him a lifeline. Not this time. "She always has to be in my business and she came r-running down the stairs with that stupid teddy bear and her stupid blanket. It all happened s-so fast. One minute, she was standing at the top of the stairs yelling at me, and the next," he gulps and winces, the memory causing him physical pain, "...the next she was on the floor at my feet. T-there was so much blood, Dad. So much blood. I've never s-seen that much blood in my entire life."
There's a pause. Like the world has stopped turning.
"Are you high?" Erik asks, voice scarily still as he shatters the silence. Reese stutters, but doesn't answer. His father steps forward, walking his son backward until he's pinned against the adjacent wall. You and several other visitors littering the hall gasp. "Are. You. Fucking. High? I asked you a question, son."
"Erik," you say gently as you step forward to separate them.
"You stay out of this," he grits before turning back to a trembling Reese. "Did you drive here high?"
"No!" Reese yells as he starts to cry again. "Yes, I-I might be high. I don't fucking know. Jack bought a couple edibles off of the older guys and I only had one bite of a brownie, I swear. And I would never drive if I thought I was high, especially with JoJo in the car. I-I called Melanie before I called you because she was closer. She drove us here I promise, Dad. Please believe me."
"Where is she now?" Erik asks, unmoving. "Where is Melanie?"
"She drove Jack and Tucker home. She's coming back. You can ask her when she gets here. She'll tell you the same thing, I promise. I'm not lying."
"We believe you, Reese," you say over Erik's shoulder. "Are you okay?"
You figured no one had asked him. Rightfully, they'd been focused on his sister, but that didn't erase his pain or his fear. He felt responsible, but it wasn't his fault. Someone needed to remind him of that. Someone needed to treat him like he the scared kid that he was.
"No," he replies in a small voice.
Reese pushes Erik away and runs into your arms. He hugs you so tightly you can't breathe. His forehead rests against your shoulder as he shakes and shudders, whimpering apology after apology. As you run a hand through his hair, you look up at Erik. His head is against the wall, his body shaking just as much as his son's.
With Reese still clinging to you, you step forward, hand outstretched. He lets you pull him into your arms, crumbling into Reese. The three of you stand in the middle of the hallway, just tangled in each other. You don't know for how long. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe a few hours.
Eventually, someone clears their throat behind you and reluctantly, you separate. Holding a clipboard is a short woman in Hello Kitty scrubs. Her smile is soft, like her brown eyes.
"Mr. Johnson?" she asks and Erik nods. "She's doing much better. A few stitches on her chin and a broken wrist. It looked much worse than it was. I can take you to see her now."
Erik and Reese's shoulders sag with relief, and so do yours. She turns on her heel and gestures for the group to follow. You start to trail behind them but a soft hand stops you.
"Miss, are you family?" another nurse asks.
"I-I, um," you stumble over yourself.
Were you family?
"She's our nanny," Reese answers.
"Unfortunately, visitation is only open for immediate family members at the moment," the elderly woman says gently, sensing your distress. "Why don't you take a seat in the waiting area and we'll send someone out with updates as they come? Then, tomorrow you can come back and visit."
Swallowing your hurt feelings, you nod. This isn't about you. You'd never forgive yourself if you caused a scene, or further delayed Erik and Reese from finally seeing Josie.
"I'll, um, wait here then," you say lamely to no one in particular.
Reese squeezes your hand. You wait for Erik to say something - anything. But he doesn't. He follows the nurse down the hallway without so much as a second glance.
His eyes are bloodshot when you see him again. It's 3 in the morning. You haven't moved since you sunk into the uncomfortable couch a few hours ago. He doesn't say anything as he sits down beside to you.
"Some first date, huh?" you say quietly, attempting to break the ice.
He scoffs. "I don't think a hospital is the best place to be cracking jokes."
All the positive momentum you'd built up in the past few months crumbles. The Erik you'd gotten to know - had come to love, was gone. In his place was the old Erik. Hard and cruel, devoid of warm familiarity.
"How is she?" you ask.
"Exhausted. Annoyed about the stitches. Excited to have everyone sign her cast," Erik says. "It's fuchsia."
"Of course it's fuchsia," you smile into your lap.
Fancy Nancy's favorite color was fuchsia (which was a fancy way to say purple) and Josie adored Fancy Nancy (and using her fancy words.)
"She told me to give you this," Erik says as he places something fluffy into your lap. "She said she's sorry she got blood all over him and that I'll win you a new Teddy this summer."
"You don't need to, Erik. A little stain remover and a long soak in some hot water and Teddy'll be good as new."
He's quiet for a minute, and when he speaks, you wish he would have just stayed quiet. "I don't think this is a good idea anymore."
"What?" you ask, hands digging into Teddy's fur.
"My life," he sighs and starts over, "My life doesn't have room for a relationship. Even if it did, it isn’t the kind of life that would be good to start a new relationship in.”
He wasn’t making sense. “What are you talking about?”
"This," Erik runs a rough hand through his hair like Reese had hours before, and uses the other to gesture in the direction of Josie's hospital room. "This is what my life is. Not spontaneous, uninterrupted dates. It's midnight emergencies and constant worry over their safety, and discipline even when it's hard. It's endless piles of laundry and hours at the kitchen table doing math you can barely remember doing yourself. It's playing chauffeur every fucking day and sacrificing every bit of freedom you once had. It's a life where your feelings don't matter; all that matters is them. It's not something someone who doesn't have kids can understand or handle."
"Do you think I don't know that?" you balk loudly as you jump up from the couch, drawing the attention of a few nurses congregating at the nurses’ station. "In case you've somehow forgotten, I'm your nanny. My job quite literally is to take care of your children. I have done the algebra homework and the sprained ankles and the hurt feelings and the mountains of laundry. Most of the time, I do all of those things - and more, alone. It's been my whole life for the past five fucking years. At this point, I’m practically their second parent, Erik."
"But you're not. You aren't their parent. I am."
It feels like he’s shot you. Right through your bleeding heart. You may not be their mother, but you're the closet thing they have to one. But still, they weren't yours, and he'd thrown that horrible truth in your face. And he didn't even care. He just stared up at you, unfazed by your outburst and your visible hurt. He was annoyed, if anything.
Erik opens his mouth. Maybe to apologize. Maybe to scold you. But, he closes it before he does either.
You don't want to hear anything else he has to say and you might break completely if you do.
"I'm going to take Reese home. It's late and he has school in a few hours," you say. "Only if you think I can handle it, though."
Erik scoffs. "Don't be so fucking dramatic. You know I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
"But you did, and you can't even make yourself apologize for it."
-
series masterlist
main masterlist
come talk to me :) - about this, or literally anything under the sun x
pairing: sidney crosby x singer-songwriter!reader, harry styles x singer-songwriter!reader (platonic), side harry styles x louis tomlinson (because i couldn't resist)
synopsis: is your fame is much too much for sidney crosby to stomach, even in the name of love? (based on this request)
warnings: swearing, angst, hollywood being awful
word count: 10k lol
author's note: just prepare for pain. thats all. for a more immersive experience, listen to this playlist
main masterlist
“Welcome back everybody! My next guest, and I don’t have any issue admitting this on-air, is one of my all-time favorite musical artists and one of my all-time favorite people. Her latest single, “Message in a Bottle,” has dominated the pop charts for six consecutive weeks, and she recently received two Grammy nominations, including one for Best New Artist. Please give a warm welcome to (your name)!”
Stephen Colbert’s voice fades into the jubilant roar of the live studio audience as one of the Late Show production assistants guides you to the velvet curtain. Your manager gives you a reassuring smile before nudging you through the parted fabric and onto the glossy black stage. The hot lights are bright and blinding, and you’re grateful Stephen meets you halfway to the platform.
The band plays a jazzier, instrumental version of your latest single and instinctively you smile and wave to the adjacent darkened space, knowing there’s at least sixty of your adoring fans eagerly perched in the seats. You give a final wave before lowering yourself onto the cobalt blue couch, carefully smoothing your dress over your thighs. Once you’re settled, you take a sip of water from the mug left for you on the corner of Colbert’s desk, running your thumb over the white printed logo as you drink.
“I have to say,” Stephen segues once the audience quiets alongside the band, elbows resting on the desk as he leans towards you. “There are very few guests who generate a buzz around this studio quite like you do. All day - all week actually, all everyone could talk about around here was your return to our show.”
Your face blooms with gratitude. “That makes my heart so, so happy. Stephen, it’s really good to be back. What has it been? A year?”
“Wow. Has it really been that long?” Stephen asks, brows knitted in contemplation.
“I think so,” you nod. “I’m pretty sure the last time I was here it was the night my debut album was released. I went straight from your show to my release party down the street - which you were invited to, by the way.”
The audience hoots at your cheeky expression. They always loved the banter between Stephen and yourself.
“Okay, I had a feeling you were going to bring that up and I am going to blame it on my wife and her strict bedtime. We’re old. We can’t be partying with the kids past nine o’clock,” he explains, tapping his cue card against the desk with finality. “But, look how far we’ve come! From your debut album to your first Grammy.”
“I haven’t won anything. I’m just nominated,” you say, smiling bashfully into your lap. “And I’m honestly just honored to even be nominated alongside such talented people.”
“Yet,” Stephen winks. “You haven’t won, yet.”
“Stephen! Don’t jinx me,” you burst.
“Fine, fine. Grammy nominee. Congratulations, by the way. Your first time attending and you’ve been recognized twice - once for best Best New Artist and once for Best Pop Solo Performance. That’s got to feel amazing, right?”
You sigh, “Wow, I don’t think it even fully set in until right now when you said it aloud. But, yes. It feels surreal.”
“How did you react when you found out?”
“I know there’s an atrocious video of me somewhere, courtesy of my best friend. And if this is a set up…” you trail off, finger pointed as your eyes dart between the monitors across from the raised platform as a subtle drumroll builds in speed and stamina.
Stephen grins mischievously, “Actually…I’m just messing with you. No embarrassing videos - tonight.”
The audience lets out a collective groan of disappointment as the music wanes.
“That was just cruel,” you shake your head, hand pressed against your beating heart in relief as the host and his audience delight in your near misery.
“I’m sorry! You’re just so fun to tease, I couldn't resist,” he smiles. You playfully roll your eyes. “Now, I have to ask. There’s been a lot of back and forth over who this song is about...I don’t know, maybe a certain web-slinging superhero, or perhaps a certain British pop sensation?”
The audience descends into a fit of hoots and hollers, heating the back of your neck. You take a long sip from the mug to buy yourself some time, a moment to settle the butterflies fluttering inside your stomach, before answering the very targeted question in a way that was both on brand for the flirty image created by your team and felt authentic to you as a person.
“Part of being a good songwriter is being a convincing storyteller. It’s my job to sell a feeling or an idea. Or a romance,” you turn to the audience and wink before turning back to Stephen to finish your answer. “Every time there’s speculation over my inspiration for a song or even an entire album, it’s incredibly validating because it means I have done my job.”
Stephen’s face folds in mock-disappointment. “If you were less eloquent, I would be more mad about that non-answer answer.”
You chuckle, smiling and shrugging as a mixture of soundboard and live audience laughter envelopes the studio.
“If you won’t tell us who “Message in a Bottle” is about, maybe you can tell us something else?” You nod with a compliant shrug, and he continues. “You’re a big fan of Twitter, always putting out lyrics and talking to your fans, so I’m sure you’ve already seen this theory bouncing around. But can you confirm or deny the following: “Message in a Bottle” is a continuation of “Enchanted,” the single you released a few months before.”
“All of my projects are connected in some way or another, Stephen, but I can confirm that there is indeed a direct correlation between “Enchanted” and “Message in a Bottle,”’ you smile through the small bit of truth your team approved.
“You heard it here first, folks. The same lucky person who inspired our favorite musical meet-cute also inspired our new anthem for pining!” Stephen announces and the crowd erupts in celebration.
The remainder of your time on stage is spent bickering over your mutual favorite movie series, reiterating a pre-approved personal anecdote Stephen pretended was brand new, and discussing your recent cameo on HBO’s Euphoria, which had been foreshadowed during premiere of the first episode when Labrinth sampled your vocals on the soundtrack, but only came to fruition after you visited your close friend Zendaya on set and hit it off with the creator. Stephen congratulates you once more on your nominations before reminding the audience, both in-studio and watching from home, to look out for your upcoming album.
“What happened to mentioning Harry like we planned?” your publicist, Janet, asks the moment you’re tucked safely behind the curtain again.
She barely glances up from her cellphone, and you’re thankful for her screen addiction because you wouldn’t have been able to share a conspiratorial eye roll with your manager had she been staring directly at you.
You smile at the production assistant, the same one from before, who hands you a bottle of water. Cracking it open, you allow your team to lead you back down the hallway and into to the dressing room you’d been assigned to for the night, taking a sip and shutting the door before answering. “Didn’t feel organic.”
“Jesus,” Janet scoffs as she tosses herself onto the black velvet couch. “Honey, don’t be ridiculous. Is anything in this industry organic? Whatever, no going back now. At least you didn’t put your foot in your mouth. We’ll just have to front load the press with candids in the next few weeks before we drop “Run.” Speaking of, Lorelei confirmed Harry will be in town for your birthday and his team secured tickets for the LA Knights game you just had to go to. I still don’t understand why you insisted on doing that, by the way. My assistant had a perfectly good table at Dan Tana’s.”
“Kings.”
“What?” Her voice is as pointed as her thin brow as she glares over the screen of her phone.
“You said LA Knights. Los Angeles’s hockey team is the Kings, not the Knights. That’s Las Vegas,” you explain, leaning your back against the wall and fiddling with the white plastic cap of the half-empty water bottle.
The heels your stylist put you in were uncomfortable, to put it nicely. So much so that you were fairly certain just the short distances you walked in them tonight were enough for permanent blisters.
Sam, your makeup artist lets out a heavy sigh from across the room, and you instantly regret provoking Janet.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Janet’s gaze returns to her phone and her red nails click and clack obnoxiously over the screen. “Now, I know you are supposed to have the night off to do God knows what in the city by yourself, but Gigi Hadid’s people just sent over an invitation for cocktail party she’s hosting on behalf of Tommy Hilfiger at Bemelmans. It’s super exclusive and the perfect opportunity to ask her to connect you with Taylor -”
“No,” you interrupt.
“No?”
“No,” you confirm, arms crossed defensively across your chest. “You said I could have the night to myself. You agreed weeks ago and you can’t just go back on that because some brand wants me there. I’m not going to a networking event to kiss people’s asses and beg for favors. I’ve earned this. I do everything you ask every other night of my life.”
Her face twists with contempt. “Fine. But you’ll be on the tarmac at 5:45 sharp tomorrow morning, and not a second later. You have that radio interview in Las Vegas and the opening of the new hotel on the strip. Do you understand me?”
You nod. “I understand.”
“God, sometimes I feel like I’m the only one in this room who actually cares about the longevity of the brand,” Janet bites under her breath, but still loud enough for you all to hear.
“She’s an adult, Janet. She doesn’t need a babysitter and can make her own decisions,” your agent, Josh, says from across the room.
Janet’s eyes narrow on him, “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one in charge of managing her image when she insist on galavanting around like a child.”
“And that’s rich coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Janet snaps, tossing her phone against the couch.
The emotionally-charged voices of your publicist and live agent ricocheting off the walls swiftly becomes white noise. They can hardly go ten minutes without jumping down one another’s throats. Except for when they find other ways to occupy their mouths.
Sam finishes tucking her brushes and products into her travel bag and gives you a light squeeze as she steps out into the crowded hallway. Your hairstylist and stylist follow suit not long after, both letting you know they’d meet you at the airport the following morning to head back to the west coast. Soon, your manager is the only buffer between you and the enemies to lovers plot unfolding at your expense.
Thankfully, your phone buzzes as Josh stands from his chair and starts migrating towards the couch.
S: 5 out. Alleyway.
You smile and type out a response. It sends and you tuck your phone back into your pocket. When you look up, your manager is already studying you and frowning.
“I’ll be back in less than six hours. You won’t even notice I’m gone,” you smile at her as your grab your coat off the back of the makeup chair and tug it on. She still looks worried, but you still loop your thick, knit scarf around your neck. “I promise.”
She doesn’t say a word as you open the door and walk into the hallway. You make it all the way to side door before you hear the click of her heels against the unforgiving floor. You keep walking, the excitement buzzing under your skin dulling your guilt and anxiety.
Delia, your manager, gently grabs your elbow before you can push open the exit door and lowers her voice to a barely-there whisper, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“No promises,” you cheekily reply, quickly pecking her cheek before shoving out into the cold New York City air.
A black sedan is waiting with its hazards on. The bright orangey-yellow beams cut through the alleyway, like a beacon lighting your way through a darkened tunnel. Delicious relief thrums through your veins as the passenger door is thrown open and the smell of woodsy cologne wafts into your nose.
“There’s my girl,” A throaty voice says through a smile when the door closes behind you.
His warm nose brushes against yours, making you shiver. He chuckles and cups your cheek in his palm, stroking over your cheek with his thumb as his deep brown eyes stare down into yours for what feels like seconds and years all at the same time.
“Hi,” you whisper against his lips.
“Hi,” he whispers back.
It’s funny how just spending one minute with the right person can erase all the bullshit that preceded it.
“You look beautiful, darling.”
“Thanks, Sid,” you smile but it quickly fades as commotion builds on the street and a few phantom flashes blink in your peripheral. “I hate to ruin a sweet moment, but if we don’t leave now…”
“I know, I know. The vultures and their cameras.”
There’s a tired agitation to his voice as he turns to take the car out of park, keeping you from reading his expression. You don’t have to see it to know what it looks like, though. His jaw is set and tight, nostrils flared from sharp exhales, and brows so downturned they impede on his eyes.
He’s frustrated, but so are you. But it’s not fair for him to be upset with you. He’s the reason he’s picking you up in an alley, instead of walking out the front doors of the Ed Sullivan theater with you hand in hand. If he’d let you, you would have reasoned with your team. Sidney never even gave you the opportunity.
The drive is silent, but even if he’s annoyed with you, he still takes W 59th St because he knows you like to see Central Park when you’re in the city, even if it’s just through a car window.
One of the men from your security team is waiting with a hotel concierge when Sidney pulls the car to a stop on the loading dock of the The Plaza.
“Good evening, Miss,” Jamie greets you as he opens the passenger side door for you to step out.
You sigh but a smile still tickles at your lips. “How many times to have to tell you to call my by my first name, Jamie?”
“My apologies,” he returns the grin before playfully tacking on a “Miss.”
The first time you met Sidney, you told him your dream was to stay at the Eloise suite at The Plaza Hotel. You’d only just met a few hours prior, between when you sang the National Anthem and participated in the ceremonial pick drop, so you didn’t know why you were telling a perfect stranger something so silly yet intimate. But you’d come to learn that Sidney just had a way about him that made you want to blurt out all your secrets.
After a 4-3 victory over the Rangers, Madison Square unceremoniously emptied. Before you could be whisked away by your security team, a member of the Penguins staff tracked you down in your suite to hand-deliver a note from their captain. Inside was the address of The Plaza (as though you didn’t already have it memorized) and a bright pink room key.
Over room service and champagne and surrounded by pink goodness, you told him how much Eloise at Christmastime meant to you, and he listened like it was the most interesting story he’d ever heard and would ever hear. After you finished, slightly embarrassed and thoroughly delirious off alcohol and sugar, you buried your head into one of the obnoxiously floral pillows propped against the pink, sparkly headboard. You’d felt his weight shifting on the bed and feared the worst, anxiously peering up, only to find him setting up the record player across the room.
Etta James’ sultry voice crackled through the room and all he needed to do was hold out his hand. You danced together, soft and slow, until the sun rose. Until you both had to go. You to LA for a press junket, and him back to Pittsburgh for a double header the following weekend.
But from that night forward, Sidney booked the Eloise suite whenever reality permitted. Just to eat sweets and slow dance on the zebra print carpet under the safety of the night.
The Plaza learned to respect your privacy and was willing to do just about anything to protect it. They sent their senior-most concierge to meet with your head of security, who then jointly escort you two to the suite in a private elevator and through hallways temporarily blocked off from the public, a procedure they’d repeat when you left. Separately.
Everything in the suite is pink and white. Absolutely everything, and it’s absolutely magical. Sidney will never admit how much he likes it. Frills and all.
“I’ll be back to escort you to Teterboro at 5,” Jamie says to you before excusing himself into the hallway.
He promises his team keeps a respectful distance, but you prefer to not think about them four men stationed outside the door. At The Plaza, it’s just you and Sidney. Normal and alone.
When the door clicks shut, Sidney fastens the deadbolt and wanders over to the Edwardian tea table overflowing with fresh flowers and complimentary treats.
The reservation includes themed tea at The Palm Court, but you’ve never been. Judging by extra box of chocolate truffles and second bottle of Veuve, someone at The Plaza knows you never will.
“Etta or Nat tonight?”
Your voice is small and hesitant, still unsure of how to move past the awkwardness your fame inevitably caused even after all this time.
He doesn’t answer. Not at first, and not with words. His dark eyes hold yours as he places a few chocolate covered strawberries and two truffles onto a delicate cream plate with gold-dusted edges and pours a glass of champagne. He crosses the room with easy strides and when he places them into your hands, your fingers brush with a softness that tells you all is forgiven.
He sheds his coat and you watch the muscles lining his back ripple beneath the fitted t-shirt. He thumbs through the records stored next to the player, pausing to study a sleeve you’re too far away to discern. Content, he settles it into place and drops the needle.
When Kitty Kallen’s sweet voice joins the dynamic orchestra a minute or so into the track, Sidney moves everything to the side and draws you against his chest in the center of the room.
“I wish I could handle this better,” he murmurs into your neck as “It’s Been A Long, Long Time” turns into “A Sinner Kissed An Angel.”
A single tear drops from your outer corner, disappearing into the dark fabric of his shirt. Though you know deep down agree with him, you would never say it aloud. “I don’t want you do anything but be yourself.”
“One day things will be different. I promise.”
You’d seen and experienced enough to stop yourself from clinging to the pretty words of empty promises, but fuck, did you want to. Especially when they were coming from a handsome mouth that you loved so dearly.
“Just keep dancing.” It comes out a whimper, though you don’t mean for it to. “Please.”
Jamie almost breaks down the bright pink door a few hours later. Sometime between the silent tears and the dancing and the sips of champagne, you fell asleep against Sidney’s chest on top of the pink floral duvet. He’s already awake beneath you and tracing light circles on your back and your arms.
“Stay,” he whispers when you open your eyes.
Still groggy, you almost agree. Your phone rings and the banging persists, and you think better of it.
“If I don’t leave now, Janet will have my head,” you say quietly as shift away from him.
He catches your arm and draws you back into his. “One day, we won’t have to do this. One day, we’ll wake up together and not have to rush off, not knowing when we’ll see each other next. Do you know what keeps me going?”
“What?” you ask, your voice catching in your throat halfway through.
“Knowing I end up with you.”
It’s sweet. You know it’s meant to be sweet, and you know it is. But how sweet can inaction be?
“When?”
“What?” Sidney asks, propping himself up onto his elbow.
“When will we end up together?”
He lets out a long sigh. The banging continues. He doesn’t have an answer because he doesn’t know. Or he does, and he knows he’s full of shit.
Rolling your eyes, you quickly collect your belongings off the floor and the chair, not bothering to put any of it on. You slip on your shoes, take one last sip from your discarded flute and undo the deadbolt.
“You’re not even going to give me a chance to answer?” Sidney huffs, still lazily lounging atop the bed.
You pause, facing the fuchsia door. “Your silence said enough.”
Jamie doesn’t pry and that’s probably the best thing about him. He just lets you sulk in taut silence on the thirty minute drive to New Jersey.
You board the plane without speaking to anyone, sunglasses shielding your puffy eyes from a nosy audience. The thick fur hood of your coat pulled over your head does a wonderful job of discouraging conversation for the first hour of the flight, at which time you allowed yourself to be coaxed into a quiet game of chess with Sam. She threw the first match, no doubt sensing you could use the win, but she slowly worked into her usual prowess as you emerged from your sullen shell.
“What the fuck is this?” Janet abruptly slams her iPad down onto the table, sending free-standing black and white chess pieces scattering across the floor of the jet.
When you don’t reach for it, instead moving your knight to E4, she shoves the device into the board. Annoyed, your eyes snap from her red, pinched face down to the bright screen slanted halfway into your lap. Anything to make her go away.
“No, no, no, no,” you chant, eyes glazing over with tears. The blurry paparazzi photo taken outside the Ed Sullivan theatre plastered on the cover of the trashy, but undoubtedly popular, gossip magazine becomes unrecognizable as they cascade down your cheeks.
“MAYBE SHE’S IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE…
When the Brit’s away, the American will play! More exclusive photos and a breakdown of everything you need to know about the “Enchanted” singer’s mystery man on page 7!”
Over your shoulder, Josh and Delia gasp before fuzzy spots cloud your vision as the world goes dark.
TWO MONTHS LATER.
You’re grateful Harry insisted on playing the guitar tonight. With his hands occupied, Janet and Lorelei couldn’t make him touch you during the performance. Instead, he’s standing a foot away, safely off to your right.
The stage is nearly empty, devoid of background dancers and supporting vocalists. You’d forgone a full band, and what musicians you asked to accompany you during your debut Grammy performance were obscured by a light fog and prop trees, big and dark and green. It was simple - lonely. But to onlookers, it was the kind of stripped down intimacy celebrities aspired for. A way of signaling to their audience that this kind of high-profile love was in some way attainable.
Even in the thin fabric of the gown your stylist pulled, you feel as though you’re melting under the heavy lighting and insurmountable pressure.
You wanted to remember this moment for the rest of your life, but you doubted you could. Disappointment clouded the night, spurning a melancholic burn in the pit of your stomach. The one person you wanted there, more than anyone else in the entire world, wasn’t. It was too much of a risk. Too many people and too many cameras. Someone would talk if they saw you with him instead of Harry.
It was too soon after the faux reconciliation to take any chances - especially “unnecessary” ones, according to your publicist. After all, she was responsible for the now-infamous public groveling in London followed by an outwardly spontaneous and romantic getaway to Paris for the weekend. Your fans dubbed it the "London Rekindling," claiming it was proof love wasn't dead. It was neither spontaneous nor romantic, and besides a few scheduled pap walks and tourist excursions, you hardly saw Harry. You weren’t the only one hiding a lover in the shadows.
Janet allowed you to attend the Kings game, in which they played the visiting Penguins, a few weeks later but she barred you from “meeting” either team after. She wouldn’t give reporters the opportunity to even speculate about you flaunting one boyfriend in front of the other.
Sidney was less than pleased you were there, and he made sure you knew. He missed most shots and racked up more penalty minutes in a single game than he’d ever before. Each time they showed his pinched expression on the Jumbotron, it felt like he was glaring directly at you, and he was. He was punishing you for intruding on his domain with your drama on someone else’s the arm.
After the final buzzer sounded, you managed to sneak away from your friends and your handlers to track Sidney down, not caring if the staff saw you.
“You’re being incredibly reckless right now,” He’d said to you after you pinned him against a wall, tucked away from prying eyes, and kissed him like your life depended on it.
“Don’t care,” you hummed, lips ghosting over the thin line of skin left exposed above his white dress shirt. “I needed to see you and make you forgive me.”
He sighed heavily. “I’m never mad at you, darling. Only the situation.”
The situation that was entirely self-inflicted. You could be together if you wanted it badly enough, but you both were to selfish to sacrifice what mattered most to you. Sidney wanted peace, and your career could never allow him that. You wanted to love him in public, but he could never subject himself to the media. So you settled for clandestine meetings and longing stares. But for how long could that be enough?
On arguable the most significant night of your career, he wasn’t there. You were in Las Vegas, pretending to be in love with someone you weren’t in front of millions, and he was spending his off day holed up in some hotel suite waiting for you to come back. Guilt twists in your gut with every pleading verse and chorus.
“There’s been this whole in my heart,” Harry leads the bridge, eyes deliberately catching yours over the microphone as his fingers work over the strings of his acoustic guitar.
“This thing was a shot in the dark,” you answer, winking at him just like you choreographed, feeling more like an amusement park animatronic than a woman in love.
“Say you’ll never let them tear us apart.”
They already had but you were too stubborn to see it.
“And I’ll hold on to you while we run,” you sing, eyes fluttering closed as green eyes before you fade to brown in the privacy of your own mind.
The tears raining down your cheeks when Stevie Nicks presents you with the Grammy award for Best New Artist later that evening are mostly joyful, but you can’t help yourself from letting a few drops of disappointment slip through. He should be here with you.
The front woman for one of the best musical groups of all time is just as warm and genuine as you hoped she would be and your speech is beautiful. When you thank an unnamed special individual in your life, you don’t look for green eyes in the front row like Janet told you to. You stare directly into the main camera and hope brown ones are looking back.
Winning a second time feels like a cruel joke. A handheld camera is fixed on your face when Billie Eilish and Finneas announce your performance on the lead single of your debut album and Harry plants a congratulatory kiss on your cheek, strategically only partially in frame. He walks with you over to the stage, carefully helping you navigate the stairs, before stepping back down to let you have a moment that the media can’t make about him.
“Wow, um, I never thought I would win one of these,” you hold the gilded gramophone up in shaking hands. “And now I’m walking away from tonight with two. This is absolutely inane. It is an incredible honor to just be in the same room as you all, and I have looked up you as creators, and more importantly as human beings, for as long as I can remember. I cannot thank you enough for welcoming me into this world with open arms and hearts, and for loving and trusting me enough to do what makes me the happiest, which is to create music that resonates with people. I want to thank my fans for meeting me wherever I’m at with empathy and enthusiasm. You are my absolute favorite part of this all and I could not do it without you. Lastly, I want to thank the Recording Academy for giving me a night I will never, ever forget.”
An instrumental version of your track floats from the seated orchestra as you’re ushered away from the cameras and backstage. As soon as the light leaves your face, a thundering of emotions bubble to the surface and you collapse against Delia, who was waiting in the wings to receive you.
“Let it out, honey. It’s okay,” she rubs your back as she hurries you through the halls and into a private back room.
Familiar faces pop up along the way and you hope they assume your tears are just those of an industry newcomer overwhelmed with gratitude.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you croak when the door slams shut. It’s just the two of you and your hunk of metal. The words fall out of you like they never belonged there in the first place. “It’s too much and I thought I could pretend, but I can’t and I need to be done. Delia, I need to be done. You have to tell Janet that I’m done.”
“Shhh, calm down. I know you’re hurting inside, but we need to get you calm before you’re makeup is ruined. They won’t let Sam back here during the show and we still need to get you out of here.”
Lightly she swipes the pads of her thumbs over your damp cheeks, collecting the tears. You feel like you’re cracking, bursting at the seams with longing for someone who can’t play the role you want them to.
“I want to see him,” you say, voice raspy with despair, as she blots your face with a thin tissue.
“I know you do,” she says woefully.
You whimper, “Please, Delia. I won’t ask for anything ever again. I will never complain. I’ll smile for the cameras and hold Harry’s hand, and I’ll convince the world we’re in love. Just please. One night. Tonight. Please, just let me be with him tonight.”
“I wish that I could. I want that more than anything, but I can’t. You’re contractually obligated to attend the after party, I’m sorry. After, we’ll get him into your hotel. I promise, honey.”
Her words only make you sob harder. “It’ll be too late. He’ll be gone by then.”
Sidney only had twenty four hours to spare in his tight schedule, and you’d wasted what time he hadn’t spent on an airplane getting your glam done, taking a million photos for the designer who leant you your gown, creating sound bites on the red carpet, and faking love with another man. By the time you’re released from the party tonight, he’ll be in the air headed back to join his team in Detroit. Your schedules didn’t align again for another month. The relationship is slipping through your fingers and you’re losing it.
“We’ll find a way to make your schedule more flexible, okay? Less contracted time and more independence. You have a few recording sessions lined up in LA for the album, but I think we can talk to Janet about limiting the amount of time you’re in public. You can write from anywhere. Maybe a change in scenery will be inspiring. Tonally, I think being with him could really help solidify the album. And I know it’s hard to believe, but Janet’s not completely unreasonable,” Delia gives you a soft smile and you scoff. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
You laugh a little and she brightens.
“Let’s get you cleaned up and ready to leave, okay? I’ll let the team know you’re keeping the conference short. One of Janet’s minions can feed them a tip about you wanting time to celebrate privately with friends and family.” You knew how the press would interpret that and it makes you nauseous. “Spend a few hours at the party. Make the rounds, maybe have a drink or two, and then politely bow out. Something tells me Harry won’t mind calling it early.”
You nod in agreement and allow her to help soak of the remanence of your tears. Delia does her best with the concealer and strawberry chapstick in her clutch before leading you back to your seat in the crowd. Lucky for you, another unfortunate installment of the Selena/Justin/Hailey saga unfolded moments before - something about him changing the lyrics during a performance dedicating to his wife, so the cameras are locked on their seats a few sections over for the remainder of the production.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Harry asks on the way to Encore for the Recording Academy’s after party at XS.
“I guess I just keeping thinking about how I climbed this huge mountain and now I’m looking back at how far I’ve come, and I know I should be over the moon delighted but I can’t help but feel empty inside. Is the price we pay worth it? What’s success if you have no one to share it with?” you murmur solemnly, knowing he’ll understand better than anyone in the world. He nods and you’re eager to shift attention away from yourself. “How’s Louis?“
“Pissed,” he chuckles, emerald green eyes flicking to the floor of the car. “But what’s new?”
You exhale loudly into the room. “I know our situations are in no way comparable - not even in the slightest, but do you ever wonder what would happen if we just loved who we loved openly? Would that really be so terrible, if the world knew?”
“I ask myself that every fucking day, love. Every fucking day.”
EIGHT MONTHS LATER.
Scraping an album halfway through production is monumentally stupid. But sometimes shit happens and you don’t want to put out a record about being desperately in love after the person who inspired every tragically beautiful song shattered your fragile heart on a random Tuesday morning in October.
“Our first guest tonight is a two-time Grammy award-winning musician and one of the most beloved creatives in the world. Her album, AFTERMATH, is out tonight at midnight. She will be making her debut appearance as SNL’s musical guest this weekend, along with host Tom Holland. Please welcome back to the show, the one and only, (your name)!”
Seth Meyers, host of the popular Late Night talk show, steps out from behind his desk as the in-studio band plays a punchy interlude. As you walk out onto the stage, he pulls you into a friendly embrace before helping you up the two stairs leading up to the slate gray couches.
“It is so good to have you back in New York and back on this stage. You're one of our favorites and we're honored to have you on the eve of such a special night," Seth says.
You smile, "Thank you for having me, Seth. It's wonderful to be here. I couldn't imagine celebrating this milestone anywhere else."
"Speaking of said milestone, your second studio album, AFTERMATH," Seth props up the vinyl cover on the desk, proudly displaying it to the in-studio audience and the one who would be watching at home, "...will be released tonight after the show. Could you tell us a little about the record - What was your inspiration? How did we get here?"
"Lots of soul-searching," you reply, a heavy sigh causing your shoulders to sag just a little too far.
Janet would no doubt bitch about how you "ruined the visuals" with your slouching, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. You were talking about music. Your music. You didn't need (or want) to be policed.
"Oh?" Seth says, clearly intrigued. You can't tell how much is genuine and how much is amped up for the sake of the nosy viewership. "And what revelations did said-soul searching yield?"
You'd thought about that a lot in the past few months as you finalized the record. The lessons you'd learned and the person you thought you'd spend the rest of your life with. You couldn't be completely honest and it fucking sucked, but you could do your best with the vague niceties you were allowed.
“Sometimes people come into your life for a reason, even if it’s just for a season,” you start slowly, hands clasped in your lap. “Their time with you may have been short-lived, but they’ll always be woven into the fabric of your story. The good and the bad, the happiness and the hurt. It all leads you down the path that’s meant for you. Yes, it hurts when someone leaves and it’s cathartic to let yourself hate them sometimes, and to even write a vindictive song or two, but I’ve done my best healing when I approach the world from a place of forgiveness. Not for anyone’s benefit but my own. If there’s anything I've learned from losing love it’s that no one can give you closure you need besides yourself.”
“And you can feel that throughout the record,” Seth says earnestly, smiling as he continues to hold the vinyl cover. “You were actually nice enough to send me a copy early and I remember sitting with it blasting - through headphones of course, and feeling all the nostalgia and the pain and the grief, and even hope towards the end there.”
“Thank you, that really means a lot to hear. I am very vulnerable with my work, and I think that’s what allows so many people see themselves and their experiences reflected in my songs, but AFTERMATH feels different. Like I’m baring my soul in a way I never have before. Which is terrifying, by the way,” you laugh a little and the audience quickly joins.
“I do want to talk about a couple of the tracks, if that’s okay with you?” Seth pushes the interview along, tucking the album back under the desk.
“Go for it,” you smile.
“First, I feel like we need to talk about “Enchanted” and “Message in a Bottle,” because when people pick up the album tomorrow they, like myself, are going to be a little confused why two of your most popular songs aren’t on it. Is there a reason behind the decision to cut them, or were they never intended to be on the album from the beginning?”
You knew he'd ask about this. It was the million dollar question. Your team wanted you to say they weren't meant for an album - "silly passion projects," Janet had called them, but that was too much of a lie for you to stomach. They were meant for an album. Just not the one you ended up releasing.
“I wrote those songs during a period of time that is very different from my life now. Authenticity is something I prioritize when it comes to the creative process, so it felt disingenuous to include them on an album that is so drastically different in tone and content. I still love those songs dearly, and I always will, but I personally believe they fit better in my past than in my present.”
“Fair enough. Now, let’s see…what to start with?" he mutters as he scans the track-list taped to the back of a cue card. “How about “favorite crime”? There was an incredible amount of speculation about this one after you teased the track list on Instagram a few weeks ago and I feel like the people deserve some answers.”
"And I am happy to provide them!" you wink towards the crowd before explaining the sanitized story. "'favorite crime" is what happens when you love someone who makes you feel like your love is wrong, or something to hide. It depicts a journey of co-dependency and desperation, and the inability to see the toxicity clearly while you're wrapped up in the stolen moments. You’re settling for less because you’d rather hurt together than be apart. In hindsight, you recognize the fundamental issues with the relationship but you have no idea where you stand in the aftermath. You're hurt, but you survived and you now know it wasn't healthy."
Seth hums, mulling over your words. "Sometimes that's enough, though. Just knowing that you weren't treated fairly in a past relationship is incredibly valuable."
"I agree."
“Next, “breadwinner.” What’s the story there? I absolutely love this song, and dare I say, it might be my favorite on the album,” Seth says.
“Really?” your voice betrays your shock.
He laughs. “Really! It’s catchy and clever, but still has the heart and brutal honesty that you’re known for.”
“Well, thank you! Um, but to answer your question, I feel like we don’t fully understand just how vital it is to have the people closest to you support you unequivocally and openly, without a shred of fear of the repercussions, until you finally find them. You can love someone so deeply and know that they return those feelings, but love is not enough when they - intentionally or not, put you in a position where you’re forced to pause your goals to suit their agenda,” you explain and Seth nods along beside you. “‘breadwinner” is my middle finger to anyone who thinks it’s okay to make someone they claim to love dim their shimmer to make them feel better about themselves."
“And here I was thinking I couldn't possibly love it anymore. Now, we have to talk about “don’t you.” We just have to,” Seth says giddily. “This is your very first collaboration with Jack Antonoff, who also works with your friends Lorde and Taylor Swift, and you just about broke the Internet when you shared a clip with him in the studio on Instagram last week. Can you tell us about that process?"
“Jack is one of the most spectacularly talented people I have ever met in my entire life, and actually he was the one who reached out to me. Through Taylor, funny enough. I sent her a clip of “liability” when it was just a chorus and a short melody, and she accidentally played it for him when they were in a session.”
“How do you "accidentally" do that?” Seth prompts, eagerly leaning forward onto the desk between you.
"You don't," you chuckle. "It was very much on purpose. She knew we would work well together and that was her way of getting us into the same room. Jack loved "liability" but I already had Dan Nigro, who you know works heavily with Olivia Rodrigo, producing it. So, Taylor suggested we collaborate on something else, and that something else turned into what's now "don't you." We ended up sneaking a few of her harmonies into the background. As for the premise of the track, its is fairly simple: begging the subject not to re-open the wounds inflicted in the wake of the separation and relentlessly questioning why they don't seem to hurt the way you do."
"An all-star collaboration and an all-star song." Seth smiles, “And finally, track number one. We kind of worked our way backwards but if you could, can you explain “supercut” - why you chose it as you opener and what it means for the project as a whole?”
“So, for those of you who don’t know, a supercut is a montage of short clips with the same theme, such as a word or a phrase or, in this case, an emotion. At its core, this song is about being confused over the failure of a relationship. Over the past year as I was writing and reflecting, I would find myself only looking back on the good times, trying to ignore the bad ones, and wondering what would have happened had certain moments gone differently. I chose to start AFTERMATH with this track because it felt like the perfect introduction for listeners. A way to put them into the headspace I was in when I was working on it. In relation to the project holistically, it lays the foundation for the emotional purging that eventually occurs throughout the following hour.”
The rest of the interview pertains to inconsequential bullshit. If you had it your way, you'd skip it altogether. You didn't understand how a largely factitious story about your first apartment in Los Angeles added anything to the larger conversation, but your team insists its a good way to build a brand thats personable.
On Saturday night, Tom blows the audience away and sends the internet into a frenzy. His "reboot" of his girlfriend's hit Disney channel show, Shake It Up, had you and the rest of the cast howling with laughter backstage. You knew you'd be seeing gifs and memes of your friend in sequins and a wig for months. During the Weekend Update, he played a crazed version of a fan who cared just a little too much about your recent "split" from Harry. He genuinely brought himself to tears whilst singing an off-key version of "Enchanted" while clutching a framed, very staged paparazzi photo from the London Rekindling.
As your band gets situated on stage during the last act of the show, Michael Che and Colin Jost ask you to sign it - you do, barely able to hold the sharpie because you're laughing so much. It's the first time your stomach has tightened in a pleasant way, and it feels damn good. You walk out onto the darkened platform with a small, but genuine smile curled on your lips.
“Ladies and gentleman, (your name)!” Pete Davidson motions for the camera to move towards the stage behind him.
You run your thumb over your mic, wiggling your fingers as you inhale deeply. You hold the breath for a second, counting like your therapist taught you during your second session a few weeks ago, and then send the air back into the world.
Preforming never made you nervous, but thinking about him always did. One of the downsides of using personal experiences to create your art was having to relive those memories in front of an audience. Janet liked the way it looked - what it added to your stage presence, but you preferred to do your grieving in private. But, sometimes it was therapeutic to take control of the narrative in such a public way, even if all they knew were half-truths.
Behind you, the band starts and the simple set illuminates. Just you and your band, and a year's worth of affection and heartbreak.
Do you really want this?
Be honest, be honest
Do you just wanna call it?
Be honest
Keep lookin' for a sign that
We got this, we're solid
But maybe we're just getting in the way
Most of your relationship happened through a screen. Most of your fighting happened through that same screen.
"Do you think this is a good idea?"
You asked him some variation of this often. In person, over the phone, in emails and in texts. You'd asked him this on almost every continent, while flying over every ocean. Sitting in the sun and curled up under the moon.
"What, darling?" Sidney asked as though he didn't know what you meant, like he didn't already have an answer.
"Do you think we're a good idea? That this - that we're worth all the fuss? Surely you could be with someone more...low maintenance?"
You always hated how it sounded. All insecure and small. Like you weren't sure about you or him, or the relationship. He never asked questions like you did. Didn't need to beg for reassurance, regardless of how many bumps you hit.
"Sweetheart, if I wanted to be with someone else I would be."
It was meant to be comforting but it wasn't. His succinct attempt at reassurance that night fell short. It was becoming a pattern but not so long ago, Sidney used to say all the right things. They were like magic, unraveling you with a confident ease, coaxing you into comfort. It was his enchanting words you fell for first, then his heart and his smile. But, as the months dragged on and things became more serious, you only drifted further apart.
"But -"
"But nothing," his voice was sharp through the phone. "If I tell you that we're okay, you need to trust that. We're good. We're good, until you let the world and your insecurities get in the way."
It stung, cut you so close to the bone you felt you would collapse, but you could see the truth in his words. In the brutal honesty that had replaced sweet nothings. Maybe there was a reason you were the only one that voiced concerns or dug up problems and prodded until they grew too large to ignore. Maybe everything would be okay if you left things alone and stopped creating obstacles to overcome.
"I hear you, but I need you to be honest. Do you just want to call it? Before something happens and we end up hating each other?" you asked, hearing his breathing change on the other end of the line - on the other side of the world. "I really don't want to hate you."
He started to answer but was interrupted by loud banging, probably on his hotel room door. Sidney cursed under his breath. "Look, I have to go. You don't have to hate me. Not now. Not ever. If you still feel like the world is crumbling tomorrow - our relationship alongside it, we'll talk about it then. We're good, okay? Tell me you believe me. I can't hung up the phone and play tonight knowing you'll be upset."
Sidney played better when you were happy, so you told him you believed him. He ended the call and for the rest of the night, you repeated what he said over and over. You hoped that if you said it enough, it would come true.
It didn't.
If we wait for the perfect time
What if it's just
Just a little too late?
Just a little too little?
What if I'm just
A little much, too much for ya?
What if we just
Take a little more space
And little by little
It does what it does
'Til there's nothin' left of us?
The last of the chorus floats of your tongue and you're thrust into one of the last conversations you had with him.
"This is too fucking much. I can't take this anymore. I feel like I'm going insane arguing with you. We go in fucking circles, over and over again, because you just don't care about how your lifestyle effects me."
Sidney's head was between his knees, his hands tugging at the short strands. His neck was damp with perspiration, physical evidence of the anger and frustration he'd let consume him.
You flew nearly twenty hours through multiple timezones to see him between roadies, but all he'd done since you surprised him was go on and on about how terrible it was to love you.
"Are you even listening to me?" Sidney asked when you didn't immediately have a rebuttal.
The desperation in his voice gave you pause. He wanted this to work, was trying to make things work despite how impossible it all felt. He loved you. Had loved you like no one had before. And for months, you'd felt like Sidney was your epic love. The one you were meant to be with. But he was asking too much. You loved him, but did you love him enough to give up the only dream you'd ever had?
"I'm listening. I just don't know what you want from me anymore," you'd said as you sunk into the couch beside him but he didn't look up. "I do everything that I can to make sure we spend as much time as we can together as possible. I follow all the rules, and I keep everything offline and as vague as possible. I fight tirelessly with my team over scheduling and appearances and brand direction. No one knows about us. Isn't that what you wanted?"
Then he paused for a long, long time and the silence was suffocating. When he finally looked at you, his eyes were cold and distant. He'd acted out an entire breakup in his mind, made the decision all on his own, and now he was going to make the aftermath your problem.
"I need space. We both need space," he rushed to add, attempting to make it seem amicable. "I think it would be good for us to put this on pause and really think about what we want. From each other. From a relationship. For our futures."
He was breaking your heart in the most diplomatic way possible.
"I want someone who is all in. Someone that doesn't need me to forfeit my dreams to save our relationship. Someone who's sure about me. Someone who isn't ashamed to be with me."
"Do not put words in my mouth. I have never once said I was ashamed to be with you."
Sidney was always more concerned with how he was being perceived than how he was wrecking others.
"You didn't need to. I could fucking feel it," you seethed.
"This," he jumped to his feet, frantically gesturing with his hands, "is exactly why we need space. I need a break from the..the dramatics."
You didn't stop the sardonic laugh from leaving your mouth, far beyond caring about what he felt or thought or wanted. "Take all the space you need. Indefinitely."
We're searchin' for a reason
Too often, too often
To cut these ties and go our separate ways
If five years down the line
We're talking, just talking
Will I still be the one that got away?
If he ever loved you, how could he move on so quickly? Like none of it even mattered. Like you never mattered.
Thinking about, even so many months later, made your stomach twist and your heart drop in a way you thought you'd never recover from. Peering in on his new relationship through mutual friends and sporadic social media posts made your incompatibility agonizingly obvious.
She could give him the quiet life he always wanted. With her, there were no complicated schedules or late-night rendezvous. They could go to dinner or take a walk without being chased by paps or overzealous fans. She could support his career without unintentionally making a spectacle of it. Her existence wouldn't detract from his accomplishments. Loving her was easy. Loving you was hard.
It'd been too much for Sidney to handle, and that was okay. You would be okay. He wasn't the person for you. He couldn't be. He didn't want to be, and that was okay.
As the music fades away, the studio lights dim and the live audience erupts, you finally find a lull in the relentless ache. It's just long enough to realize you can never be too much for someone who thinks you’re enough.
Listen to AFTERMATH and other songs that inspired this project here.
PAIRING: grumpy divorced dad!erik johnson x sunshine nanny!reader
SUMMARY: jaded, erik doesn't really believe in love or romance but he owes it to you to try. what will it take for him to prove he's serious about his feelings?
WARNINGS: swearing
LENGTH: 3.3k
NOTE: ily, thank you for surpassing the goal <3 i hope both sides of your pillows are cold tonight when you lay your pretty heads down to have some sweet dreams
"I don't think he's blinked this entire period," Melanie, the mother of two of Reese's best friends and teammates, says as she teasingly bumps your shoulder with hers. You don't have to turn your head to know she's grinning. Her voice always flipped up at the end when the corners of her mouth pulled wide. "What's up with you two, anyways? And don't even try and tell me something didn't happen. You've been acting strange for weeks. I left it alone and figured you'd eventually say something but nothing. So, out with it."
You take a slow sip of hot chocolate. It's nearly lukewarm but it's frothy and delicious, made with milk instead of water. Lily, the head coach's daughter, was working the snack bar today and she tried to make sure you got your money's worth. You feign interest in the group of teenage girls cuddled a few rows below you as the giggle over someone on the team and noncommittally mumble, "Absolutely nothing."
"Tell him that," she pokes you and tips her chin forward, gesturing to a group of men gathered along the glass.
Melanie's husband is pointing at the goalie, one of their twins, and talking to Erik. Well, at Erik because he's not listening or even looking at the man. He's looking at you. Only you. Only ever you.
Maybe it was a habit he developed recently, or maybe it'd always been like that. It was hard to tell. For years, you thought you knew him - understood him, at least. You'd been mistaken, and you were starting to think that maybe you hadn't really known him at all.
After that night, you asked for space. His words were sweet, like honey. Thick and delicious, and full of promise. They felt nice in your ears, but you knew in your heart you deserved more than just words. He needed to prove that this wasn't just some fleeting feeling, or something his imagination concocted out of boredom. That he wouldn't toss you aside once the novelty had worn off. You needed to know that he wasn't scratching an itch, or worse, attempting to act out some salacious, tired fantasy of fucking the nanny.
If he wanted a chance at something genuine, he needed to prove that he was genuine.
For five years, you sat on the metaphorical bench and watched as he routinely dated. He flaunted his women right under your nose as you looked after his children. Though you doubted it was intentional, it hurt all the same. He had hardly treated you like a friend, let alone a potential romantic partner.
Were there signs you missed, or had he just been too good at disguising his true feelings? Had he even been cognizant of them himself? And would he have eventually acted on them, or just let you both suffer in silence till you moved on to another family after his children outgrew you? Would he have even said anything if not for Meredith's ultimatum?
You'd had a lot of time to mull everything over, beating every hope and worry to a pulp with the same relentless scrutiny. Erik gave you the space you wanted. The space you needed. He kept his distance and didn't push you on the subject. He didn't put up a fight when you moved out of the main house and into the secondary unit by the pool.
He withdrew, but not in a way that made you worry. He was always here, presence gentle and steady. Patient. He told you he would wait for you, and that's exactly what he was doing.
"Erik asked me to be more than just his nanny," you concede.
"About damn time," Melanie says.
Brows furrowed, you turn your head to look at her. She isn't looking at you. Her dark hazel eyes are tracking her son as he carries the puck down the center of the ice. Sensing your confusion, she meets your gaze and smiles. Then, she pats you knowingly on the arm.
"He's an idiot," she starts and you both snicker. "But an idiot that's very much in love with you. Took him long enough to realize, though."
You scoff, nodding sarcastically. "Right."
She gives you a look. "I wish you could see the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is looking. Or hear how he talks about you when you aren't around."
"I know you would never lie to me, Mel," you say. "But, I find that really hard to believe. Are you forgetting that until recently I had no idea he even tolerated me?"
"He wasn't always like that, you know," Melanie says in a soft, distant voice. She looks around before carefully continuing. "Before the divorce, he was so damn charming. Sweet and thoughtful with everyone. Affectionate too, and forthcoming with his feelings. He could, and would, talk to anyone about anything. And he had this stupid grin permanently plastered on his face." You knew the one. It was his Reese-and-Josie grin. "When Bridgette left, she broke something inside him. It was like she sucked all the light and joy right out, shoved it in her suitcase, and took it with her. He hasn't been the same since."
You hum in response, not quite sure what to say.
She sighs, "I'm not tell you this to make you feel bad, or to guilt you into making a choice that doesn't feel right for you. I just felt like you should know that he's not a bad guy at heart. A stubborn ass? Yes. But a bad guy? Not even close."
Melanie knew Erik before he was married, before he even had much of a career. Her brother played with Erik during his first and only year at the University of Minnesota, and they'd been like family ever since. She watched him meet and fall in love with his ex-wife in St. Louis, and he'd watched him fall out of love in Denver. If anyone knew his true character, it was Melanie.
She knew you, too. She was your first real friend when you relocated to Denver to work for Erik. At first, many of the wives and girlfriends were apprehensive of a single woman with uninhibited access to the team, and the mothers of Josie and Reese's friends didn't spare you a second glance because of your occupation. The second Erik introduced you to her Melanie treated you like an old friend, and she felt like one too. Now, five years later, she was more your friend than his.
"Did you know he was going to therapy?" you ask quietly.
Melanie nods. "He mentioned talking to someone last week when he dropped off tickets for the boys, but he didn't say much else and I know better than to push him. Do you know how it's going?"
"Not really," you shrug ruefully. "But I haven't asked. I didn't think he'd appreciate me prying."
"Erik and his damn pride," she shakes her head, her short laugh breathy and soft.
"Mel, I'm - I'm scared that if I draw attention to it - make a big deal out of him getting help to work through his problems, that he'll just stop going. Regardless of what happens between us, I know seeing someone will benefit him and the kids in the long run. I don't want to rob them of that because of my own selfish curiosity."
"I understand that. If it's any consolation, he seems less...robotic. Which is a good sign." Melanie says.
"He let me pick the movie we watched last night."
She gasps, dramatically putting a hand on her chest. "He did not! Mr. Remote-Hog-Loud-Opinions let you monopolize his television on his night off?"
"Wild, right?" you say sarcastically.
"Baby steps." Melanie nods, content. Her smile is gentle, but her eyes are serious. "Don't give up on him just yet. Give him a chance to surprise you. If not for him, for yourself."
Swallowing the tangled lump in your throat, you nod.
You don't talk about Erik for the rest of the game. Instead, you go over details for the team's upcoming bake sale, the three prom-posals the boys will each need help with next month, and the group vacation you'll be taking after the NHL season ends and school lets out for summer break. Melanie also pesters you for information on who gave Reese the hickey he was proudly sporting on his neck. You pretend not to know what she's talking about to spare him from the merciless teasing he'd endure if she knew.
After the game, Josie darts over to you with half a soft pretzel clutched in her hand. She'd been playing with a few girls around her age who also had siblings on the high school team, only appearing when she missed you (which was often) and when she needed money for a snack (once).
"Can I have a sleepover with Lydia this weekend? She has a trampoline and a golden retriever puppy!" Josie says as she bounces up and down like a rubber ball. "Please, please, please!"
"Lydia?" you ask, not recognizing the name. You look at Melanie and her shoulders lift, not recognizing it either. You turn back to Josie, "JoJo, can you show me who Lydia is?"
She nods enthusiastically and points to a little girl about her age with auburn hair pulled into two braided pigtails on either side of her head lingering a few feet away. She's wearing a multi-colored tutu and the same sparkly shoes Josie begged for a few days ago at the mall.
Erik said no and she sobbed the entire car ride home. The next morning he went back and bought them. They were sitting on your nightstand, wrapped in paper and waiting for her birthday next week.
"I think she might be Noah's little sister." Melanie says over your shoulder. "The transfer from Michigan."
"Let's go find Lydia's adult and Daddy can meet them. Then, we'll talk about a sleepover. How does that sound?" you ask her and Josie's golden head bobs in agreement.
Instinctively, you seek out Erik's eyes above the crowd. At 6'4, he's hard to miss. When you find him, he's facing you but looking down at something.
At someone.
Josie follows your eyes, jumping a little to get a better vantage point. Her eyes light up when she sees her father and she immediately darts toward him, dragging you along by the hand. She bumps into few people and you dutifully apologize on her behalf. Abruptly, Josie comes to a halt and you nearly trip over her. You're about to scold her for it - you reminded her this morning about how dangerous her sudden stops and starts were when she had someone in her death grip, until you see what she's staring at.
Erik talking to a very tall, very beautiful woman with the same fiery hair as Josie's new friend. She’s smiling and nodding, gesturing to the vacant ice with one hand. The other is braced on his tense bicep.
Unearned jealousy licks at your cheeks, but satisfaction soon replaces it when you see the scowl on his face.
"Sorry to interrupt," you say when you come up behind her, though you don't mean it.
His face relaxes, eyes warming at the sight of you. Your heart gives an involuntary thump against your chest.
"Oh!" the stranger jumps before turning to face you, hand dropping away from Erik. Her hunter green eyes lock in on Josie's hand wrapped in yours and trace over the sweatshirt with Reese's number embroidered below the high school's logo. She swallows uncomfortably and looks back to Erik, who is staring at you. "Is this your wife?"
She'd chosen to single Erik out, as opposed to any of the other parents meandering around as they waited for their kids to file out of the locker room because those parents were obviously spoken for, cuddled up with their significant others or wearing shiny wedding bands. Erik was doing neither.
White-hot possession courses through your body. It leaves a sour taste in your mouth. For a split second, you contemplate lying just to see if she was the kind of person that would be deterred by him being someone else's husband. But you don't because you'd asked for space and he wasn't sure there would ever be a Mrs. Johnson again.
"No," you say, smiling tightly. "I'm his nanny."
She returns the smile, visibly relieved. "So, are you married?"
Erik still doesn't look away from you. "No."
"So tell me again why getting coffee isn't an option?" she pushes, tone firm yet flirtatious as her hand returns to his arm.
"Because I'm not interested."
Her face twists with something between disappointment and embarrassment. Her hand falls to her side.
You open your mouth to soften the blow like you always did when a Johnson put a foot in their mouth when someone coughs awkwardly, distracting both Erik and who you assume is Lydia's mother.
Melanie is standing behind you, holding the hand of the little redhead. She lifts their clasped hands and grins that sparkling Melanie grin, "This one got left behind when Josie took off."
Lydia runs happily to her mother's side.
"I am so sorry about that," you automatically say. After so many years of babysitting and nannying, you always took responsibility for whatever children were in your proximity. "Josie just gets so excited sometimes that everything else fades into white noise. Like her manners."
You laugh a little and so does her mother.
"Mommy, this is my new best friend, Josie Johnson. Can we please have a playdate this weekend? I want her to meet Buster and play Piggy in the Middle on the trampoline and show her my new Nerf gun!" Lydia tugs at her mother the same way Josie had tugged at you earlier. She looks back at you and Josie, "My older brother, Noah, got a Nerf gun for Christmas so I got one too so it would be fair."
Nervously, her mother looks between Erik and you. "I don't know, honey. You just met. How about I get her dad's number and we'll figure something out?"
She's looking at her daughter, but the question is directed at Erik. Even though he explicitly expressed his disinterest, she doesn't give up. You couldn't fault her too much for it, though. He looked so handsome tonight it was almost unfair.
His sweatshirt matched yours - both were gifts from Reese last season, but he'd pushed the sleeves up his muscular forearms to expose the creamy skin and prominent veins. It was a nervous tick of his and it drove you crazy. He was wearing dark jeans that were fraying at the edges and a pair of beat up Converse that you think used to be white. Josie teased him whenever he wore them, but he didn't mind. They were the first birthday gift Reese ever got him with his own money, saved up from his part-time job working the rental desk at the rink. Tufts of his silky blond hair were peaking out from under his ball cap around his ears and you wish he'd cancel his haircut tomorrow.
Erik was most attractive to you when he wasn't trying to be. Tired-eyes and ratty plaid pajama bottoms Erik would always beat charity gala suit Erik in a landslide. The same way that Reese's #1 fan Erik always beat bachelor professional athlete Erik.
"She'll take your number," Erik says dismissively, gesturing to you. "I'm not allowed to coordinate family plans anymore."
He was making it seem like you were more to one another than you actually were, and you didn't hate it. Let her draw her own conclusions, you think to yourself.
"He's terrible when it comes to organization," you say, rolling your eyes and playing along.
Reluctantly, she types her cellphone number in your phone. She waits for you to text her so she has yours, but disappears into the crowd with Lydia not long after to find her son. Melanie bursts into a fit of giggles as soon as she's out of earshot.
"Damn she was persistent," she says.
Erik exhales loudly. "Fucking annoying is what she was."
"That's a dollar in the swear jar, Daddy!" Josie shouts, poking him in the stomach.
"I said freaking, JoJo."
"No, you didn't."
"Yes, I did."
"Fine. But you still called Lydia's mommy annoying. That's rude. You have to put money in the jar when we get home," Josie says, crossing her small arms over her chest.
"Who did Dad call annoying?" Reese asks.
He shakes his head, hair still damp from the showers. Little drops of water land on your cheeks and in your hair, and you playfully shove him away. He chuckles, nuzzling further into you. He leans down, having inherited his father’s height, and rubs his head affectionately against your shoulder.
"Lydia's mommy," Josie says, whining out the answer to his question like he already should have known.
Reese raises a brow, "Who's Lydia?"
"Noah's little sister," you reply.
Reese nods in recognition. “And why did Dad call her mom annoying?"
"Because she was trying to get in your dad's pants," Melanie laughs and you smack her before covering Josie's ears. Melanie rolls her eyes, "Too late for that."
"What a bitch," Reese says, laughing.
"Swear jar!" Josie screams. Her little face is red with annoyance.
They bicker back and forth in front of you as walk out to the parking lot. Erik doesn’t say much, just runs a few of his potential home improvement projects for the off-season by you and asks you to make the list for the grocery store before he goes in morning after his haircut. When you reach the car, he unlocks it and Reese throws his giant bag into the open trunk before ushering his little sister into her booster seat.
"You should have said yes,” you say, mostly joking, when both car doors shut. “She seemed nice. A little aggressive, but that does seem to be your type."
"I don't have a type,” Erik grumbles.
“Yes, you do.”
He cocks a brow. When you don’t surrender, he takes a step forward. Instinctively, you take one back. Erik curses under his breath and shakes his head. Then he stalks forward until you’re trapped against the back of his SUV and his cologne is all you can think about and he is all that you can feel.
“Tell me, baby. What’s my type?” he asks, voice dark and throaty.
You swallow, heart beat thrumming erratically. “Women who only want you for your career. Women who don’t you know and don’t care about you. Women who don’t deserve you.”
Your voice is quiet, but confident. It was terrifying to speak so boldly, and you felt like your stomach was moments away from falling to your feet while your head could float away, but it was a small way you could communicate to him where you stood.
"Maybe that was true in the past, but not anymore. I only have eyes for one woman nowadays, and she’s the most compassionate, loving, and selfless person I have ever met. And I'm doing my best not to fuck things up with her again," he stares at you intently, thumb gently caressing your cheek. "Because she’s already been more forgiving than I deserve."
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