Divination was stupid. Theo knew it. Enzo knew it. But unfortunately for the two of them, Daphne Greengrass did not. She was quite the believer in fact—spending hours charting stars to gauge compatibility, gazing into her crystal ball, and practicing her palm reading. A load of bollocks and a complete waste of time in Theo's opinion, but, he wasn't a monster and so he humored his friend, content in blocking out Professor Trelawney's incessant babbling for an hour at the start of his mornings.
Theo was just admiring how particularly gray the walls of the castle were looking this fine afternoon when a sharp elbow to the ribs pulls his attention back to the old bat's class. Theo shoots a glare Enzo's way as he rubs his wounded ribcage pointedly. To only further his agitation, Theo notices that Trelawney is now stood directly in front of him extending a deck of tarot cards to him as she blinks her wide owlish eyes at him expectantly.
With a deep sigh and a rather dramatic eye roll, Theo plucks a card from the deck and hands it back to the witch without even bothering to glance at it. Trelawney doesn't seem to mind much though as she inhales sharply, a grin that seemed much too wide for her face forming as she flips the card back to Theo.
"Yes, yes. Just as I predicted dear boy. Just as I predicted. The Two of Cups!" She announces proudly, brandishing the card out towards the class.
Daphne squeals.
"Oh Teddy—"
"Don't call me that."
Daphne ignores him.
"How exciting. How romantic," she continues, clearly far more interested in the pull than Theo was.
She pulls out a script of parchment, finger tracing down the lines of notes until she finds what she's searching for. Then she shoves the parchment under Theo's nose.
"Look there. The Two of Cups—signifies mutual attraction and deep connections. A representation of kindred spirits in the early stages of falling in love. That's so romantic," she gushes, continuing on in her notes.
Enzo snorts doing a horrible job trying to stifle his laughter. Theo glowers, not even wanting to deign such a ridiculous concept with a response. This was ludicrous. The whole thing. Theo had been attending Hogwarts for well long enough to know that there was not a single present student in the school that he would even dignify having a romantic relationship with. He can't help but shake his head and scoff at the mere idea.
"Oh lighten up Teddy, heaven forbid you let Daphne have this," Enzo snickers, clearly enjoying the discomfort the whole thing brought Theo.
It was easy for him to say. It wasn't his love life being carefully dissected by their mystic enthused friend.
Being the new student at any new school was always going to be nerve wracking. But being the new student at a new school in a whole new country was significantly worse in every aspect. Whispers float down the corridors, your name echoing off the high ceilings of the castle, and eyes flicker towards the ground as you pass as if they hadn't just been staring shamelessly the moment prior. Normally the stares wouldn't bother you much, but the constant hushed voices were beginning to be unnerving. Your lips tighten as you move swiftly through the halls and you can't help but feel a bit self conscious as you smooth out your unfamiliar, deep blue robes.
You weren't exactly enthusiastic about your new school to begin with. It was different—of course it would be—but no matter how much you had prepared yourself for all the changes, it just hadn't been enough. Like really, they let a ratty, old—albeit sentient—hat determine house placements? You hadn't wanted that thing anywhere near your head, but it just couldn't be helped. Then, once you had been placed into your house, you come to find that yours is the only one in the entire school that requires you to solve a freaking riddle just to get into your damn room. Asinine. And to top it all off, the wretched school was literally impossible to navigate because the staircases, apparently, were also sentient and did whatever the hell they wanted.
All that to say, when you finally collapse into a seat in the back of, what you hoped was the History of Magic classroom, you were more than a little miffed. With an agitated huff, you try to stay invisible as more students begin to file into the classroom, taking their seats closer to the front. As seats fill, the extra buffer of breathing room melts a bit of the tension in your shoulders. When your professor—a ghost you notice dryly—begins to write on the chalk board, you finally feel yourself start to relax, pulling out a roll of parchment from your bag and carefully copying down each line.
Just as you're about to finish—The Gargoyle Strike of 1911—the classroom door swings open once more and a boy with brown hair and dark, calculating eyes saunters in. You're content with giving him a quick, uninterested glance before getting back to your notes, but unfortunately for you, the boy is rapidly approaching. His bag hits the floor next to you with a dull thread and you feel your lips turn downward into a frown as you look up at the boy once more in annoyance.
You watch as the boy's mouth opens as if to say something, but then his eyes meet yours and you watch him freeze, mouth agape for a moment then two. Just as it's becoming a bit uncomfortable, he seems to awaken from his trance looking shaken, brows furrowing as if he were wondering why on Earth he was just standing there like a fool. Still though, he tilts his head awkwardly—chin gesturing towards the rest of the class—and for the first time you notice that every other seat in the room seems to be occupied. With a sigh of defeat, you wordlessly turn back to the board, preparing to scramble to write down whatever you'd missed just now, content with simply ignoring this boy's existence for the the rest of class.
"A 'wildcat strike' refers to a stopping of work by unionized workers without authorization from the union. In 1911 the wildcats were winning, meaning things were moving in favor of the gargoyles—"
Good god this was horrible. You weren't even ten minutes into your first day of this new class and you already wanted to throw yourself off the top of Ravenclaw tower. It seemed as though many of the other students in class felt similarly as one of the boys sitting a few rows in front of you lets out a concernedly loud snore. You have to choke down a snicker as your eyes flicker up to the ghost at the front of the room, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't care.
"That's Finnigan. There's a running bet on how long it'll take him to fall asleep after Binns starts monologuing," the boy next to you murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips.
You turn to look at the boy, surprised to hear him speak after all, and for the first time take a good look. Shit. He was hot. You don't really get the chance to dwell too much on it though because he speaks again.
"That one next to him is Thomas. Any second now he'll start piling things on top of 'em. See how high the stack gets before it falls over or Finnigan wakes up. Whichever comes first."
As if on queue, the boy next to the snoring kid carefully places a thick text book on his friend's back. Then another. It's like you can't look away as you watch on in morbid fascination.
"They friends of yours?" you find yourself asking as the boy, Thomas, adds an ink well to his tower.
Your desk partner snorts.
"Hardly. Lions and snakes don't exactly get along," he says smoothly.
You have no idea what that's supposed to mean, but you don't want to ask. Instead you continue to watch as a bag of Bertie Bott's jelly beans, three quills, a sweater, and someone's pet frog is added to the pile. A potted plant is about to be placed on top when a sneeze sends the whole thing crashing to the floor. Professor Binns doesn't even blink as he just continues on. Finnigan's head shoots up as he takes in his surroundings once more, shoulders slumping when he apparently realizes where he is. Understandable.
The rest of class is an absolute drag as you flit in and out of different thoughts and daydreams. Anywhere was better than here, listening to this ghost drown on. If he were any less interesting, you're sure the entire class would die of sheer boredom and be cursed to haunt this very classroom with the old professor. Doomed to be subjected to the very thing that killed you all in the first place for all eternity.
After what you're certain is the longest hour of your life, class finally ends, but to your dismay, you realize that halfway through class you'd simply given up on taking notes. Dammit. As though reading your mind, the boy next to you slides his parchment towards you. His notes are impeccable. Perfectly neat rows in dark ink with not a smudge in sight.
"I can get them back tomorrow," he says simply, before returning the rest of his materials into his bag.
You open your mouth to thank the boy, but before you even get the chance he's gone in a swoosh of emerald green and black.
The whole thing leaves you a bit stunned. It was the first real interaction you'd had with, really anyone at your new school and you couldn't tell if you'd completely blown it or not. He'd seemed decent enough, whoever he was. And that's when it occurs to you. You hadn't even bothered to ask the boy's name.
"Mmm. What was their name again?" Theo asks, trying to appear nonchalant as he inserts himself into Enzo and Daphne's conversation.
The three of them occupied their usual spots inside the Slytherin common room, the soft glow of green flames painting their faces as their voices mix in with the other echoes of the dungeon. Enzo eyes Theo suspiciously, noting that—despite the unbothered front he put on—Theo's fingers couldn't seem to stop tapping anxiously against his knee. See, usually when Enzo and Daphne were participating in their daily debrief, Theo was staring off into the abyss, pointedly ignoring them. So it didn't take an intuitive genius to pick up on the sudden spike of interest he was showing.
"Y/n. They're from America," Daphne says helpfully, seemingly oblivious to the way that Enzo was trying to dissect their friend's inner most thoughts.
"Why all the interest? They catch your eye? Are you two already falling into the early stages of love?" He taunts when he isn't able to get a proper read on his friend.
Theo's heart stops beating in his chest for half a moment before he juts out his chin defiantly.
"All anyone will talk about. Just curious to know who all the fuss is about," he retorts, forcing his voice to remain steady as he continues to stare ahead, avoiding the curious glances of his friends.
He can tell Enzo doesn't quite buy it, but that simply isn't his problem to worry about at the moment.
So they were from America. Huh.
Truthfully, Theo didn't know much about America. Hadn't ever really cared to find anything out. He was familiar with Ilvermorny of course. Which was presumably your former school, but that was pretty much the extent of it. Maybe he'd ask you about it tomorrow.
Assuming he didn't freeze up again at the mere sight of you. Salazar's ball sack that had been bloody embarrassing. Theo couldn't think of a single other time he'd ever frozen up like that, brief as it had been. Usually Theo liked to consider himself to be quite suave. Charming even, if he did say so himself. And he did. It was completely unlike him to be rendered speechless. Especially not by the mere presence of someone with a pretty face.
But it simply hadn't been his fault. How was he supposed to expect that some great, higher power was going to reach deep into his inner most thoughts and desires—pull together every single physical trait that Theo could possibly fantasize about—and combine them all into one single heavenly creature, and then plop them down right next to him in History of Magic of all classes.
Fate was cruel.
And speaking of fate, there was also all that nonsense from Divination that morning to think about. Theo leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Surely the fact that batty, old Trelawney had predicted that he would fall in love was a complete coincidence in relation to him practically being prepared to propose to the new student in History of Magic a mere few hours later. How could it be anything else? Divination wasn't real. The whole class had been so close to being completely scrapped so many times that you either had to be a fool, or Daphne to believe in it.
Okay, so maybe Theodore was starting to believe it. A little. But what was he supposed to think as he watches you drag your feet through the door scowling? He feels his chest tighten as the two of you make eye contact and he watches as you make your way over to him.
"This seat taken?" you ask, already dropping your bag to the floor. "Didn't take you as one to be into this kinda stuff," you say conversationally as you pull parchment and a quill from your bag.
Theo scoffs, rolling his eyes.
"I'm not," he assures, "But Daph is," he adds, head tilting as he gestures to his friend.
He watches as your eyes dart over to the pretty brunette sitting happily between him and Enzo, assessing.
"Oh. Are you two?" The question lingers on your lips and Theo is quick to shake his head no.
Salazar he was being stupid. Of course you would assume—Why was he being like this?
"Nah. No. Daph's an old friend. Enz and I are just here for moral support. And an easy O." Theo hears himself drawl. "What about you? Training to become a seer?"
"Hardly. This was the only elective left that fit into my schedule apparently."
Salazar's balls you were perfect, Theo thinks to himself as Trelawney comes sweeping into the room. Her eyes are closed and her fingertips are pressed against her temples as she swooshes around the room, humming lowly.
"I feel new energy. An unfamiliar presence. You!" Trelawney screeches in her trembly voice, stopping in front of a poor, innocent Hufflepuff with an accusatory finger hovering dangerously close to their eyeball.
Theo can't help but let out a dry snicker and is delighted when he sees you out of the corner of his eye trying to hold back a laugh too. When it's clear to the old professor that the student in front of her had actually been present all year, her eyes scan the room, finally coming to a stop when they rest on you.
"Ah, there you are my dear! Your energy feels so concentrated on this side of the room, it simply drew me over," Trelawney babbles as she makes her way over. "Now let's see here. Palms up dear, palms up, let me have a look."
Theo watches amused, ignoring the weird kissing faces Enzo is making at him, as you sigh but still present your palms facing upwards to the professor. Her bony talons quickly engulf your hands, her eyes fluttering shut once more as her head tilts back, a low hum starting once more.
"Yes, yes. How interesting," the hums get louder as the professor's fingers dig into the lines of your palms. "I see. In the darkest hour, a dark shadow, it will over take you. Consume you."
Trelawney's eyes snap open and Theo watches her face melt back into a warm smile as she gives your hands one last squeeze.
"Welcome to class dear. We have much to learn, so much to see!"
Theo finds that he rather likes the way his heart swells when you turn to look at him, brow raised as you shake your head ever so slightly as if to say, 'what a nutter'.
"How many freaking goblin rebellions is it going to take before the British Ministry finally takes the hint and leaves those poor goblins alone?" you huff, slamming your books a little too loudly onto your table in the library.
You can feel Madam Pince attempting to burn a hole through your back as she glares at you, but you ignore her.
"Probably at least—" Theo checks his notes from the day's lesson, "six or seven. Unfortunately not every revolution to rid oneself of British rule is successful," he teases lightly.
You glare at the boy pointedly.
"I'm not even particularly, patriotic," you grumble, the word actually quite sour on your tongue, "but nothing brings Americans together quite like our mutual hatred of the British."
"Mmm. Do let it go on record now that my family is Italian," Theo replies dryly.
Theodore had very quickly become your closest friend at Hogwarts. From that first day in History of Magic the two of you just seemed to click. It also definitely helped that not only did he share your dry sense of humor, but he was also insanely smart, and very easy on the eyes. You'd been worried for a split second when he first introduced you to Daphne Greengrass, a familiar turning in your stomach that you'd quickly identified as jealousy flaring up, but it had been quickly squashed when Theo assured you that they were indeed just friends. But that was neither here nor there. You and Theo had become practically inseparable in the month that you'd been at your new school, much to the chagrin of his friends. You liked them too of course, and they'd been good sports about welcoming you into their little group, but with Theo it was just easy.
You slide your potions notes across the table just as Theo hands over his Charms essay for you to look over. No words exchanged, but you were both perfectly in sync. Easy.
It's far past dark when you finally push your chair back, the old wood scraping against the floor, and you force yourself to stifle a yawn.
"Alright. I'm calling it a night," you announce as you begin packing up your books. "I should head back in case it takes an hour to get that damn eagle to open up the common room door again."
You hear Theo let out a snort at your last comment. He'd heard well and good your complaints about that stupid hunk of metal.
"Guess I'll head out as well. Mattheo has been complaining that he never sees me anymore, but he's just mad he can't copy my notes anymore."
The two of you quickly gather the rest of your things, slinking out of the library right as Pince begins making her rounds to toss the last lingering students out before closing the doors for the night. The walk to Ravenclaw tower is made in comfortable silence as you walk side by side, both of you trying to ignore the way the back of your hands were brushing against each other as you went. When you finally arrive, a whole group of students in black and blue are outside the door when it swings open. Not wanting to miss your chance, you toss Theo a smile over your shoulder before disappearing with the crowd of students through the door.
As soon as you enter your room, you dump your bag on the ground at the foot of your bed, trade your stiff school uniform for a more comfortable track set, and turn right back out the door—a disillusionment spell on the tip of your tongue. You move silently against the walls, retracing the same steps you'd just taken, leading your right back to the library. It's dark now—you knew from experience that as soon as the clock hit ten, Pince was out the doors. You lift your wand, ready to cast the usual alohomora but tonight something stops you. Call it a gut feeling. You grip the handle of the heavy, wood door and without so much as a squeak, the door swings open. Huh. Maybe the cranky librarian had been in such a rush to leave she forgot to lock up.
Without giving it so much as a second thought, you slip through the doors, following the familiar path that lead you right to the heart of the restricted section of the library. Really, you often found yourself wondering, why on Earth did they have a so called restricted section, and then not even bother to put up a single ward to keep students from entering? Wasn't very restricted if they asked you. Your fingertips brush over the spines of different books as you pass through the shelves, pulling one from the shelf every so often if it catches your eye. The silence of the empty library was deafening, but you relished the way you could hear your footsteps echoing on the tile and the rustle of pages turning as you flipped through your nightly finds.
You're on your tiptoes, straining to reach a large tome from the top shelf when you catch sight of a dark shadow appearing out of the corner of your eye. God, you hoped it wasn't that old man Filch. He wasn't as bad as everyone made him seem, you'd been able to talk him out of snitching on you thus far, but it kind of ruined the mood. Your hand drops to rest on the handle of your wand as the shady figure draws closer and you prepare to throw one of your books its way just in case.
"What are you doing here?" the confused voice of Theodore rings out just as you're about to launch your copy of Moste Potente Potions at his head.
You feel your shoulders sag in relief. You hadn't been scared of course. Just vaguely alarmed. Then you let out a laugh.
"And what's funny?"
"Oh, nothing. Just Trelawney and her whole 'A dark shadow is going to overtake you' spiel," you snicker. "And what do you mean what am I doing here? What are you doing here?" you ask rather indignantly, turning back to focus on the book that was just out of your reach.
"I come down to the library at night all the time," Theo replies, crossing his arms defensively.
"Well it's obviously not all the time because I've been here every night this month and I've never seen you down here," you reply casually.
You can practically hear Theo rolling his eyes at you.
"Well of course not all the time, Filch would start getting—sorry did you say you've been here every night? How has Filch not caught you?"
You shrug your shoulders noncommittally, glaring up at the book that seemed to be just taunting you.
"He has a few times, but we usually just chat for a little and then he'll send me on my way."
You don't see the absolutely stunned look on Theo's face.
"You chat? With Filch. About what?" Theo asks incredulously.
You let out an exasperated sigh.
"The weather. Cat toy recommendations for Mrs. Norris. His mother's retirement in France. I don't know, we chat about a lot of things."
You still aren't facing Theo, but if you had been, you probably would have laughed at the completely gobsmacked look that was written across his face.
"Now will you be useful and get that book down for me?" you ask, foot stomping impatiently on the ground.
Still too shocked to respond, Theo reaches up over your head, placing one hand on your shoulder for balance as he easily plucks the book you'd been reaching for off the shelf. Just as he's about to hand it to you though, it seems he comes back to his senses and that smug grin that you'd become so familiar with recently finds its way back to his lips.
"Uh uh uh, where's my reward?" he teases, holding the book just out of reach once more as he smirks down at you.
"Reward?" you ask dryly, looking up to raise an eyebrow at your friend.
Had he always been standing so close?
"I'm a Slytherin. I don't do something for nothing now," he says, voice like honey in your ears.
"What do you want?" you ask, eyes narrowing.
Theo tilts his head as if pretending to think.
"A kiss."
You blink, shoulders shrugging as you turn to face the boy properly. Seemed fair enough to you. You were definitely getting the best end of the deal. So you tug on the collar of Theo's sweatshirt, before crashing your lips into his. His lips are warm and soft and that's all you take note of before pulling away quickly. Theo is clearly stunned once more so you take the opportunity to finally get your hands on the book you'd been eyeing this whole time.
"Thanks Theo!"
Theodore Nott was dangerously close to never brushing his teeth ever again. Because you had kissed him last night. In some sudden, stupid burst of confidence he had asked you to kiss him and you did. It had been a complete joke—Theo hadn't even remotely considered that you'd actually do it, but you'd grabbed the collar of his jumper and then your lips were on his and he knew he was well and truly done for.
"Theo. Theo! You need to get your act together mate," Lorenzo grunts, elbowing his friend to get his attention.
"What? Stop that," Theo mutters, batting his friend away from him.
"Seriously. You're acting like a love sick puppy."Brie
Theo glares.
"Would take one to know one," he snaps, falling back in his seat with a huff.
Now it's Enzo's turn to narrow his eyes.
"I'm going to choose to ignore that because you're just upset that you didn't kiss y/n back," he responds.
Theo's eyes bulge at the bold—albeit correct—observation.
"Can you keep your bloody voice down?" he hisses, eyes flickering about to make sure no one had heard.
Luckily, you had only just entered the divination classroom so at least Theo was safe for now. Or maybe not.
"Morning," you say brightly giving the group a small wave and taking your usual spot next to Theo.
Theo opens his mouth to respond but, Salazar you smelled good today, and your lips, god your lips looked soft and pink and, the words feel caught in Theo's throat. Somewhere in the distance he can hear Enzo snickering obnoxiously, but all Theo can do is stare at you dumbly. This was mortifying. As soon as he figured out how to move again Theo was launching himself straight off this bloody tower.
"Hey, do you want to sneak into the library again tonight?" you ask casually, laying your things out on your desk, seemingly oblivious to the fact that you were about to send Theo into cardiac arrest.
Of course I'll sneak back into the library with you. Especially if it means you'll kiss me again, Theo wants to say. But he has at least a little bit of dignity left, so he straightens himself in his chair, trying to maintain at least somewhat of an air of nonchalance as he finally strings a sentence together.
"Sure."
Okay, so a sentence might be giving himself a bit too much credit, but it was better than sitting there gaping like a daft idiot. You seem satisfied with his answer though as you turn to face the front just as Trelawney waltzes into the room with her usual dramatic flair. Theo drifts in and out of the lesson as Trelawney rambles on about tea leaves and the placement of tasseography symbols. He tried to focus. Really he needed to, because the alternative was his gaze finding its way to the curve of your lips and the way your tongue pressed against the inside of your cheek as you furiously scribbled down notes.
The gentle sound of metal clinking on china pulls Theo wholey back to class as a spoon taps impatiently on the teacup in front of him as if urging him to drink. Glancing around he sees most of his classmates were already bottoms up. Drinking down the rather bitter liquid, Theo carefully places his cup back down in front of him, peering disinterestedly at its contents. Just looked like soggy tea leaves to him.
Trelawney insists on moving about the room though, dissecting the meanings inside each little cup and leaving behind a trail of utterly befuddled students in her wake. When she finally reaches Theo, he can visibly see her begin to vibrate with excitement as she moves his cup around in her hands, swishing the tea leaves back and forth.
"Look there, dear. Do you see?" she asks giddily, shoving the teacup back in Theo's face.
"No." he replies flatly, not even bothering to examine the wet leaves.
"Look closer."
Theo's nose is practically inside the cup now and he can hear you and Enz snickering on either side of him. Traitors. When he still doesn't say anything, Trelawney lets out a huff, sticking her crooked finger into the cup and speaking slowly as if explaining something to a small child.
"Right there. Don't you see?" she asks, as if it should've been the most obvious thing in the world. "An axe—" she swirls the cup to the side. "And a butterfly."
Theo stares blankly at the old woman.
"Use their notes and figure it out," she finally huffs in exasperation before sweeping off to another table.
As soon as she's gone and Theo makes eye contact with you he can't help but chuckle as Daphne scowls at the two of you.
"Look," she sighs, shoving her notes across the table for Theo to read.
The Axe—problems overcome
The Butterfly—success and pleasure
Wonderful. More nonsense. That was the problem with divination—the definitions were so broad they were basically meaningless. Overcoming problems and success? That could be about anything. Theo pushes the parchment back to its owner with a shrug. He'd just do what he always did and make something up for the assignment.
Shadows loom against the dimly lit walls of the library as you and Theo wander through the shelves together. Theo had been quieter than usual tonight. To be fair, he wasn't usually the most talkative person ever, but you had had to push to get your usual banter out of him. He clearly had something on his mind. You don't push though. That was something you both appreciated about each other—just being there together was enough.
Once you both have a sizable stack of books pulled together you tuck yourselves away in one of the back corners of the restricted section. Far enough that not even Mrs. Norris would bother to wander all the way back. You find yourself curling up next to your friend, legs pressed together and shoulders brushing as you cast a soft lumos charm just bright enough to illuminate the pages of your books as you read. The quiet is nice after a long day of navigating the crowded halls and classrooms of the school. Hogwarts was definitely a lively place, and you hadn't realized just how much you missed having some peace and quiet until you'd snuck out of Ravenclaw tower that first night.
"Do you think divination might not be completely useless?" Theo asks a while later, breaking the silence.
You look up in surprise before glancing down at the book he's reading—Divination Through the Ages: A Skeptics Guide—your eyebrows furrowing in thought. If you were being honest, you'd always thought that divination was, to be polite, dumb. In fact, you'd been rather pissed when your head of house, Professor Flitwick, had told you that it was the only class that would fit in your schedule. But you didn't think that was what Theo wanted to hear at the moment.
"I mean, all forms of magic have their unique uses I suppose," you reply carefully, wondering where this was going.
Theo just hums in response, continuing to finger through the pages of the book as you watch with curiosity. Finally, with a deep breath, he snaps the book closed and turns to face you. It's clear he wants to say something as you search his eyes which seem to be getting ever so slightly closer by the second. You can't help the way your eyes drop down to his lips as his tongue glides across his bottom lip nervously. They're so close now you can practically feel the way they had pressed against your own last night. However brief that encounter had been. When you finally tilt your head back up to meet his eyes once more, your nose brushes his and you feel your breath hitch. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was about to kiss you right now.
And then his lips are on yours and you feel your body go limp as he pulls you into him, your eyes fluttering closed as he molds you to him. Your book slips from your fingers with a dull thud as it hits the ground, but you hardly notice. Theo's lips are just as warm, and soft, and utterly intoxicating as you remembered them to be. You can feel Theo smiling against your lips as he pulls you impossibly closer and you forget where you are, what you were doing, everything except what it feels like to be held in Theo's arms.
When you finally break apart, it's your turn to blink in stunned silence as Theo gazes down at you, his breath warm against your cheek.
"Ever since you arrived, everything that divination has told me has come true," Theo says gruffly, clearly not pleased to be having to admit it.
You couldn't blame him. The two of you had kind of bonded over how unseriously you both took the class. Still though, you tilt your head, inviting him to continue.
"The first day we met—that morning in divination, a deck of tarot cards told me I was going to fall in love."
A dry laugh escapes Theo's lips as he pulls back, eyes trained everywhere but at you now. Which is probably for the best as you feel tendrils of heat creeping up into your face.
"I didn't believe them of course. Thought it was pure rubbish."
Your heart stutters for a moment before your eyes land on the book Theo had been reading so intently up until now.
"Hm. And did something change?" you ask cautiously, not daring to get your hopes up.
"Well, the soggy leaves in my tea this morning kind of implied that I should get my act together if I wanted any sort of success, so—" Theo lets out another wry laugh, though there's no humor in his voice. Just a nervous undertone that you can tell he's trying to mask.
"Well did you? Fall in love that is?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy around Theo for the first time.
There's a beat of silence where you can practically feel your heart trying to tear its way out of your chest. You hadn't quite realized just how much you wanted this until it was staring you in the face. Or rather anywhere but. Then Theo meets your eyes once more.
"I think I could. If I'm not half way there already."
His words melt every bit of tension you had been feeling previously as you let out a breath that you didn't know you'd been holding.
"I think I'm half way there too."
Everyone say thank you to the beta readers @simplyastra and @nottendo 🫶🏽
theo x reader, but it’s him discovering that she’s tattooed? i imagine flowers tattooed across her back and maybe he discovers it during a makeout or something and he’s obsessed
⋆·˚ ༘ * Thirteen lilies ⋆·˚ ༘ *
Masterlist
Author's note: your wish is my command :) also I just really love this ask. the flowers are lilies, just because I love lilies and I feel like the slight melancholic nature of them fits theodore nott (or the version I have of him in my mind, at least.)
warnings: it's just fluff, maybe a little on body issues + not proofread
hope this is what you imagined, anon!!
Pairing: theodore nott x fem!tattooed reader
You're in Theo's dormitory. Yesterday night was a rare, quiet evening when his roommates were gone- he'd been tense all week, something weighing on him he won't name, and you've been trying to coax him out of his own head while his friends scattered away to their own multitudes of activities, unsure of how their presence in the room with the two of you would be greeted.
You really had tried everything to cheer him up, and nothing seemed to be working. But he didn't push you away, and in your books that was always a win. It helped calm your nervousness, the anxiety pulsating through your blood at his closed- off expression, when his arms had wrapped around you and he had buried his face into your neck, silently burrowing. It was the first time he had seeked comfort like this, and you were more than willing to give it freely until he opened up.
He hadn't opened up. He'd instead collapsed on the bed, pulling you on top of him. Not a single word exchanged and yet you still knew exactly what it was he wanted. His face may not have revealed anything but his eyes- those dark eyes always revealed his thoughts. And right now those same hooded eyes were begging you to stay the night for the first time.
You'd fallen asleep on his chest eventually, the two of you tangled in his silky emerald sheets. You hadn't slept. Just held your breath, waiting for his body to slump, waiting for his breath to even out so you could stop worrying (you'd never stop worrying) He had stirred, shifting and had kissed your forehead sometime around 2 am, mumbled something you couldn't quite catch, pulling the blanket higher over your bare shoulders.
Bare, because theodore ran cold and the room was somehow hot- or was that just you?-and your t shirt soaked through with sweat sometime around midnight.
You were nervous. Beyond nervous, really. Sleeping over for the first time. The soft curve of your stomach pressed against his side, and you had caught yourself trying to angle away, trying to suck in, stay tense and awake, but he'd just hooked an arm around your waist and dragged you closer.
"Stop that," he murmured, barely awake and brow furrowed. "You're warm. Stay."
So you did.
(The insecurities didn't come from comments from others, nor from some horrible ex. It was a lot deeper and a lot less complicated than that. The thoughts were entirely your own. Perhaps that's why it seemed so strange to confess to Theodore that you hated the body he seemed to love so much, that you lived for the moments he said 'you're perfect, baby' because it soothed jagged pieces of yourself and temporarily buried the spiky thoughts.)
You woke up first.
The green light of the early morning light filtered through the lake in the gaps of his curtains slipped through, burning your tired eyes. Theodore's dead to the world, dark lashes against pale cheeks. Lips slightly parted, one arm thrown over his head like he had collapsed mid thought.
The other arm is outstretched to you on the bed, as though reaching for you in his sleep, distressed by the lack of touch. He looks peaceful, nothing like the darkness that had taken over him last night.
You slip out of bed carefully, bare feet on his cold floor. The Slytherin dorms always run cold, the Black Lake hiding them from the sun like a secret hidden in it's depths.
His t- shirt is probably somewhere on the floor, and it would help the gooseflesh erupting across your arms and stomach, with just the sweatpants and bra, but the dorm is mostly dark and you don't want him to wake to you rummaging around in his room while he was asleep.
So just the bra. Just the sweatpants. Your soft middle on display, and for once- just for him- you try to not hate it.
You pad to the bathroom, pressing your teeth together to stop the chattering as a full body shiver runs through you.
The bathroom is small, tiled in pale green like all the other dorms, smelling like his soap and something woodsy that you breathe in. It's gratefully warm in the bathroom. You don't turn on the light- just crack the door enough to see by the dim hallway glow. He needs the rest. His toothbrush sits in a cup, and right beside it is a new one, nestled perfectly. He's had it for ages, probably, waiting for the day you agree to finally sleep over. Patient, like Theodore has always been for you.
You grab it without thinking, squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles, and start brushing.
You're hunched over the sink a little, squinting at your reflection in the dim mirror. Your hair is a mess that you pull into a horrendous bun on the top of your head, tired eyes, and pudge soft above your waistband.
He saw all of this, you think to yourself. And he still pulled me closer.
The thought makes you smile around the toothbrush, when suddenly there's arms snaking around your waist lazily, feeling every inch of the bare skin.
Warm, bare arms sliding around your waist from behind. A chest pressing against your back. A nose buried in the curve of your neck.
You jump, nearly choking on toothpaste foam, cheeks immediately flushing and heart hammering like it wants to break free from your chest.
"Theodore-"
"Mm." His voice is gravel and sleep, rumbling against your skin. He's a draping weight over you, and you feel your resistance crumble as your body leans into his touch. His mouth is pressed to your collarbone, head bowed, soft curls against your cheek, and you close your eyes for a moment as his rough voice comes as a vibration against the delicate skin of your collarbone. "You left." He mumbles, like it's a crime in it's own right to leave a bed in the morning to brush your teeth.
You try to turn, but he holds you there- not tight. His arms like a loose band across your middle, his smell engulfing you until you want to disappear into him, crawl into his skin and live in it with him, inhale him until all that's in your lungs is the smell of him and all that you feel is his bare chest against your back.
His lips find the back of your neck, pressing slow, lazy kisses up to your hairline.
"I was brushing my teeth," you mumble softly around the brush, spitting as quiet as you can in the sink so you can speak clearly. "Go back to sleep."
"No." A soft open-mouthed kiss to the back of your neck that makes you gasp and jolt against him. You feel his lips curve upwards against your neck, and your knees nearly buckle. This is how you die. With Theodore Nott mumbling "want to see your face," against your neck at 6:46 am in the morning.
"Theo-"
"Want to see your pretty face," he corrects, amused, kisses trailing to your shoulder. "My pretty girl. Turn around."
You shake your head, cheeks flushing hot as your hands brace yourself against the counter. Breathe, you think. In, out. Come on. Remember how to breathe. "I look like shit." You say breathlessly, and you hear him let out a small laugh behind you and your knees actually buckle this time. His arms tighten and he holds you up, kissing the spot behind your ear until you let out a small whimper, trying to make it through your sentence. "This is the first time I've slept over and I look like-"
His hand finds your free arm that's trying- very pathetically- to push him away. His touch isn't rough. It's firm. He pins it gently to your side, his fingers lacing through yours.
And then his other hand reaches past you and flicks on the light.
You flinch.
The bathroom floods with harsh yellow brightness, and you see everything- your tangled hair scraped into a bun, the sleepy puff under your eyes that shows the fries you had late last night, the sodium causing the swelling, the soft curve of your belly above your sweats. You're about to duck away, hide against his chest, anything-
But Theodore's not looking at your flaws.
He's looking at your mouth, hunger barely hidden in those dark eyes that hide everything, hold the depths of all the oceans in the world and at the same time hide absolutely nothing from you.
He turns you in his arms before you can protest- your back pressing against the cold bathroom counter, body crowding into your space until you feel his chest against yours. His hands cup your jaw, tilting your face up toward his.
"There you are," he murmurs, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "My girl."
And then he kisses you.
His lips find yours and all your thoughts are scattered. You can't think of anything except his mouth against yours, his lips moving, the way he's still holding your hand, his fingers laced through yours, his other hand shifting from your waist to your head to properly tilt your face back and you can't breathe. You want to kiss him until your lips numb.
It's slow at first- soft, sleepy, his lips barely parted against yours. It's like he's not thinking, just wants to feel your lips against his, the way someone would want to feel a hand against theirs. You taste like toothpaste and morning breath and he does not care. One of his hands slides into your messy hair, undoing the bun before you can realsie what he's doing. The other settles on your hip, thumb stroking the bare skin above your sweatpants and you melt into him, fingers curling into his bare shoulders desperately.
He hums against your mouth, pleased, and the kiss deepens- his tongue sweeping lazily against your lower lip, his fingers tightening in your hair. He tilts his head, changes the angle, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you.
"Theo," you breathe between kisses, desperate for him to pull away, to pull you closer, to give you more, to give you less. You don't know anymore.
"Shh." Another kiss. "Let me."
His lips trail to your neck, then to your collarbone, eyes opening so he can look at you in the mirror behind you. And he just... stops. Freezes.
He's looking at your back.
You realize it a second too late. The bathroom mirror shows him everything, your whole back, every delicately inked flower that you never mentioned once in eight months. His gaze is fixed on the space between your shoulder blades- where the lilies curl up your spine in dark red ink.
Oh.
His fingers- the ones not holding yours- lift from your waist. Slowly. Reverently. He touches the topmost lily, just below your neck, with the barest brush of his thumb, and you feel your whole body shudder. You weren't planning on showing him these any time soon- weren't planning on doing it ever, really. You'd never let yourself think this far into the relationship to plan for this situation.
"What are these?"
His voice has changed, no longer the sleepy grumble. This is something lower. Thicker. Hoarse, as though all his self control is being used to hold off on pouncing on you.
You look away immediately. Your heart is pounding.
"They're- they're just tattoos. I got them two ye- a while ago. I didn't- I- I was going to tell you-"
"Lilies," he whispers, not a question. His finger slides from your waist to your back, tracing the topmost delicate petal. Theodore Nott may not know the name of every flower to exist but he sure as hell knows that his girl's favourite flowers- the one blooming across her back- are star lilies. His thumb traces down your spine, following the stem of the next one. "You have lilies blooming up your back."
You nod, suddenly inexplicably shy, mouth drying. "Do you… hate them?"
He doesn't answer, and your heart hammers harder against your chest- against his chest too.
Instead, he twists you around to face him in the mirror and pulls you back against his chest not hard, but inevitable, like you were always meant to fit there. Like you're always going to fit there. His arms wrap around your middle, fingers splaying across your stomach. He rests his chin on your shoulder and looks at you in the mirror. Really looks, for what he thinks is the first time.
"I've been in love with you for eight months," he says quietly. "And I didn't notice such a big part of you?"
You swallow hard, unable to meet his eyes in the mirror, looking anywhere but him. "I-I was nervous. People don't- they don't like marks on a girl. I thought maybe you'd think they were—"
"Beautiful."
He says it like it's obvious. Like the sky is blue, the morning is grey, and you have lilies blooming up your spine. Like he's never seen anything more devastatingly gorgeous in his life.
His lips find your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the space behind your ear. Like he can't help himself, pressing desperate, open-mouthed kisses across your skin until you're trembling, hands sliding up his bare chest to hold him closer, to push him away, to stay.
"I'm not letting you go until I know the shape of every one of these under my lips."
Bonus scene:
You're making coffee on his desk, because the tiny little kitchenette that one of his friends had magicked into the room is entirely covered in something sticky and red and you don't want to deal with that, wearing his t-shirt. You think maybe the moment has passed- that he's seen the tattoos, said his piece- or rather, kissed his piece- and moved on.
Then you reach for a mug on a high shelf on his desk and your shirt rides up just enough to show the stem of a lily curling above your waistband.
You hear him inhale sharply behind you and you stifle a laugh- he's been like this since he saw them. Tensing every time a sliver of skin is revealed to him, and you've never felt more confident and cheekier about your own body.
His hands are on your hips a second later, pulling you back against him, lips finding the back of your ear like some sort of homing beacon.
"You're doing that on purpose," he accuses, voice rough.
You laugh softly, leaning back into him. "I'm just making coffee."
"You're torturing me."
He presses hot kisses onto the back of your neck, tugging his t shirt off of you with the patience of a dog with a bone.
He spends the next ten minutes tracing every lily on your back with his mouth while the coffee goes cold.
Summary: A series of snapshots of Haymitch being exponentially down bad over the years. Based on this request <3
Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
By the fifth round, your face is the color of the taffy Mamaw loves so much. You don’t get red, you insist, and that’s true enough. While the splotches on your skin aren’t red, it sure is fun telling you they are.
You slam your cards down with a groan. Haymitch’s chest fizzles. It’s been doing that a lot lately. He was worried about it at first, convinced his insides were readying to burst free. He’s used to it now, and it really only happens when you’re near. But he kinda likes being around you, so there’s no point worrying about it anymore.
Burdock sits to the side, criss-crossed by the front door of your house. He warned Haymitch about how competitive you get when he first pulled out his pa’s playing cards. Said he’d rather watch than deal with that firsthand.
“I’m mixing them this time.” You huff and gather up the entire deck.
“Shuffling,” corrects Haymitch, smiling when your nose flares. “And I don’t think that’s gonna help you win.”
A few cards slip out of your grasp and onto the dust-covered wood as you shuffle. “Might help if you stopped tapping your fingers. You’re distracting me.”
He leans back against the porch bannister. His way of playing was more complicated than how your ma taught you, so you said after the second round. He’s pretty sure you’re just bad at cards. “You could also practice more.”
Your head snaps to your brother. “Why did you have to bring him?”
“He’s my friend,” defends Burdock. “Why do I gotta keep telling you that?”
“Best,” adds Haymitch, wanting to see you get twitchy. You don’t like their friendship, and you especially aren’t a fan of how close they are.
It’s not Haymitch’s fault Burdock introduced him as such to you. And he’s not about to turn down any chance to remind you of that.
The sun felt distant as they approached you that day in the meadow, almost a year ago. He stuck his hand out, like Mamaw always told him he should when meeting someone new. “I’m Haymitch.”
You didn’t take his hand, instead looking over at Burdock with crossed arms and a scrunched up face. “Who’s he?”
“Haymitch,” he repeated.
Burdock sighed and rubbed his nose. “My best friend. I told you ’bout him.”
You frowned. “I thought you made him up.”
“Well I didn’t. This is Haymitch.”
“I heard.”
“You didn’t say anything,” Haymitch chimed in. Maybe you had selective hearing, like Pa said he had sometimes. “Thought you might be deaf.”
When you finally looked at him, he suddenly remembered why Ma called it the warmest day of spring. “I’d rather be deaf than hear you.”
Burdock hissed your name and said something about minding your manners. Haymitch didn’t catch it all. His selective hearing at work, just like yours, could only pick up on whatever came out of your mouth. Which wasn’t much. You did your best to pretend he wasn’t there the rest of the day.
He’s pretty sure the only reason you’re talking to him right now is because he’s the one who brought the cards.
“You shouldn’t be smiling.” You huff, dealing the way he showed you. “You’re about to lose.”
“You said that the last five rounds,” Haymitch points out.
You peek at him over the cards. “And you said you had a brain. But I haven’t seen it.”
Burdock smacks a hand to his face.
Haymitch laughs, because actually talking to you is even better than just being around you. Sparks the fizzling in his chest and everything.
“Don’t you have to be home now?” asks Burdock, eyes going wide the way Ma’s get when she’s trying to tell Pa something without actually saying it. You and Burdock do that a lot, too—talk in secret.
He shakes his head. Ma might want him back soon enough. It’s still light out, though, and she said he could stay out so long as the sun was in the sky and his pa was still in the mines.
“You sure?” His eyes get wider, more panicked. He mouths, I’m saving you.
From what? Haymitch glances over at you, but you’re already stacking the deck into a neat pile. “I guess so. My brother probably misses me.”
“Sid?” you ask, to his surprise.
He nods and collects the stack of cards. Sid’s probably waking up from a nap right now, soundly comforted in Mamaw’s arms or Ma’s. He’s fine without Haymitch, but according to Ma, he’s always asking for him when he’s not around.
“He’s real cute.” Burdock stands along with Haymitch. He met Sid months ago when he came over after school for the first time. “He looks like a duck.”
You scoot back on the porch. “Does he?”
Even though you aren’t smiling, Haymitch can tell from the way your voice gets higher that you’re curious. “You can meet him, if you want.”
You’re on your feet in a second. “Okay.”
“You’d have to come over though.”
“Nevermind.” You try to slump back down.
“Oh, c’mon.” Burdock catches your wrist and keeps you standing. “Meet Sid.”
You like ducks. All kinds of birds, really, but Burdock told Haymitch that you saw a flock of ducklings just the other week and haven’t stopped talking about them. He isn’t sure where you would’ve seen them because there’s no pond big enough to hold an entire family here in Twelve. Haymitch only knows what they look like through Burdock’s descriptions and pictures he’s seen in a schoolbook. “His hair gets fuzzy. Sticks up all over, kinda like feathers.”
“All right, I’m coming.” You rush down the steps, dragging Burdock behind you now.
Haymitch tries not to gloat, though he desperately wants to, because it’ll only send you running in the opposite direction. He’s lucky his house isn’t too far a walk from yours. Getting you here was a miracle in itself, and he figures it’s better not to push his luck. “Stay here.”
“Where else would we go?” He hears you mumble once he’s turned around, followed by an ow that’s probably Burdock’s doing.
The front door slams shut behind him, loud enough to wake the deepest of sleepers. Haymitch winces, but there’s no cry to suggest he’s woken up Sid. Only his ma’s voice calling from the kitchen, “Haymitch, be careful.”
“Sorry, Ma.” Haymitch rushes across to the crib that was once his. Mamaw must be resting in their room. Sid, on the other hand, is already wide awake. “Hi, buddy.”
“Hay,” Sid babbles as he reaches towards him. It’s weird how something this tiny can make Haymitch feel so many things at the same time. He remembers how excited he was to learn he’d be a big brother the first time around. How quickly all his hopes died with his sisters. He didn’t think it was possible to be that sad over something he never got to have.
Sometimes, Haymitch gets scared the same will happen to Sid. He’ll wake up one day, and his baby brother won’t be there.
“Where are you taking him?” Ma looks up from the laundry she’s folding.
Haymitch tightens his arms around Sid. It’s easier to carry him now that he doesn't have to worry about holding his head up for him. “To meet another friend.”
“Which friend—”
“We’ll be on the porch, Ma.” He scurries out the door before she can stop him. Haymitch lets Sid cross the threshold to the porch on his own, his hands hovering around him as he wobbles on wonky legs.
Burdock crouches down. “You’re getting better!”
“Bur-Bur.” Sid stumbles on his way to him. He plops right down on his bottom, mimicking Burdock’s clapping motions.
Haymitch kneels right beside Sid and watches you shuffle side-to-side behind Burdock. You’re playing with the ends of your braid, which he’s noticed you tend to do when it’s a quiz day at school. If it’s not your braid, it’s your earrings or your clothes. Nothing about Sid is remotely as scary as a quiz, so you have no reason to be nervous.
When you finally sit down, you wave at Sid cautiously, and Haymitch realizes you’re trying not to scare him away. “Nice to meet you.”
Sid waves back in his own way, opening and closing his chubby hands.
“He is cute.” You smile a little. “Can’t be related to you.”
Haymitch doesn’t bring up the fact that you and Burdock aren’t identical but you are related—twins, at that. He also doesn’t mention the photo of him as a baby that shows Sid looks just the same. And almost everyone else who’s met him says so. “Must not be.”
Sid giggles when you run a hand over the tuft of his hair. He leans against Haymitch and tilts his head back, blinking up at him. “Hay.”
“Like a bale,” you snort, eyes darting up to Haymitch. It’s the closest to a laugh he’s ever heard out of you. Burdock bunches up his eyebrows like he’s ready to scold you, but even he can’t help but snicker.
Another smile, slightly wider than the first, blooms across your face. The fizzling grows stronger, spilling out of Haymitch and across his skin. It dawns on him, as you and Buddock find new ways to make Sid laugh, that fizzling isn’t actually the right word for what he feels.
Warmth is much better. And absolutely nothing to worry about.
Being warm is a gift, Mamaw once said, because not many get to be. Haymitch didn’t understand her at first, but he’s starting to. Not much is better than burying himself under blankets, cozying up by the fire, laying out on the grass under the sun. A sun which no longer seems so distant to him anymore.
Unlike that day in the meadow, he sees it clearly and feels it warmly, sitting right in front of him.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
“Move.” You nudge his shoulder. Soft, unlike your demand or the jagged walls of the mines.
Haymitch pretends not to hear you at first, waiting until your fist brushes his shoulder again to ask, “Am I in your way?”
“The only way you’re heading is down that hole if you don’t move.”
He looks back at you, barely making out the scowl on your face. Even with the lanterns lighting their way, it’s dark and dingy down here. He doesn’t know how Pa stands it. “Since you asked so nicely, sunshine.”
“I’ve told you a thousand times to stop calling me that.” Your whisper picks up in pitch, nearly as loud as the foreman going on about the properties of coal. Whatever that means. Haymitch checked out halfway through his first sentence.
Beside him, Burdock sighs. He’s no more bored than they all are, maybe with the exception of you. Mining might not be your favorite subject, but you’re set on paying attention right now. “Y’all can’t be getting into this now.”
Blair murmurs to Burdock's left, "I don't think they care."
And Blair would be right. Haymitch much prefers getting into it with you than hearing the same lessons they teach in their actual classrooms. “A thousand? You been keeping track?”
“I’m keeping track of all the reasons I should push you down that hole.” You try to worm your way into their row, proving you’re about to make good on that threat.
“Well, sunshine, if you—”
“Will you both shut it?” In your own row, two people down, Maysilee glares at you. She reserves a special glower for Haymitch. “You should be paying special attention anyways, Itchy. This is your future.”
“And what’s yours, Maysilee?” You spin around to match her glare-for-glare. “A batter of taffy?”
“Taffy’s a step up from turning to coal dust,” she sneers, and when you lunge for her, she only grins in that smug way of hers that says she won this round.
Burdock and Haymitch catch each of your elbows, pulling you back while Maysilee’s held by Merrilee and Asterid. Around you, each of your classmates begins to shout encouragement or shriek about getting pushed. One by one, like dominoes falling in a scattered line, everyone gets roped into the crossfire of shoves and screams. And though it makes no sense, the tunnel feels even smaller than it did a few minutes ago.
“Enough!” snaps Mrs. Wiley from her place in the back of the group. The hollering stops automatically—Mrs. Wiley isn’t one to raise her voice unless she means business. “Who started this riot?”
Riot’s a harsh jump from what was really just a friendly debate. Haymitch says as much after everyone points their fingers at him, Maysilee, and you.
Mrs. Wiley isn’t in the mood to hear his defenses. She rounds the three of you, lecturing the entire way to the shaft that leads back to sunlight and colors. She asks questions she doesn’t care to know the real answer to. The kinds of questions adults ask to remind you they know better—kids don’t. At least in their minds they do, and there’s only one way they expect you to respond.
Are you aware of how dangerous it is to be roughhousing here? Yes, ma’am. You’ve been listening in class, haven’t you? Of course, ma’am. And what of the manners you were meant to be born with? You still have those? We’ll mind them, ma’am.
And at last, a question that comes with a very specific demand: “The three of you will stay here, in silence, for the remainder of this trip. Am I to be understood?”
Nothing left for any of you to say besides a final: “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Wiley has the heart to leave a lantern for you three. Haymitch isn’t scared of the dark, but down here, without the ability to see, everything feels like a threat. The dripping along the walls says they’re a second away from crumbling in on themselves. The smell of chalk and acid means bad things for his lungs. And the pebbles digging into his thighs feel like spiders making their way under his clothes.
That aside, sitting out isn’t so bad. He didn’t want to come on this trip to begin with. There wasn’t much of a choice, though. Haymitch goes to school to learn reading, writing, and most importantly of all, what’s in store for his future. Unless he finds another means of making money. Maysilee, mean as she was about it, wasn’t wrong about that.
Settled in the middle of them, you keep to Mrs. Wiley’s instructions and don’t say a word. It comes easy to you, with Haymitch around and all. Going on two years now, and you’re as picky as the day you met with the words you do say to him. He’s figured out ways around your silence. Breaking through it is like a game of cards; the best strategy is riling you up.
You reach into your pants pocket and pull out a small notebook. The smallest Haymitch has ever seen. He didn’t think they made any to fit in pockets. Out of your other comes a pencil.
“What are you doing?” He might as well be a drip along the wall. Scooting closer, he waves a hand in front of your face. “Don’t tell me spiders crawled in your ears, sunshine.”
You hug your notebook to your chest, snapping your head in his direction. “We gotta be quiet right now.”
“You’re never quiet,” mumbles Maysilee, beating him to the punch.
“And neither are you. So, we’re even.”
She scoffs and sinks back against the wall, ignoring the glare Haymitch sends her. Can’t keep quiet, can’t keep her nose out of things. He doesn’t try getting you to talk again. With his efforts derailed by Maysilee butting-in, he’s better off waiting.
You must be completely bored out of your mind, because he doesn’t have to wait long before you slide the notebook and pencil over. He squints at the three-by-three grid, perfect for a game of tic tac toe. Grinning so big his cheeks hurt, Haymitch draws a circle in the middle square. Within four exchanges, you’ve marked your three in a row.
It doesn’t seem to matter how stingy the lantern is, your eyes light up this entire corner of the tunnel. They only grow brighter the more rounds you win against him.
Clearly deciding you need more of a challenge, you slide the notebook over to your right.
Maysilee regards your freshly drawn grid with a frown. Haymitch expects her to turn down the offer, which is fine by him. When she doesn’t, he slouches in on himself until the game is over.
You’re biting back a smile when you turn his way and raise the notebook so he can see your win under the glow of the lantern. On your other side, Maysilee rolls her eyes. He grabs the notebook and pencil from you, flipping through the pages now filled to the brim with circles and winning x’s. “You’re a lot a better at tic tac toe than slapjack.”
Haymitch laughs gleefully when you knock his shoulder with yours, not caring when it earns him a scolding from way down the tunnel.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
They don’t go to the apple trees where Haymitch met Lenore Dove not so long ago, even though he could go for an apple right now. But this is Burdock’s birthday gift, so he gets to choose the way.
Technically, today’s not his and your birthday. That won’t be for another two days. You already called dibs on how you’d spend it, and your plan doesn’t involve Haymitch. You’ll have to factor him in for a few minutes though, because he has a gift to give you too.
Well, he doesn’t have it yet. But he will. Coming out here with Burdock kills two birds with one stone. Literally. If he’s lucky, he’ll find a rock like the kind you got him. Maybe something even better.
Exchanging gifts has never been the norm between you, until his most recent birthday. You gave him a rock—a salt-and-pepper granite, you called it—and a bag of wild berries. Sure, you’ve been on better terms recently, but you still make it a point to tell Haymitch you are in no way friends. So, when you found him after the reaping and dropped the gift into his hands with a swift happy birthday, he wasn’t sure what to make of it.
He ultimately took it as a good sign. One that said you thought of him at least half as much as he thought of you. The only way to make sure you knew the same was to get you a birthday gift too.
“Honestly, Hay,” says Burdock, skipping over the jutting root of a tree, “a leaf will do. She ain’t picky.”
“A leaf will die.” Haymitch doesn’t want to get you something that will be gone within days. Maybe a leaf you can eat, so at least you’d get use out of it. Even then, it doesn’t feel right for you.
Burdock stops in a clearing of firs, pulling out his pocket knife. Little brown birds perched on the branches begin to trill. “Rocks die, too. Everything does eventually. Doesn’t make them gone though.”
Times like these remind Haymitch that Burdock’s your sibling as much as you are his. He’s honest, and prefers the same of others, but sometimes he says things that make Haymitch’s brain work overtime to get. Lenore Dove, in the little he’s known her so far, talks the same. “I don’t get it.”
“Look,” Burdock sighs, “she dries up flowers and uses them as bookmarks. If you get her a leaf, she’d be able to keep it forever that way.”
He considers this, but he doesn’t know what the process of drying flowers is like. Probably just involves laying them out in the sun. Either way, you shouldn’t have to work for your present. “I still say a rock’s the best way to go.”
“Right, what do I know? ’S just my sister we’re talking about.”
“Well, I’m older and wiser, Burdie. Think I know a thing or two more than you.”
Burdock punches his arm lightly. “Not for long.”
True enough. For the next few months until his next birthday, you and Burdock will be the same age as Haymitch. He’s got to get his digs in while he still can.
And, of course, so do you. “You’re showing him all our good spots then.”
Haymitch turns around, feeling his face sizzle for reasons that have nothing to do with sun burn. Leaning against one of the firs, you’re wearing the same purple skirt you had on at his mamaw’s funeral months ago. There’s nothing strange about you wearing a skirt out here, but it is abnormal to see you carrying around a bow and arrows.
“Just your favorites.” Burdock’s unphased by your resulting scowl. “I didn’t think you were practicing today.”
Your skirt’s paired with a dark blue blouse instead of black this time. The colors compliment each other, and you. “I didn’t know you were planning on a game of mumblety-peg today.”
“I told you I was going out with Haymitch,” he says, annoyed.
You click your tongue. “‘Going out’ doesn’t mean knife throwing in the woods.”
“Papa know you’re using your bow?”
“Papa know you’re using knives?”
Haymitch notices your hair’s completely out of your face. Pinned up instead of loose or in a braid. He’s still looking at it as he asks, “Where’d you get that bow from?”
“I made it.” You hold out the bow, giving him a good look at the wooden etchings, which only leads to more questions. “Burdock made his own, too.”
News to him. His wide eyes find Burdock, who mouths a sheepish tell you later before he turns back to you. “Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome.” You stand taller, and the sunlight catches the glint in your eyes, which are now completely on Haymitch. “Quit staring at me.”
He blinks and tries to keep the panic inside while you and Burdock look at him with the expectation of a response. So much to say, so few good ways to put it. He could tell you purple and blue are nice on you, but so is every color. He could say he’s not used to seeing your hair in this style, and he likes it just as much as when it’s blowing all around you. Or maybe he should explain how he can’t find the perfect word to describe you right now, but the closest comparison he can make is to the rainbow rays of sunrise that only the lucky get to see.
It’d be easy to say all of that and more, if you weren’t staring daggers at him, and if Haymitch weren’t at a loss for words for the first time in his life. Except for the ones he can manage to blurt out. “You look like a doll.”
The whizz of your arrow is immediate, louder than the trills of the brown birds and quicker than he knows to react right now. It grazes the top of his curls and lodges in the bark behind him.
Your hands curl into fists around your bow. “Don’t call me that. Ever.”
When he doesn’t respond, you take a step forward and Burdock rushes to hold you back. “He didn’t mean it like them, and you know it.”
Haymitch doesn’t know who Burdock means, and he doubts you’d tell him if he asked. He glances at the arrow, then at you in all your anger and brilliance. “You should work on your aim, sunshine.”
You stomp a foot on the ground. “You should wipe that grin off your face before I shoot you for real.”
“With aim like that, you’ll probably miss again.”
Burdock wrings the bow out of your grasp when you raise it again. “Stop shooting at people!”
“I’ve only shot at him!” you defend, throwing your arms up. “I’d be doing him a favor. Might knock the sense he’s missing back into him.”
Haymitch grins wider. He thinks you already did.
Burdock pinches his nose. “I’m gonna tell Papa.” His warning sets off a chain of your own, and the two of you fall into a much larger bickering match on all the rules you’ve broken that your parents don’t know about
Shuffling back, Haymitch turns around to collect the wayward arrow. He picks up a bundle of fir needles, too. You may not be able to use them as a bookmark, but he has a feeling you’ll like them plenty. He can always find a rock on the way back into Twelve.
While you and Burdock shift gears into arguing over who’s the better shot, Haymitch files away all other questions he has to ask as soon as he gets the chance. Right now, he just rubs the arrow between his fingers and watches how the tip of it reflects the daylight. Like your eyes.
Pretty. That’s how you look.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Burdock’s never missed school, so when you show up alone this morning, Haymitch only thinks to assume the worst. The white walls of the classroom, one of them currently lined with the results of the most recent quiz, feel even less lively than usual.
“Pst.” He leans over his desk, hovering right beside you. “Sunshine.”
You pretend not to hear him, no surprise there. Your notebook is more interesting to you than whatever Haymitch has to say. Ms. Larkin hasn’t started the lesson yet, and students are still trickling in, so he can get away with calling your name a little louder.
“What?” you huff out. “I’m working.”
Haymitch peers past your shoulder, down to your doodle of a goose. “I can see. Where’s Burdie?”
“He’s sick.” You draw tiny flowers around the goose.
“With what?”
“A fever.”
“How’d he catch it?” Haymitch props his elbows on the back of your seat.
You set your pencil down and shift to face him. “If you asked Ms. Larkin as many questions as you asked me, maybe you would’ve done better on the last quiz.”
In his defense, any answers you have to give are more important than Ms. Larkin’s. “We got the same grade, sunshine, so maybe you should spend less time doodling and more time listening.”
He can see the argument whirring inside your mind, and the only thing that stops you from spitting it out is Lenore Dove sliding into the seat next to you.
“Great timing,” Haymitch tells her, nodding your way. “Maybe you can stop her from clobbering me with her pencil.”
“She’d stab you with a pencil, not clobber you.” Lenore Dove hangs her bag from her seat.
“Right, that’s an important difference.”
You snort, twiddling your pencil like you’re really thinking about it. Though you’re not above matching your bark with bite, Haymitch knows you’d never go through with anything that might actually hurt him.
“But don’t do it.” Lenore Dove wraps her hand around your wrist. Her smile drops after she notices the empty desk beside him. “Burdie’s still sick then.”
“He’s better than he was last night.” You tear out the page with your doodle, passing it to her.
“You got Leslie’s beak just right.” Lenore Dove folds the paper delicately and places it between the pages of her book.
Haymitch folds his arms on his desk. “Leslie would be…”
“Our goose,” you two answer at the same time.
Okay.
Ms. Larkin taps her ruler against the chalkboard, which sends dust all around her, beckoning every one of you to sit up straighter and keep your attention to the front of class. Except Haymitch couldn’t care less about this morning’s announcements. They’re always the same: a chorus of Panem’s anthem and an overview with the lesson plan for the day. Which is also always the same. Only difference now is there’s no one to turn to and absorb the boredom.
He leans forward again to whisper, “Burdock’s fine?”
You don’t turn around, but you slouch back enough for him to hear you answer. “You can come over to see for yourself after school.”
Your offer eases the coils running up and down Haymitch’s guts. And the swing of the classroom door helps, too.
Ms. Larkin pauses her lecture on—the Capitol, or coal fuel, or something. “Blair, how nice of you to join us.”
“Sorry, Ms. Larkin.” Blair rushes down the rows and slinks down into the seat directly behind Lenore Dove. He glances at the desk to Haymitch’s left. “Where’s Burdock?”
At the sound of your groan, Haymitch takes it upon himself to catch Blair up.
The wait for the very last bell feels endless. Once you’re dismissed for the day hours later, Haymitch joins you and, to his surprise, Asterid, on the walk home. Then again, Asterid and Burdock have been talking a lot more lately. Sometimes, he even sits with her and her merchant friends during lunch. Haymitch doesn’t know how he stomachs being around Maysilee Donner and her opinions for that long. Asterid’s plenty kind, though.
“You said his fever’s been going on since yesterday evening.” Asterid walks a pace behind you and Haymitch.
“Yup. He’s been drinking elderberry tea, so that’s helped, I think.” You rub the pearl charm clipped to one of your sleeve cups.
Haymitch adjusts the straps of his backpack when they begin to slide off his shoulder. “Sounds like a simple cold.”
“It probably is,” agrees Asterid, “but I’d still like to check in on him, as a friend.” Her face turns pink, the same exact shade as the wildflowers in your meadow.
“As a friend,” echoes Haymitch, meeting your own amused gaze. “I know Burdie will appreciate that.”
“I meant as a healer,” she corrects herself, cheeks beating brighter. “And, well, yes, as a friend.”
You pretend to be real serious, holding up a hand. “No need to explain, Asterid. I’m sure Burdock will be good as new once he sees you.”
“’Cause you’re that good of a healer,” adds Haymitch, stifling his laugh and failing miserably to do so. Your elbow makes light contact with his ribs, but you aren’t very subtle with your teasing either.
Asterid breathes in, flustered, and takes to fixing her hair. Nothing to fix—not a strand is out of place. She seems to think otherwise, keeping at it all the way through your front door.
You drop your backpack by the couch and rush to the kitchen, which is really just part of your living room. Anticipating you, Barb Azure turns away from the chopping board she was fixated on seconds earlier and opens her arms. You barrel into them. “I brought guests, Mama.”
She kisses the top of your head. “I can see.”
“We wanted to check on Burdock,” says Haymitch, shrugging off his backpack. Asterid does the same in a more delicate manner, resting it gently against the wall opposite your kitchen table.
“Well,” she chimes, “I don’t want either of you getting sick, so check in on him from the doorway.”
The creek of the door doesn’t rouse Burdock at all. His head’s propped up by a couple of pillows, and his face is drained of all color in exchange for sweat. But other than that, he seems fine. Haymitch was right—it’s a simple cold. “You don’t have a camera, do you?”
“Not on me, no.” Asterid wraps her arms around her torso. “Why?”
He points to Burdock’s gaping mouth, where a string of drool is trickling out. “Blackmail purposes.”
She wrinkles her nose. The doe-eyed look on her face says she’s not swayed away by Burdock’s sleeping habits on the slightest.
Haymitch is tempted to poke more fun at Asterid and Burdock and the crush brewing between them, but he opts for a better target. Asterid doesn’t even blink as he walks back down the hall.
You flash him a mocking smile from your spot atop the sink counter. “Leaving so soon, Abernathy?”
“If you want me to stay for dinner, sunshine, just ask.” His skin heats up when your eyes narrow.
“I’d rather you fall into a ditch.” You muster an apology right away when Barb Azure sighs your name by the stove.
She remedies your insult, which wasn’t much of one anyway, with a tap of her spatula against the pan. As it begins to sizzle, salt and herbs take over the kitchen’s usual scent of berries. “Stay for dinner, Haymitch.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets, hoping she can’t hear the growl of his stomach. Whether your family has extra to give or not, he doesn’t like taking food from your table, especially on short notice. Hard enough as it is to keep a steady flow of meals. “I’d like to. But I didn’t let my ma know, so she’s probably expecting me back.”
“Hm,” Barb Azure gives him a gentle nod, “I’m sure she is. Thank you for passing by,” When Asterid returns, she adds, “Both of you.”
Asterid lifts her backpack. “I’ll come back tomorrow if that’s okay, Mrs. Everdeen.”
“We’d appreciate it.” She leaves you to guard the stove for a moment, crossing the kitchen to squeeze Asterid’s shoulder and brush back some of Haymitch’s stray curls. “And it’s Barb Azure to you.”
Those merchant customs must be even harder to shake than those they’re taught in the Seam, because Asterid still bids her formally as they walk to the porch. To be fair, it’s taken Haymitch seven years to learn to call your ma by her first name.
“Are you coming by tomorrow, too?” Asterid asks him before they part their separate ways.
Mid-afternoon’s one of the quietest times of day in the Seam, sandwiched between the end of school and the start of the miners’ trek home. Quiet enough for Haymitch to hear your voice through the wooden walls of your home. “Yeah, most likely.”
Taking a page out of Asterid’s book is still his plan the next morning. Until his ma wakes him with a soft shake and a suggestion that he dress quickly. “Someone’s at the door for you.”
Haymitch throws on the first clothes in his dresser. More of his ma’s patchwork creations.
There’s two people it’s likely to be, and only one who’d wake up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday to bug him. Like most victims of the common cold, a day of no school was all Burdock needed to heal. Though, Haymitch reckons that even if Burdock didn’t see Asterid with his own eyes, her presence alone helped speed up the process.
It must be your life’s mission to prove Haymitch wrong. You stand straighter when the door opens, wearing an oversized jacket that’s gotta be your pa’s and a pair of dark green pants. Your hair is in a braid, the ends of which you tug as you say, “Burdock’s fever broke, but he’s congested and has a bad headache now.”
You came over just to save him the trip later? Joke’s on you—Haymitch is only gonna head over earlier than he planned. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
You nod and take a deep breath. He stares at you as you trudge back down the porch steps. Either you sense his eyes on you, or the lack of his footsteps, because you stop halfway and look over your shoulder. “You coming?”
His mouth falls open, and when you don’t make a comment about him catching flies, he knows you aren’t messing with him. “Where?”
You shrug and resume your path away from him. “You can stay or you can follow. Your choice.”
“Ma, I’m heading out!” The words tumble out of his mouth, faster than his efforts to get his shoes on and catch up to you. Only time quieter than mid-noon is sunrise. As its rainbow rays scatter over battered roofs and layers of soot, Haymitch keeps watch on you. “You don’t have a pencil on you, right?”
“I wish.”
Your hollow threat and poorly hidden grin guide Haymitch all the way through your meadow and into the woods.
He doesn’t recognize where you’re taking him, but it’s likely to be a good place to take another shot at him if you’ve opted out of the pencil stabbing. Here and now, with the wet earth drifting into his lungs and the warmth of his chest spreading across his skin, Haymitch decides it doesn’t matter where you go or what you do today. He likes being around you, and being warm is a gift.
So wherever you wind up, he’s pretty helpless to follow.
Mack and best friend reader who have been close forever. Reader has known she wants more for a while but has accepted that Mack belongs to a different world, one with hockey and cameras everywhere. and that he couldn’t feel the same way about her; reader who’s accepted the best friend role at the cost of breaking her own heart. Maybe Mack doesn’t realize he feels the same until one of his teammates is saying “if you guys are just friends, can I ask her out?” And Mack has to do some reflecting on why it bugs him so much OR until reader goes on a date and comes back talking about what a good time she had. Anyways, jealous Mack who’s been so focused on hockey that he’s been missing what’s been right in front of him all along. Up to you if it’s set in BU or San Jose
The people wanted this first ☺️ I hope you all enjoyyy ♡ 6.4k words
Set at BU and in San Jose, because why not include the best of both worlds?
The first time somebody mistakes you for Macklin Celebrini’s girlfriend, you’re sixteen. It happens casually, by the cashier at a coffee shop near the rink he practices at that you always tag along to.
“You guys are cute together,” she said while handing back his card.
Macklin barely reacts, in fact, it makes him laugh and he makes a joke out of it. “She wishes,” he says white grabbing his card and picking up your drinks.
The cashier laughs, and so do you. You laugh because you feel like that’s what you’re supposed to do. As soon as you realized you had feelings for them you tried your best to shut them down. It didn’t work. So, you’ve resorted to ignoring them as best you can and accepting that you and Macklin will never happen, at least not like that.
You laugh and roll your eyes. You shove his shoulder while your stomach quietly caves in on itself because you hate that he thinks that’s a joke, because to you it’s a very real feeling that just gets beaten down day after day.
That’s the first time you realize it will probably always be like this, and you convince yourself to live with it.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
Years later, you still think about that moment sometimes.
After his entire career took off you really really realized that this is how it will be forever.
Boston University, by some miracle (if you believe in those) is where you both end up. You for a degree, and Macklin for collegiate hockey.
He instantly becomes one of the best in the NCAA, not only because of his skill but because of his age. Being the youngest person ever to be named best player in the NCAA for ice hockey really puts his name on the map, and then immediately being drafted number one in the NHL definitely sets that in stone.
On the flip side, to Macklin, you’ve always been there. You’ve been his constant. The easy person in his life he trusts with anything and everything.
His person without the complications attached to it, and to you that’s the problem. This tie to him that you can’t get out of, and of course he means the world to you too, but your perspective comes with some extra, unwanted complications.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
Boston so far this year feels colder. Not physically, but emotionally.
You notice the distance much more now, because of how different things are without him here with you but also because it makes your feelings hurt more.
San Jose feels impossibly far away on nights like this, when the campus is loud and your dorm is quiet and your phone sits face-up beside you with no new notifications lighting up the screen, even though you’re expecting them.
He’s busy, always busy, you know that, you think. Which is the truth, you can’t think of the last time in the past year that Macklin hasn’t been busy.
You’re staring at your sociology reading, desk lamp illuminating the room, papers scattered over your desk. You’ve been staring at it for the past twenty minutes and have made zero progress.
Just as you’re about to give up for the night and get ready for bed, your phone finally buzzes:
Despite yourself, you smile, grateful to hear from him after a long day.
You: You just got out of the game?
Mack: Media took forever
Mack: Also Smitty almost broke the speaker in the locker room, had to fix that
You laugh softly under your breath, ridiculous stories, as always.
Your phone rings before you can type out an answer.
FaceTime incoming...
You accept it, and suddenly there he is sprawled across what’s very obviously the floor of his hotel room, hair damp and messy from a shower, hoodie pulled over his head.
“You’re on the floor?” you say immediately.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious that he for some reason should be on the floor.
“Why?” you ask.
He shrugs, “I’m tired.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It answers it…partially.”
You laugh. And it’s easy, like always. You poking fun at him for something stupid, him blindly defending himself for said stupid action. Normal.
“How was the game?” you ask. You feel bad for not watching the whole thing, but you’ve been so busy this week you just couldn’t, just this once you skipped out on watching it.
His face brightens immediately in the way it only does when he talks hockey, and you think about how much you love that look on him, you always have. There are very few things that make him light up like that, but hockey is number one on the list.
“We won,” he says, “I got an assist.”
“Only one?” you tease.
He narrows his eyes, “Okay relax, would’ve been more if you’d been watching but—”
You grin, “I know, I know, I’m sorry. Next time, I swear.”
“Yeah yeah yeah, whatever you say,” he says, smiling.
For the next hour, you talk about everything and nothing. Your classes, his current road trip, the weird guy in your econ class who always chews ice during the lecture, the rookie dinner horror stories he and his teammates have experienced.
Talking with him is effortless, always has been, and that’s part of the problem.
You don’t think this is very normal for “just friends,” or maybe you’re overthinking it. You know Macklin doesn’t think twice about this, he thinks this is as normal as can be.
The constant calls, falling asleep on FaceTime, the fact that you’re the first person he talks to after every game.
For him, it’s just a habit, but for you it’s something else entirely, he just doesn’t realize that.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
The worst part about being in love with your best friend is that nobody warns you how embarrassing it is. Not outwardly, but internally.
If he says he misses you, you think about it for days. He sends you pictures of random things and says “this reminded me of you,” or, “thinking about you,” and you let that run around in your mind for days. He calls you after losses, sounding completely exhausted, but you’re the only person who really understands how he needs to talk things out after a loss or a bad game.
Meanwhile, you’re sitting in your tiny BU dorm for all of this, pretending your entire heart doesn’t belong to him already.
You feel like it’s pathetic, being so hung up on this. Truly. Because by now you know better, you do. Mack belongs to a completely different world now, headlines, interviews, fans waiting outside arenas, the insane world that is the NHL.
Sometimes you’ll be walking across campus and hear someone mention him behind you.
“Did you see Celebrini’s goal?”
“Celebrini’s insane.”
“Celebrini’s literally the future of hockey.”
To everyone else, he’s this massive thing. But to you he’s still the boy who steals fries off your plate, the person who calls you to hear your voice when he can’t sleep, you know him too well to fully understand the version the world sees, and maybe that’s why it hurts so much.
You’ve become comfortable in the position of “best friend back home” for him, because you think that the more his world grows, the smaller your place in it becomes.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
By November, you stop letting yourself imagine things and stop replaying little moments in your head that, at the end of the day, probably meant nothing.
You decide something quietly one evening while watching one of his games alone from your dorm bed, something you’ve tossed around in your head but now you really settle on it.
You would rather keep him as your best friend forever than ruin everything wanting more.
Even if it breaks your own heart a little, because you can’t keep driving yourself crazy like this.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
Winter break is the first time you see him in person again, and the second he spots you at the airport his entire face changes. A smile grows across his face and his eyes soften as he sees you at the arrival gate.
“Mack!” You barely get the word out before he’s wrapping you in a hug so tight your feet nearly leave the ground.
“There you are,” he says into your hair immediately.
“You’ve become noticeably muscular,” you mumble against his hoodie.
He laughs loudly. “What does that even mean?”
“It means hockey doesn’t get any simpler, huh?”
He grins when he pulls back, “Nope.”
And then you make the mistake of really looking at him. God, he’s changed. Not entirely, but enough for it to be noticeable. His features seem sharper now, like he’s grown into himself more. His shoulders are broader, he seems more confident, and only in the matter of a few months.
But he’s still sporting those warm eyes and the soft smile you love so much. Still him, still Mack.
The NHL looks good on him, you hate that realization a little because all you’ve wanted since you saw him last was for him to come back to Boston, but you know that clearly the NHL has been so, so good to him. Unbelievable support and unbelievable achievements.
“You good?” he asks suddenly.
“Yeah, I’m good,” you say.
He squints, not believing it. “Liar.”
You force a smile, “Shut up, I just missed you is all.”
⊰══════════════════════⊱
His teammates love you immediately, and you realize suddenly that maybe you fit into more than one box in Macklin’s life, even though you’ve convinced yourself you’re the hometown friend that eventually fades away.
During a team dinner, Alex Wennberg gestures toward you and asks, “So how long have you two been together?”
You nearly choke on your drink, and Macklin answers before you can; “We’re not together.”
And that’s the right answer, that’s always the answer.
Wennberg looks genuinely confused, “Really?”
“Yes,” both of you say at the same time. The table erupts into teasing immediately.
You laugh along with everyone else because you’re good at this by now, good at all the pretending.
But later that night, lying awake in the guest room of Macklin’s place, you stare at the ceiling and feel stupid for the tiny flicker of hope you’d had for half a second. You hoped he would at least hesitate, maybe go along with a joke, but the answer from him is always immediate.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
You’re in the kitchen making coffee a few days later when Will Smith wanders into the kitchen too.
“Morning,” he says.
You smile politely, not really in the mood for a morning conversation, “Morning.”
He leans casually against the counter, “Can I ask you something?”
“Depends on what it is, it's too early for complicated questions.”
He grins, “You and Mack seriously aren’t dating?”
“No,” you answer, almost quicker than Macklin the other night at dinner.
“Huh,” Will says, his posture relaxing a little more.
You raise an eyebrow at him, confused as to where this is coming from and where this is going, “What?”
He shrugs, “Was just wondering if that meant I could ask for your number…maybe?”
Your brain short-circuits for a second, “Oh.” You don’t think anyone has ever formally asked for your number. You consider it, Will’s nice, he’s funny from what you can tell, he seems like a good, genuine person. You open your mouth to say sure, but before you can, another voice cuts in sharply behind you,
“No.”
Both of you turn around to see Macklin standing in the doorway, staring daggers at Will.
The room goes quiet.
Will blinks, caught off guard by Mack’s reaction, “Dude.”
“What?”
“You literally just said you weren’t together,” Will says.
Macklin shrugs, “We’re not,” he says, like that somehow correlates to why he said no.
“Then why do you care?”
Mack opens his mouth. Shuts it again.
That’s when he realizes he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why he said no. You and Will are some of his closest friends shouldn’t he be okay with the two of you going out a few times?
Across the kitchen you’re still standing next to the coffee pot, completely confused. The look on Macklin’s face was almost angry, you’d never seen him react to that kind of question that way before.
Against your better judgement and what all you promised yourself about stopping the overthinking; that look on his face sticks with you for weeks afterwards.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
Macklin gets weird after that. It starts off tiny, like asking about more details when you tell him about your day than he used to.
But now it’s become impossible to ignore. He starts asking who you’re texting when you’re on a call with him and get a little distracted, why certain people are commenting on your Instagram, what guys from class you’re studying with when it comes up in conversation.
At first you think maybe you’re imagining it, but then it becomes obvious when you’re on FaceTime one night and he asks casually, “So are you, like… seeing anybody?”
You look up from your laptop slowly, “No?” you say, confused as to why he even asked.
He nods once too quickly, “Okay.”
“Mack.”
“What?”
“Why are you asking?”
His expression changes to something more guarded, and he shrugs, “Just asking.”
You know that’s not true, and that he must be avoiding something, but you also know better than to push, so you don’t say a word.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
By February, you’re exhausted. From school and from him. From endless assignments and stress and exams and projects, and from trying to survive being emotionally tethered to someone who doesn’t realize what they’re doing to you.
So you decide to move on, actually move on.
So when a guy from one of your classes asks you out, you say yes before you can overthink it.
The date is good, like really good, it went much better than you thought it might.
Ethan. He’s funny, and he’s kind, easy to talk to. For the first time in a long time you leave your date thinking, Maybe this is what normal is supposed to feel like.
You like liking someone who likes you back, and you realize that maybe loving someone shouldn’t feel like grieving them in advance.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
You don’t plan on telling Mack, but after your third date he calls you halfway through your walk back to campus.
“Hey,” he says immediately, “What’re you doing?”
You hesitate, not wanting to tell him right now but lying would be even worse. “I just got back from a date.”
Nothing but silence comes from his end of the call. Then, quietly, “Oh.” Like he’s trying to process what he’s just heard, almost like he doesn’t believe it.
You keep walking, deciding to tell him a little about it, even if he hasn’t asked, “It was actually really nice.”
The second the words leave your mouth, something changes. Macklin goes quiet in a way he never does, it’s too quiet.
“How nice?” he asks finally.
Your steps slow, “What?”
“The date.”
You laugh awkwardly, “Why are you interrogating me?” You hope the attempt at humor would make him joke back, but his tone remains serious, “I’m not interrogating you.”
“You kind of are,” you argue.
“Did you like him?”
Your chest tightens strangely, “Yeah, I like him.” It’s an honest answer, you do like Ethan, but it’s different than how you’ve ever liked Macklin.
Mack doesn’t say a word, and you really don’t know what to do with the silence. He always has something to say, something to ask, something to make a joke about, silence like this from him is very rare.
A thought crosses your head and you think surely you’re insane for thinking it, but for a second, you think Macklin might be jealous.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
Macklin doesn’t sleep that night, because for the first time in his life he imagines you with someone else.
Not theoretically, but actually, fully with someone else. Someone else making you laugh, someone else going out with you to do simple things like get coffee or just go on drives around the city. He thinks about someone else learning things about you that he thought only belonged to him.
The realization hits him slowly and then all at once, and he absolutely hates it. He also hates te fact that he was so cold to you on the phone and didn’t even consider that this guy you’re seeing makes you happy, that should be the most important thing. But then he realizes he likes being the person that makes you happy, and knowing someone else is filling in that slot…it hurts.
Suddenly he’s thinking about every moment from the last few years, and they start to rearrange themselves in his head, into something new. Every FaceTime, every airport hug either goodbye or hello, every late night “I miss you” mumbled while you were falling asleep, every instinct in him always telling him to call you first, tell you first, tell you everything.
Oh. Oh.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
The next few weeks are awful. For both of you. But from each perspective, the other person never finds that out.
Something between you exists silently that didn’t before. Awareness.
Once it’s there neither of you know how to act normal anymore.
You answer texts much later now. Not intentionally, but you’re trying to create boundaries before you drown in him completely.
You have new things you want to focus on. School is getting intense again, you’ve been seeing and talking to Ethan a lot and you think it’s going somewhere, and you’re taking a lot of time for yourself. You’re doing things for yourself you wouldn’t normally do, and it feels amazing, but something always feels like it’s missing now.
Macklin notices all this immediately. You two stop falling asleep on FaceTime, hell, you hardly even call him anymore, and he’s lucky to get consistent texts from you.
One night, after a couple of weeks of dry, almost non-existent communication between the two of you, he has a terrible game. Not because he got hurt, not because he didn’t have any points, but because the whole night was just off. The whole team felt off, it was one of those games that puts the entire team in a rut.
His first instinct is to call you. At first, he hesitates because he’s very aware that things aren’t exactly how they used to be, but at the same time, he knows you’re the only person who really gets him when he’s like this. And he really, really needs that right now.
He calls. Except this time, you don’t answer.
You’re out with your friends, phone stashed away in your purse, completely unimportant to you.
By the time you get back to your dorm a couple hours later, you notice the missed call. You feel bad for missing the call, especially since he doesn’t really call you anymore, so you call him back once you’ve settled from the night out.
“Sorry,” you say quietly, “I was out.”
“With him?” He sounds strange, he sounds sad. You know he had a rough game but he never sounds like that after games, at least not this long after they’re finished.
Your stomach drops, “Mack.” Your voice is stern without you really meaning for it to be.
“What?” he asks, he sounds pissed off but you don’t care, so you continue.
“You don’t get to sound upset about that.”
“I’m not upset,” he protests.
“You are.”
“No I’m not.”
You close your eyes, this is exactly why you tried to move on in the first place, because this thing between you has never had rules. No labels, no clarity, just years of being closer to him than anyone else and at least a hundred moments of “almost.”
“You know what?” you say tiredly. “I can’t do this tonight.”
He lets out a humorous laugh, “Do what?”
“This.”
“What does that even mean?” he asks, his voice becoming harder.
You laugh once, sharp and disbelieving, “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously,” he says.
The frustration that’s been building for months finally cracks open, and your thoughts start pouring out, “You don’t get to act weird every time another guy looks at me and then pretend it means nothing to you.”
“I’m not pretending anything, you can go out with or see whoever you want, that’s not my business.”
“Then what are you doing? Because you getting upset that I was with someone else and doing things with people I care about seems like you’re making it your business.”
“I don’t know!” he snaps.
He regrets it immediately, he’s never snapped at you, and he wants to take it back but it’s way too late to do that now.
Silence crashes between you for a few seconds. Then, quieter, he manages, “I don’t know why this feels so bad.”
Your eyes sting immediately, because you know exactly why it feels bad. You’ve known for years, and now you think he’s known too. He's just been ignoring it better than you have.
You feel like you got your feelings validated but hurt at the same time, and suddenly you’re too tired to keep protecting both of you from it.
“You wanna know what I think?” you say softly.
“What?”
“I think you didn’t notice me until you thought somebody else might.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you wish you hadn’t said anything. You almost wished you hadn’t even called him back. He doesn’t say anything, and you know those words hurt him the way his words hurt you.
“That’s not fair,” he says in a voice so small it makes you feel worse.
“Maybe not,” you reply, short.
“Then why would you say it?”
Your breath catches, and you don’t know what to say. You’re angry and sad at the same time, you could be honest and make all this worse, or you could lie but that would also make this whole situation worse.
Before you can stop yourself you give him the honest answer, “Because I’ve been trying to get over you for months.”
Silence. Complete and utter silence.
Then his voice again across the line, “…What?”
You feel sick instantly. Too far, all this went too far. But it’s out now and you have no way to take it back. You can’t tell him you’re not serious, because that would be a lie and that would make the hole deeper than it already is.
You take a deep breath, and continue, “I can’t keep doing this,” you whisper. “Being your person when I’m not actually your person.”
“You—” he stops, like he’s still processing your words, “You liked me?”
You laugh wetly, “Jesus Christ.”
“No, I just—”
“For years, Mack.”
He goes silent again, and all you hear is a very shaky exhale.
“You never said anything,” he says.
“You never gave me a reason to.”
You saying that somehow gives him the whole picture. You loving him quietly while he leaned on you for everything, you trying to survive being apart for so long. You watching him become this international sensation while convincing yourself you’d never fit into a world like that.
“Oh my god,” he says softly.
You wipe at your face angrily, “Forget it.” Your voice breaks and that’s when he realizes you’re crying.
“No, Y/N wait a second.”
“Mack—”
“No, don’t do that.”
His voice cracks slightly. “I think…” He stops to breathe. “I think maybe I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”
Your heart stutters painfully.
“No.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re just saying that now because there’s distance between us now and I have new people in my life.”
“I thought that too,” he says immediately. “At first.”
The honesty in his voice makes your chest ache, and you’d wish he’d just stop talking. But he keeps going, “It’s not just that.”
“Macklin—”
He interrupts you again. “You’re the first person I call after everything.” His voice is shaking now, emotion breaking through obviously, “Good games, bad games, flights, interviews, all of it…it’s always you.”
You feel like you can’t breathe properly, and you want to hang up, but your body won’t let you do it.
“I don’t even think before I reach for my phone anymore,” he continues quietly. “I just want you.”
Your eyes close, and tears fall down your face silently.
“You’re my whole life outside hockey,” he says. “And I think somewhere along the way you became my whole life inside it too.”
Your tears come harder after that, because this is everything you wanted, but now you aren’t even sure it’s real. The timing of this all, you can’t bring yourself to think this is real, and you tell yourself he’s just doing this so he doesn’t lose you more, which makes you even more upset.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he admits. “Maybe it was always there. Maybe I was too stupid to see it.”
You hear him inhale sharply on the other end of the line, like he’s finally saying something he should’ve figured out years ago.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he admits. “Maybe it was always there. Maybe I was too stupid to see it.”
Your chest aches so badly you almost can’t stand it, because you don’t believe him.
You want to believe him, but another part of you, the louder part that’s spent years protecting you from exactly this, won’t let you believe him.
You shake your head even though he can’t see it,“No.”
“Y/N—”
“No, Macklin.” Your voice cracks harder this time. “You don’t get to do this now.”
“What does that mean?” The hurt in his voice makes you feel terrible, but you can’t completely change your mind on this now.
“It means,” you say shakily, “you don’t get to realize you love me the second I finally start trying to move on. It’s not fair to me that the second I start seeing other people you suddenly realize how you feel about me when I’ve been here for years, waiting on you to say something.”
He protests the idea immediately, “That’s not what this is.”
“How do you know?” you ask immediately. “How do you know it’s not just because you don’t like feeling replaced?”
Silence. The silence isn’t because he doesn’t care, but because the question really makes him think. Now he doesn’t know what to feel.
You swallow hard. “You said it yourself. At first you thought it was jealousy.”
“Yeah, at first,” he says quickly. “But it’s not just—”
“So why is it not? Because I’m having a really hard time understanding the timing of all this. You had years to say something.”
You hear him exhale shakily.
“I know I did.”
“Now suddenly I’m supposed to believe this isn’t because somebody else likes me?” Your voice wavers, “That this isn’t just you panicking because things are changing?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither was treating me like I was something more than a friend and not doing anything about it. I made that mistake too.”
The second the sentence leaves your mouth, everything goes still. You cover your eyes with your hand, breathing unevenly. You just want this conversation to be over. On the other end, Macklin sounds devastated.
“Y/N…”
You can’t do this anymore, at least not tonight, not over the phone.
“I can’t,” you whisper.
“Please don’t hang up.”
Your heart nearly breaks at how small he sounds, but you force yourself to say, “I need space.”
Then you end the call.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
Macklin stares at his screen for a long time after you’re gone. His hotel room is completely silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the sound of his own breathing.
He feels awful, like sick kind of awful. Not because you rejected him, but because you actually believed that he would only care about you, only love you, if somebody else wanted you too, and he thinks maybe he deserves that.
Maybe he deserves every second of this for being too blind to see what had been right in front of him his entire life. He starts replaying every moment over and over again, from the past few years of the two of you.
You at sixteen, shoving his shoulder in that coffee shop while he joked about you wishing the two of you were together. Every FaceTime call when he’s not with you, every airport hug, the happiest of hellos and the saddest see you soons.
Every single time you looked at him like he was your entire world and he was too stupid to ask himself why it always felt different with you.
That’s when he realizes you were right. He realized that he did treat you like you were already his, like you were together. He never realized what that meant until he thought he might lose you to someone else. And now you think that the fact that he’s realizing this because of someone else’s feelings for you, cheapens his own feelings.
If anything, it finally made him understand the truth. He wants to tell you how he feels the right way, not some few minute conversation over the phone that ends in an argument, not a text message saying he really meant everything he said, but tell you in a way that would make you believe his words.
Macklin sits there for maybe three more minutes before abruptly standing up, making a decision. He grabs his laptop, and starts looking for the soonest flight to Boston.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
You don’t sleep very much after you hang up on him. You spend most of the night curled up in bed staring at your wall while your phone sits face-down beside you.
Macklin doesn’t text again, and at that, part of you is relieved. The other part hurts because you wish everything had gone differently, and you wish you could find it in yourself to believe him.
By morning your eyes feel swollen and they burn from your late-night tears, and your head is pounding from lack of sleep.
You drag yourself through classes in a fog, and you barely concentrate throughout all of your classes.
Your friends notice something’s wrong immediately, but you brush it off with exhaustion and stress and too much homework.
By late afternoon, snow has started falling outside. Boston looks gray and frozen in the mid-March air.
You’re halfway up the stairs to your dorm when your phone buzzes.
Mack: Can we talk?
You stop walking immediately. You don’t know what to say, so you stand on the stairs staring at the message, not answering. You can’t do this again, now is really not the time, while your emotions still feel open and raw.
You make it down the hallway toward your dorm room, exhausted and emotionally drained, digging through your bag for your keys, and then you see something that feels like a hallucination when you look up towards your door.
Macklin is sitting on the floor outside your dorm room door. He’s wearing a black hoodie and sweatpants, one knee pulled up toward his chest while the other rests across the hallway. A baseball cap shoved backwards over his messy hair, and there’s a duffel bag next to him. Snow has melted into damp patches across the shoulders of his hoodie.
To top it all off he looks absolutely exhausted. Not hockey exhausted, but exhausted in every way a person can be. His eyes look drained of emotion and there are dark circles underneath them, he’s sitting so still he almost looks frozen.
“Macklin?”
His head lifts immediately, and the second he sees you standing there, something in his expression softens so much just by seeing you, probably not sporting a much better shape than he is.
“Hi,” he breathes.
You stare at him. “What are you doing here?”
He stands up, but doesn’t take a step towards you, he just stands right in front of your dorm door. “I took a flight.”
“I can see that,” you say weakly.
“I didn’t want to do this over the phone.”
“Mack—”
“No, just…” He exhales shakily, “Please let me say this in person. Because saying it in person might be a better way for you to get that I mean it.”
You don’t answer, because you don’t think you can. Your mind is still processing the fact that he flew across the country in less than 24 hours for you, just to talk to you.
His eyes search your face carefully before he says quietly, “I know why you don’t believe me. And honestly?” he continues, “If I were you, I probably wouldn’t either.”
The honesty in his words catches you off guard. Macklin rubs nervously at the back of his neck before continuing. “You’re right that I didn’t fully understand what I was feeling until things changed, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
You look away, eyes fixed on a bulletin board down the hallway. He steps closer carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.
He keeps talking, “I think I got so used to you being there that I stopped questioning why you were the most important person in my life.”
Your jaw starts to hurt while you try and keep tears from forming in your eyes. You still don’t look at him.
“You were just…mine,” he says softly, then immediately shakes his head. “Not mine like that, I just mean…”
“I know what you mean,” you whisper, your voice cracking.
“You were my first call. My favorite person. The person I wanted around after every good thing and every bad thing.” His voice shakes slightly now, “And I think I got so comfortable loving you that I stopped realizing that’s what I was doing.”
Tears sting your eyes immediately, “Macklin…”
“When Will asked for your number a while back,” he says quietly, “I thought I was gonna throw up.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you through your tears. His expression softens instantly at the sound.
“I’m serious,” he says. “Then you started pulling away and going on dates and suddenly every part of my life felt wrong because I thought you were supposed to be doing those things with me, even though we weren’t technically together.”
He takes another step closer, and you finally look up at him.
“I know the timing sucks,” he says.
“That’s not the only problem,” you whisper.
“I know.” He looks terrified to be this open with you.
“I hurt you,” he says quietly. “Without even realizing I was doing it, and I hate that I did it.”
You don’t answer because that’s the worst part.
He really didn’t know.
“I can’t change that,” he continues. “I can’t undo years of you thinking you weren’t enough for me.”
A tear finally slips down your cheek, and his expression crumples slightly when he sees it.
“But you are,” he says immediately. “You always were the best person for me, Y/N. I don’t care about any of the other stuff when it comes to you.”
“The hockey stuff?” you ask quietly, knowing that it’s his priority, always has been.
His voice is firm now, “All of it. You think I belong to some different world, but you’re the only thing that’s ever made any of it feel normal. I wouldn’t even be in the position I’m in if it wasn’t for you.”
All you can do is stare at him.
“I mean it,” he says. “You’re home to me.”
Your tears fall exponentially harder after that. Macklin notices instantly and moves without thinking, stopping just in front of you, unsure if breaking another boundary right now is okay.
“Can I touch you?”
You nod once, and the second he wraps his arms around you, you break. Your face presses into his chest and his arms tighten around you immediately, holding you so carefully it makes you even more emotional.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair, “I’m so sorry everything made you feel like this.”
You shake your head against him. “No,” he says softly. “You were right to be angry.”
Your fingers tighten weakly into the back of his hoodie.
“I hated watching you move on,” he admits shakily. “Not because I didn’t want you happy.” His hand slides into your hair gently, pulling you back to look at him, “I hated it because I wanted it to be me making you happy like that.”
You cry harder at that, and Macklin pulls you back in just to hold you tighter, in the middle of your dorm hallway, while snow falls outside the windows and students pass by pretending not to stare.
Eventually you pull back again just enough to look at him. You notice his eyes are red too, but he’s not quite crying, but a few tear tracks shine on his cheeks. He doesn’t move to wipe them away when you notice them.
“You really flew to Boston for this?” you ask quietly.
He gives you a watery little smile, “You hung up on me.”
You laugh through your tears again, “I was panicking. I didn’t want us to keep talking to each other like that, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“I noticed,” he says softly.
A silence settles between you, then he says softer than anything else, “I love you.”
Your breath catches. Not because of panic, you aren’t panicking anymore. It’s not confusion, it’s not because of any distance that might exist between you two now. Just because of how honest he sounds, and how honest he looks when he says it.
“I think I’ve loved you for a really long time.” And at that your eyes burn all over again. This time when you look at him, you finally believe him.
You reach up carefully, fingers brushing against his cheek, wiping away the tear tracks on his face.
“I love you too,” you whisper. The relief that floods his face is almost unbearable to witness. It looks like he was bracing for heartbreak and got handed something so precious to him instead.
Then, very quietly, he says, “Can I kiss you? Is it too soon to ask that?”
You smile shakily, “I don’t think so, I think right now is a good time to ask.”
He laughs softly, forehead dropping against yours, “I’m trying to do this properly.”
Your heart feels like it might burst, because he’s being so sweet. He’s always so sweet and you love that about him.
So without saying another word, you kiss him first, and Macklin immediately melts into it like he’s been waiting years for permission.
a/n: "I Knew It, I Know You" by Gracie Abrams came on while I was looking for pictures to add to the top of this, and I feel like it fits the vibe of this, minus the sad ending.
Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
They numb him after the first time.
It’s such a freeing sensation, not to feel anything, that Haymitch almost doesn’t recognize it as a punishment. But then the bodies roll in. Tongueless, naked, pressing up against their shared cage with a single gargled moan for help. Don’t they see he’s caged too? Strapped to a table like an animal. Being prepared to join them. Will he still be numb, he hopes, without a tongue?
They let him keep it for longer. The white coats and gloved hands are there to prod his stitches, pour thick liquids into his mouth, switch out the bags of drugs for new ones. Not to cut out his tongue.
Haymitch starts to feel then: the bile burning through his throat like hot wax, the churn of his guts, which shouldn’t be there at all. Completely different from his self-inflicted pain the first time he woke, so he convinces himself it was all imagined. None of it was real. He is not real.
The nightingales return; this time, whole and awaiting their sentencing from the snake in their cage. By the time the last of them is ripped to shreds, feathers floating through the cracks and onto his skin, Haymitch realizes this must be a test. Limbo. If he survives it, if he withstands the cyclical nightmare of the nightingales and all those that follow—the rainbow songbirds, the dove gray bunnies, more mutilated Avoxes—then he will die in peace. Then he will find the heaven he was promised.
His fantasy shatters when the white walls are traded for burnt orange. No more Avoxes in the corner, no defenseless creatures shrilling in his ears, and no choice but to confront the undeniable truth that you are dead.
As the haze dissipates, so does the last of the numbness.
Vaguely, Haymitch makes out Wyatt’s cushion across from him, bereft of sheets. Two makeshift beds lie on the floor, exactly as they were left. The one oddity is the pump in his chest, doling out drugs throughout his body. He smells something sweet as fruit, like the scent that clung to you during your days in the apartment. He turns his face into the pillow, breathes in the leftover sweetness, now as sickening as the arena, and soils it with his tears.
Oh, sunshine.
Little things died when his sisters did. Innocence, shades of pink, the comfort of cotton. Pa took a bigger slice, left a harder pill for Haymitch to swallow: no one was ever going to protect him the way he had. No one was ever going to take care of their family the way Haymitch needed to. When it was Mamaw’s turn, all he had left to give was whatever remained of his childhood. Not much.
Every loss since has chipped away at him one by one. Somehow, Haymitch has remained standing, with fragile pieces of his heart intact.
You take everything. Everything. Except for Haymitch.
The crevices of his soul, the light in every room, the colors of the world. All the details that make up life. He didn’t realize how you shielded him from that before: the dullness of things.
They should’ve let him die—you should let him.
“Just let me go,” he wheezes, voice crackling with the strain of going unused for so long. “Please.”
No one answers. You wouldn’t answer him here anyway.
Acting on autopilot, Haymitch rolls off the bed and lands on his abdomen. He thinks to tear out his stitches but all that’s left of them is an ugly scar. His limbs give out twice as he clothes himself with his old pajamas. Unsteady still as he stumbles out of the room. So quiet, too quiet without Wyatt’s snoring.
The elevator is the first place his wandering feet take him to. He presses the buttons—up, down, up, down—but there’s no response. Three more tries before he calls it quits and rushes to the windows. Each one is impossible to reach through the steel bars.
No clocks to track his isolation, no knickknacks along the walls, no knives in the kitchen. Nothing that could be used to scrape away his skin so it matches his hollow insides.
Only a pitcher of milk and a platter of bread in the fridge. Haymitch consumes both greedily. His hope is fruitless, proved so when the worst that happens is a fainting spell in the living room.
At the very least, he dreams of you.
In your meadow, the wildflowers are in full bloom. You sit among them with your back to him. Your hair is the length it was before the Games, blowing all around you in the wind, wild and free.
Haymitch takes a step forward. “Sunshine!”
Maybe you don’t hear him, so he calls your name louder. Runs towards you when you still don’t turn. Trips over himself and falls onto a blackened patch of grass. You’re gone when he looks up. In your place, Silka lies thrashing with her ax in her skull
Forever a coward, he averts his gaze until he’s sure she’s gone. He lifts his head again, and there hangs Wellie’s above him. Haymitch croaks her name, then yours, caught between begging for forgiveness and seeking out your mercy.
Another voice chimes over the chittering of squirrels, “It won’t be that easy, Itchy.”
Haymitch scrambles for purchase on the grass, finding only a coarse rug. These are not dreams or nightmares. He is wide awake now, replaying every horrid, excruciating detail. Silka’s gurgles. Wellie’s pleas for him to stay. The blood on your lips. Your empty, dead eyes.
Empty and dead. Empty and dead and it’s all my fault.
The memories cycle through like the nightingales and bunnies and Avoxes. For hours? Days? Weeks? He doesn’t care anymore. They leave Haymitch crippled and couch-bound in a room you, Maysilee, and Wyatt once filled. Still alive though.
He finds the will to move into the bathroom, fill the tub to the brim, and sink right in. The camera on the vanity stares at him now, but he doesn’t bother covering it up with another towel. It wouldn’t do any good. They’re watching, if not from that camera, then from another hidden in the walls. They won’t let him die, not yet. Maybe they have a public execution in mind. One can hope.
Despite knowing that, Haymitch dips his head under the water and leans into the way it pushes against his lungs. For a second, the pain of suffocation distracts him, feels good even. His head bobbles up for a whiff of air before going back down. He goes on like this, his skin withering like a prune. Better yet when the water goes cold. Each time Haymitch resurfaces, he meets the camera.
Do they have people on standby to pull him from the brink? Will they try to stop him, send a zap through the pump in his chest, should he not come back up?
If they don’t, you will. You said you wouldn’t force each other to be okay, you said you were on even ground, so why have you forced Haymitch to stay?
“Why?” he cries, swallowing direct mouthfuls of bath water, tugging at his hair until wet strands break from his scalp. “Why? Why?”
You answer him one night—he thinks you do—in a song.
Haymitch doesn’t remember how he went from the bath to the couch again. He doesn’t open his eyes yet to find out, just listens to the melody that can only be credited to you. Except…it’s not your voice. The shape of it is different, though it haunts him awake just the same.
No working elevator or clocks, but the television is just fine now, flickering right in front of him with an image that shouldn’t feel so familiar. Haymitch has never seen this before in his life. The war-era fashioned audience, the static around Panem’s insignia, the rainbow girl who is to credit for the soulful song.
It’s sooner than later that I’m six feet under.
It’s sooner than later that you’ll be alone.
So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder?
For when the bell rings, lover, you’re on your own.
Her voice is not yours, and neither is her face, exactly. But that accent, that guitar, that glint in her eyes…
And I am the one who you let see you weeping.
I know the soul that you struggle to save.
Too bad I’m the bet that you lost in the reaping.
Now what will you do when I go to my grave?
She’s not you, yet the words she sings couldn’t be any more punishing. Haymitch failed you, he killed you, he lost you. There’s nothing to do now that you’re gone besides let you haunt him through this rainbow girl.
She drags out the last notes. The camera fades into the awestruck crowd, every one of them wiping the corners of their eyes. Among them, someone shouts, “Bravo!”
By the old-timey clothes and mentions of the reaping and instinct in his bones, Haymitch knows no other role to give her but District Twelve’s first and only victor. And if that’s the case, if this girl really was sent off to the Games and won, where is she now?
Amid the praise of the crowd, she takes a bow and reaches for a shadow in the corner. Hesitantly, a crown of blonde curls steps out. The television goes dark, and Haymitch is left with his own reflection on the screen. He stares at his sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes, replacing the image with that of the girl again. Her cunning tune, her puzzling demeanor, her bright smile as she beckoned the blonde shadow to her side.
A Covey girl, drenched head to toe to voice in mystery. A songbird, through and through.
But the shadow at her side remains unknown. A Capitol boy, no doubt, if the flash of his snooty uniform was any indication. One close enough to this Covey girl to learn all about their ways, maybe even love them. Maybe even love her.
“Do keep a watch on your songbird. They have the tendency to disappear.”
Who else could it be, if not their good old President Coriolanus Snow?
Again, Haymitch acts on autopilot. He tears through anything and everything in his line of sight. The couch pillows, the tabletop lamp, the wooden dining chairs, the pitcher of milk on the kitchen island, recently refilled.
When the glass hits the opposite wall and the milk spills out, the memories return with a vengeance.
He catches you before you fall. He stops you from hitting the poisoned steam. He sets you down on the primrose under a tree. Not on the glass. He doesn’t let you touch the glass. But it winds up in your skin either way.
Haymitch doesn’t bother dodging the bullets flying through the window. They aren’t aimed directly at him anyway; whoever’s shooting them seems to know that’s what he’d want. A dart flies into his shoulder, not so different from the one that killed Panache. Maybe this is it.
Waddling in zigzags until his legs give out, he falls atop the pillow stuffing. Not the glass. As the tape winds back to the Covey girl’s first verse, he finally hears you:
“Don’t follow.”
Hours, days, weeks later, the ding of the elevators brings a hoard of Peacekeepers and their rifles. Finally, finally, finally. A pair of them haul Haymitch up from the floor and chain his wrists. His feet sting when they make contact with the cool marble, and he realizes they are bloodied. He did stumble over the glass after all. And as expected, you did not grant his wish.
“Well, who’s ready for a big, big, big day?” Effie Trinket, not missing a beat, comes up behind the Peacekeepers. Her prep team trails feet away, exchanging hesitant glances as they take in the wreckage of the apartment and Haymitch himself.
Effie’s eyes widen momentarily, scanning the same. She doesn’t comment on it though, which Haymitch is sure takes a lot of effort. When she grabs onto his hands, he forces himself to focus on her. “Haymitch, I am,” she sniffs, “so sorry for your loss. She was a marvel, and I know she’d be so proud of you.”
You’re far from proud of the mess he’s made of things. But what else can he say to Effie besides, “Thanks.” She’s here to butter him up for the slaughter; for that, he is thankful.
She squeezes his hands and brushes lint off his shoulders. “Now, we have little time and much to get done before your Victor’s Ceremony, so let’s say we whip you into tip-top shape!”
Ceremony. Not an execution.
Effie sends Haymitch to the bathroom. He sits quietly for the prep team to fix him up, more to do with his inability to do much else than any real desire to subdue the Peacekeepers’ guns. They each take on their own tasks: soaping him up, trimming his hair, cutting his nails, bandaging his feet. Turn him from monster to puppet. Is there even a difference?
After brushing his teeth, Effie plucks around the corners of his eyebrows, Haymitch fixates on the pair of tweezers. Less sharp than a knife, but if he were to really press—
“Suit time,” declares Effie with her best mustered enthusiasm. Nothing rattles her, it seems.
His movements are mechanical as they dress him in another black ensemble. Also belonging to Great-Uncle Silius. Effie returns his flinkstriker to him, and he briefly wonders if your bluebird was returned to you.
He doesn’t miss the prep team’s revulsion over his scar, and he can’t blame them. Haymitch is disgusted with who he’s become, too. And honestly, that’s the least of his concerns now, because his eyes are still trained on the tweezers sticking out of Effie’s makeup box.
How quickly can he reach for them before you stop him?
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Between the two of them, Billy Taupe had the sharper mind for memories. Clerk Carmine credits that to him being older, not wiser. Before the turn their lives took for the worst, before the Covey entered their domino of death, he let his older brother do the remembering for him.
It became routine—a game even, one they’d play on those winter nights when all of them huddled together for warmth in this very room. A room now much too empty, and much too silent.
Lucy Gray would kick them off, as she did on stage. She’d tighten the blanket around Maude Ivory and Clerk Carmine, then sprawl herself across Billy Taupe’s lap. “Pipe down, and listen to your elders.”
“I don’t see any elders here,” Clerk Carmine would quip through the chatter of his teeth. The old miner who’d taken them in and died some winters prior was their elder. Not any one of them, just a handful of years older than Clerk Carmine. Even Tam Amber, the oldest among them, sitting at nineteen at the time with the quiet disposition of a man twice his age, was still practically a kid.
But Lucy Gray had a way of getting them to quiet and obey anyway. It helped when Barb Azure, with those patient but stern eyes of hers, would narrow them at the two. So, Clerk Carmine and Maude Ivory listened. It wasn't hard to cling to Billy Taupe’s tales once he got started. They were broader than the stories he’d tell Clerk Carmine when it was just the two of them. Stories about their parents, their mama’s love of honeysuckle, their papa’s knack for the fiddle.
These ones were all about the Covey’s life on the road. Places they’d been and performed, the freedom of their nomadic culture. More often than not, Maude Ivory would jump to finish his sentences, fill in the gaps she memorized from the very first listen in. Clerk Carmine couldn’t credit that to age, being older than her and all. That was just Maude Ivory.
Times were good then. Good as can be with their way of life taken from them and the threat of frostbite. Took a long time to get a semblance of that back. But eventually, Clerk Carmine did. With Lenore Dove, Burdock, and you. His three little birds—what was left of the Covey’s future, mimicking their past.
The irony isn’t lost on him.
When the three of you were younger, learning to question and stir trouble in your own ways, giving every one of your elders a run for their money, Clerk Carmine didn’t know to be grateful for it. He just knew he couldn’t let history repeat itself as far as he could help it. Hard to do when each of you took up such distinct shapes of their ghosts.
All three of you, always questioning. And with no more Billy Taupe, no more quick-minded Maude Ivory, Clerk Carmine had to churn out his own strength.
No one else will remember their dead otherwise.
He feels Billy Taupe most of all in his Lenore Dove, who carries his accordion and his pipe dreams of a different world. Gentler, softer-hearted than he was. But just as dangerous with her thoughts.
Burdock, capable of charming anyone with a kind smile and an even kinder view of things, is an amalgamation of them all. And though he takes after Sorrel through and through, when he gets to singing, same as you, it’s straight diamonds. Like the voice that once lulled the mockingjays in their woods.
And then there’s you…who will never again burst through these doors, free as wind, or breathe color back into their mournful stage. Whose melodies now solely belong to the birds.
Exactly like before. It’s exactly like before. It’s—
“C.C.?” Tam Amber crosses the doorway softly. He’s been in his workshop for the better part of the last few evenings. Gravestones don’t take much to make supplies wise. The toll they take on one’s heart is a different matter, and Tam Amber’s made far too many over the years.
Clerk Carmine lifts his head, stopping his eyes at his hunched shoulders. He’s scared if he looks straight at him, right into his own grief, he’ll never want to leave this couch. And he has to—for his Lenore Dove, for what’s left of his family. “About time?”
“Just about.”
Tam Amber slips back out to give Clerk Carmine the moment he needs.
Taking to the corners makes one observant. It’s how Tam Amber always knows what Clerk Carmine needs. After losing Billy Taupe, he wasn’t sure he’d ever know what it was to have an older brother again. He’d been slow to see the steady presence that had been there his whole life. Been there for his first words, first steps, first betrayal by the very person whose role Tam Amber filled.
First, but not his last.
The world has taken so much from Clerk Carmine and his people. But the world is not to blame—Coriolanus Snow is, and all men like him.
Clerk Carmine will never know what happened to their Lucy Gray. Twelve-years-old, what power did he have to do anything more than run through the woods with Maude Ivory, screaming her name for weeks on end? To take his screaming straight on down to the Peacekeeper base, in search of the only person with a sliver of influence that he knew? To carry back the news that the person who saved their Lucy Gray had packed up the same day she disappeared?
Maybe she’d been left for dead, maybe she escaped, maybe she found people up north, like Billy Taupe believed there to be. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Now, at fifty-two, Clerk Carmine is no more powerful, but he does know what’s been done to you. They saw it down at the holding cells.
Somewhere in his bones, he knew the Games were coming to their end. Seven mornings ago, during the recap of the night before, five tributes remained. More or less the typical amount left before the Gamemakers stir the pot for their big finale. Last year’s Games were different, not as much fanfare, just like the tenth Games. The earliest one Clerk Carmine makes sure to remember.
He and Tam Amber, as became their routine, marched down to the jail with the same set of pleas on Lenore Dove’s behalf. Only one Peacekeeper was there to listen, most of them on duty or off doing heavens know what in the name of the greater good. Clerk Carmine later learned they were gathering the crowd in front of the Justice Building to watch you die. He and Tam Amber would have to make do with the dingy screen hanging in the waiting area.
It escalated without the Gamemakers’ say-so. One minute you were standing with the Abernathy boy, the next you were lying on the ground with a knife sticking out of you. The sponsor gift that was meant to help you spilled in a threatening pool of steam.
Haymitch ran off without you. To protect the little one you befriended, supposedly. You begged him to go, but he listened on his own accord. Clerk Carmine still doesn’t know which was worse: listening to your agony as you limped through the woods alone, or the later realization that this would be your death march.
The Career from One found the little girl before either of you could. Your efforts to save her were mighty; Haymitch’s choice to leave her, and then you, was plain stupid. The little girl used whatever strength she had left to defend herself with that blowgun. She paid the price with her head. Over and over again, the ax came down until it popped right off. By some miracle, Clerk Carmine remained standing through his nausea.
The Career and Haymitch went at it crazed, with the little girl’s head discarded somewhere behind them. Silka, Wellie. Those were their names. Silka only double-downed in her brutality when you arrived on the scene. Wounded as you were, you didn’t go down without a fight, leading her to that hedge where Haymitch discovered a glitch in the arena’s force field.
Taken out by her own ax, Silka left the two of you injured to the point of death. Except you fared better than Haymitch. Far better, all things considered. Better enough to sit up on your knees and travel to him. Better than your intestines splattered on the floor.
So then why were you the one suddenly collapsing, choking on your own blackened blood while the boy begged you not to go? Why are you dead?
If not for the panic they elicited within him, Clerk Carmine wouldn’t have heard Lenore Dove’s wails from far inside. Unlike the day she was born, when those very cries signified a life her mama no longer had, they did not mend his broken heart.
He had hoped, naively, that she’d be spared from watching the Games in captivity. But there is no corner on earth, no cell restrictive enough, that could save any person from them.
The single Peacekeeper withheld Clerk Carmine from getting to her. He must’ve assumed Clerk Carmine intended a jailbreak. All he wanted was to scoop her up in his arms like he did when she was a babe and coo promises to save her from this world. Tam Amber, frozen in time, could not do much else but gasp out your name.
“We’re here, Lenore Dove!” Clerk Carmine shouted, because that was all the comfort he could give her through the wall of the Peacekeeper and his own tears. “We’re here!”
The Peacekeeper’s heart thawed enough to let them see and hold her through the bars while she cried out for her dear cousin. Suddenly, Clerk Carmine was twelve and thirty-six and fifty-two all at once, weeping for their lost girls. They were sent off with one comfort: Lenore Dove would be out for the funeral.
They still don’t know when that is. The bodies have yet to arrive, and there’s no telling when they will. Lucy Gray was back a whole two days after her Games. But then, everything was different. They were surprised this morning with the news of the crowning ceremony. Seems their victor is all patched up to receive his accolades and tell his tale.
Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber weren’t there for Barb Azure when it happened. She does not hold it against them, though Clerk Carmine does. Still, they have to be there now. He reminds himself of this as he pushes up from the couch.
On the porch, Tam Amber holds out his arm. They walk down the steps together, and Clerk Carmine wonders if the Abernathy kin will be there, too. Willamae, a force of a woman, and Sid, whose sunny smile reminds him so very painfully of Maude Ivory. He wouldn’t put it past Barb Azure to invite them back; he wouldn’t put it past the two of them to extend their own empathy in turn.
Selfishly, Clerk Carmine hopes they turned her down. He doesn’t think he can stand to look at them without keeling over from the guilt of wishing it was you coming home to them. Barb Azure stands it because she’s stronger than him. Tam Amber can too, because he’s incapable of bitterness. And because both of them, now sharing the distinct knowledge of losing a child, could never wish it upon someone else. Three decades now since the smallpox took Tam Amber’s little Henry Russet and his mama. The passage of time will never erase the memory of them dead in his arms.
Clerk Carmine doesn’t want to wish Haymitch dead.
He’s always known him and his rebel roots to be trouble, and he’s certainly tried to will him far away from the Covey children. But Lenore Dove isn’t the only one attracted to danger. When Burdock started bringing him around, when Clerk Carmine started noticing the way you looked at him, the way he looked at you, he knew there was no stopping it. As there was no stopping the others.
Haymitch is just a boy, and deep down, Clerk Carmine knows there’s only so much he can fault him for. One crime he can’t be tried for is disparaging your heart.
Though Clerk Carmine would’ve rather not seen anything at all, he can be honest in admitting Haymitch’s tenderness towards you. Different from the way Billy Taupe lauded Lucy Gray around like she was a tally to add to his list. From the way Snow looked at her like a prize to be won and claimed. Truer than the love that burned her twice, than that given to Maude Ivory by the unnamed Peacekeeper and that Chance boy. Closer to the affection Sorrel holds for Barb Azure; only, made up of more than their friendship. Something far more fatal, for Sorrel would never let their Barb Azure be anything but safe.
The boy is not to blame. Even so…
Tam Amber halts, forcing Clerk Carmine to do the same. They’ve only made it two houses over, about a dozen left til they reach Barb Azure. But when a figure fades in with the early specks of night, Clerk Carmine sees why they’ve stopped prematurely.
Albert is not rash, and perhaps that’s why Clerk Carmine loves him so. He makes Clerk Carmine safe when the way of things says he shouldn’t be. Right now, all he feels as Albert nears is frustration.
“I’ll meet you at Barb Azure’s,” he says to Tam Amber in a rushed whisper.
Tam Amber taps his hand and carries on his path. When he crosses Albert, he accepts his condolences with a saddened hum.
Clerk Carmine doesn’t do the same. “Now ain’t the time, Albie.”
Albert shakes his head. Is he aware they’re standing in the middle of the road? They’re lucky to be on the far end of the Seam, with no one out on their porch right now. “I should’ve come sooner.”
“No, you shouldn’t’ve. You shouldn’t be here now.”
The last they saw of each other was the night Lenore Dove was arrested. They met at their usual spot, where Clerk Carmine confided he wasn’t sure they could meet again in the coming weeks.
Albert cradled his face, pressed a kiss to his nose the way he always did when he wanted to take his pain. “You got a lot on your plate right now. Don’t you fret over me.”
“I always do,” Clerk Carmine murmured against his lips. His dearest love, who keeps him warm and whole. How could he not fret over his Albie?
“I had to see you,” insists Albert. “I had to tell you—”
“I don’t wanna hear it,” snaps Clerk Carmine, feeling the sting behind his eyes.
“—I’m sorry.”
Albert carries on, but Clerk Carmine isn’t here anymore. He’s in the doorway to his room instead, looking down at your sweet face as you weakly attempt to hide the guitar behind you.
“I’m sorry,” you say, scrunching up your nose.
Clerk Carmine kneels. “Whatever for, little miss?”
“I shouldn’t touch what isn’t mine.” You cast your eyes to the floor. “They tell us that in school.”
He peeks past your shoulder to the guitar. It hasn’t felt the touch of music in so very long. Lucy Gray wouldn’t want it that way, holed up in his closet until the day he dies. “It can be yours.”
You meet his gaze then, your hesitation blooming into something much brighter, like the sunflowers Tam Amber planted in their backyard all those years ago.
No one is tending to the sunflowers now. No one. And it’s still too light out for Albert to be here, and anyone could see them, and he should be with Barb Azure by now. But Clerk Carmine lets Albert pull him into his arms anyway.
“I am so sorry, my love,” Albert whispers in his ear, voice cracking in rhythm with his sobs.
Clerk Carmine does not stay wrapped in his comfort for long, though he desperately wants to. He accepts Albert’s kisses to his nose, the wiping of his tears, and somehow, finds the strength to walk away.
The interview has already started when he arrives. Willamae and Sid are there, but they keep to the far end of the room.
Burdock sits between them and Barb Azure, hair unkempt much like Sorrel’s, more ashen than Clerk Carmine remembers him yesterday. Like he’s been ripped in two. Like all that’s left of him is the half that doesn’t work properly.
My poor little bird, with no reason to sing.
Barb Azure, to her credit, remains steady as the show goes on. The way she’d get when any one of them was sick and she’d be forced to balance her fear with care.
They skip over pieces Clerk Carmine swears he saw in real time. Your lullaby on the mountainside and goodbye with the little boy from Three; your fall into the lake during the volcano eruption; the Covey’s funeral song, which you gifted to Maysilee Donner as she left this world. The last one is a particular spite, but there’s little room to ponder it when they near the end.
Sorrel holds his arms around Barb Azure, the only thing keeping her upright, when they play the recap of your death. Sorrel’s own dam breaks then. So does Burdock’s. He clamps his hands over his mouth and rushes to the nearest basin—the kitchen sink—emptying what Clerk Carmine is sure to be next to nothing in his stomach.
Tam Amber follows after him, rubs his back, and soothes his gagging best he can.
In his corner, Sid covers his ears and buries his face into Willamae’s trembling side. Clerk Carmine fights the urge to do the same—to hide like he tried to when Lucy Gray’s name was called all those decades ago—because he has to watch. He has to remember, if no one else can.
This, however, is not what needs to be remembered. The last moments of the Games, the grand finale, are all wrong. The lead-up is much shorter—the little girl you took under your wing is completely skipped over. How you wind up with that pitcher of hot chocolate is a mystery now, one that doesn’t matter in the heat of the final battle. After you’re stabbed by the District Four girl, like Clerk Carmine saw before, you beg Haymitch to leave you for his own sake. Not Wellie’s. And he listens.
When the time comes, you are dead before Haymitch reaches you and delivers what is surely meant to be a beautiful goodbye. It’s not. On Caesar Flickerman’s stage, dolled up for the show, the boy looks sick with himself. Good, Clerk Carmine thinks before he can remind himself better.
They’ve taken your last words, your final chance to hold your head up high, your brave, big heart which no one deserves. Haymitch is framed as the tragic hero, and you, the stepping stone for his victory.
Clerk Carmine breathes in once. He tries to recall Albert’s arms and kisses, tries to steel himself with the reminder that Lenore Dove is coming home, but his mind is caught in a spiral. There is no stopping this. It’s already started. Exactly like before.
How many more of their girls will they take? How many more of you will be erased from history?
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Haymitch doesn’t speak, but he thinks they like it best that way. Adds to his image. Grieving lover, brooding rascal, tragic hero. Whatever it is they want him to be tonight.
Music blasts from the overhead speakers scattered all around the Capitol zoo. Ironic that they don’t cage him this time. Haymitch should be grateful for that. All he really feels is the ache of your absence and the desperation to keep those he can from the repercussions of his actions.
Seven nights ago, Panem bore witness to the start of his humiliation. Oh, how the Capitol audience ate it up. They were none the wiser to his attempts at rebellion or any one of his posters in the arena. Whoever was responsible for editing the Games saw to that. They didn’t need to change much to display every painfully true way in which Haymitch failed you.
He closes his eyes and sees all he couldn’t protect you from displayed on Caesar’s stage: the horrors of the bloodbath, the volcano, the jabberjays. He remembers your numbness when he found you, not knowing what to credit it to at the time. Why hadn’t he been there sooner?
There was a brief moment before the recap started where Haymitch believed he might get to see exactly how it played out. Did he leave you on the glass or the primrose? Did you drink the hot chocolate or not? Deep down, he knows the answer doesn’t matter, so it shouldn’t change much that he didn’t get one. When all is said and done, there’s no one else to blame but himself.
Everyone back home will. Does. He isn’t certain yet, but he’s got a good inkling on which way it’ll go. Whatever they were shown during the actual Games is a fleeting imagination compared to the reality of their sell-out victor. Twelve doesn’t want him, and especially not now. The only people who might forgive him, who might be willing to see past his mistakes, are Ma and Sid.
When Haymitch opens his eyes again, he’s back on that stage.
Helpless while he watched President Snow’s descent from a floating platform, and his cruel, mocking smile. “What a well-earned victory, Mr. Abernathy.”
“You would know,” Haymitch said, freshly clipped nails dug into his skin. “I guess snow does land on top.”
Snow only smiled wider, as vicious as he was when he first dangled your life in front of him. “Enjoy your homecoming.”
Since then, he’s been carted around the Capitol like a prized dog. From parties to fashion shoots to parades in his honor. Haymitch lets it happen, lets them project whatever it is they expect from him. Pa must be rolling in his grave to see his oldest boy playing into their hands. And Maysilee…
Oh, Maysilee, I have broken my promise to you, too.
She was right: you were much better suited for the task. You are the one who should be going back home. There’s no shortage of people who care for you, who’d believe in you. These past nights, back in the apartment when he’s relieved from his duties of kissing ass, Haymitch thinks about every one of them.
Burdock, Lenore Dove, your parents and uncles. People he’s known you to talk to in passing, trade with at the Hob, offer up what you can to them. Even Sid, who, if he’s still alive to feel it, may very well be overjoyed to see his brother again. He loved you, too.
Initially consumed by his own selfish ache, Haymitch carves out time to remember that he took you from them. As much as he’s lost you himself.
A pair of teal-haired Capitol folk pass him and point his way. Haymitch is not caged this time; he is chained to a corner by the snake pen. Keeps most passersby from approaching too close.
He just has to get through this on his best behavior, even if every fiber of his being is telling him otherwise, because there is no world in which Snow will not punish him for his last attempt to light a fire under him. Because life without you, apparently, is not punishment enough.
It’d be so much easier if you just let Haymitch follow.
His view of the teal pair is replaced by the lens of a camera. Plutarch gets a nice shot from afar, and when his camera lowers briefly, Haymitch catches his narrowed eyes. Meant to express…pity? Judgement? Both, more likely than not.
He could stand Effie’s sympathy, but not Plutarch’s, or any of those who have come up to tell him how beautiful the two of you were.
Though he’s been recording every sordid, humiliating moment of Haymitch’s time in the Capitol, Plutarch has really only tried to speak to him during the crowning after party. He approached his cage, condolences on the tip of his tongue, and before he could speak them aloud, Haymitch crawled over to the cat-eared lady offering him shrimp.
Now, Plutarch gives him space. Even that is a taunt.
Haymitch doesn’t want to accept anything from Plutarch. His pity or his well-meaning distance. What he wants is to smash his camera to pieces and every one of the Capitol’s pillars with it. What he wants is to go home to Ma and Sid, crumble into their arms. What he wants is to feel your warmth pressed up against him one last time.
His throat tightens, and right at the base of it, a lump settles. His bottom lip quivers, which Plutarch must catch on camera. He drops his lens entirely, gives Haymitch a strange look, and walks off the other way. Strange. He wouldn’t have taken Plutarch as capable of expressing any kind of guilt.
Dawn eventually breaks over the scene, prompting most to head on home. Slumped against the corner in exhaustion, Haymitch hardly reacts when the Peacekeepers lift him by the underarms. For the first time in two weeks, he feels something close to relief when they take him down to the train station instead of the apartment.
There, a doctor removes the pump in his chest. The teeth detach, leaving oozy indents in his skin and the aftereffects of whatever drugs they’ve been pumping into him. They wear off quickly, and his scar starts to hurt. Made worse by the deprivation of cushy mattresses or the bunk beds from before.
The Peacekeepers lug Haymitch straight into the room Plutarch once freed him from. Wrapped in Great-Uncle Silius’s champagne bubble jacket, he finds a new corner to wallow in the pain.
Show’s over now, but the train hasn’t budged. A couple hours pass, and the only movement is the Peacekeeper who brings Haymitch a roll and a carton of milk. Snow’s still managing his diet then.
“What are we waiting for?” he asks hoarsely.
“Your friends,” replies the Peacekeeper, with a nod to the window. He goes without expanding.
A naive part of Haymitch hopes he means Mags and Wiress, that they’re coming to bid him farewell and give him the reunion they were deprived of before his crowning. But Haymitch saw the state they were in at the time. The state he put them in just by being their ward.
Haymitch peers out the window of his cell. Sure enough, no Mags or Wiress. Three carts are being rolled down the platforms, each carrying a plain wooden box. Coffins. Your families have been waiting weeks for their beloved children, and all this time, his only comforting belief was that the three of you were already resting peacefully in your family plots. But no, the long shots of Twelve are finishing this journey together.
His body shakes uncontrollably as he imagines the state of the bodies. Violated by blades and birds and poison. Your body—multilated by his own broken promise. There’s no indication to make him believe it, but he’s confident the last one is yours. Empty, dead, and all my fault.
Muffled thuds and nearby door hinges signify the coffins are being loaded in the next car over. Haymitch jolts, rushing to the wall separating them. “Wait!”
There’s a murmur on the other side, and he bangs on the wall to get them to shut up and listen.
“I want to be with her,” he chokes out. “I want to—”
But this is part of his punishment, to never be with you again.
“Take me with her!” Haymitch slams his whole body against the wall, hoping to break it down completely. He’s too weak and too hurt to cause any real damage to anything but himself. Doesn’t stop him from trying, or screaming your name, or bringing his knuckles to the steel in an attempt to get to you. Even after the train rolls onward.
Even after his knuckles split open and blood spools out.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
Calla no longer searches for Burdock in his room. Yours is much dearer to her now. She hasn’t left it in the last two weeks. Not to wander as is her routine. Not when he tries to coax her to come out. She refuses each attempt of his, curls into a ball atop your bed, and licks at her paws lazily.
He’s fairly certain it’s her way of mourning you.
Even now, as Burdock sinks onto the floor beside your bed, a pair of scissors in hand, she pretends he isn’t there. Fine by him. Her lack of company is in keeping with what he needs right now.
Every wall in this house is rotten with grief, except for these four. On that, he and Calla can agree. Mama and Papa, on the other hand, aren’t ready to come in here yet. Burdock can’t fault them. To feel your presence, in the freshness of the loss, is as much an agony as it is a comfort.
It’s a strange thing, to be born into the world with a piece of your soul waiting for you on the outside. Stranger still to find a way to function without it. In the weeks you were away but alive, Burdock hadn’t lost the tether that kept you connected. Changed and thinned, but still thrumming with life.
Things will be different, once you’re back, returned to them and the earth. Burdock will know you’re at peace then, amid the birds in the sky. He and Papa will wash each other’s hair over the sink. They will begin the process of remembering your life instead of simply mourning your death.
But for now…you are away and dead, and the only place Burdock still feels your tether is this room.
He grips the dull edges of the scissors, examining the tip of the blade. Papa told him not to rush it. Didn’t need to be rushed, with no set funeral date anyways. But Papa took out his braid, cut his strand at the nape of his neck, that very evening. Funny how Papa could nip his piece of hair so soon but can’t come into your room. Funny how the reverse is true of Burdock.
There was no need to do this when your grandparents died because there were bodies to bury in the Everdeen plot. His papa explained, soon after his mamaw’s death, how that wasn’t always the case. Many patches of their family’s land were empty, save for what they could give their kin.
There will be a body to bury with you, technically. But every one of them knows you wouldn’t want to be stuck in one place for eternity. Restless bird that you are. A piece of you will be with the Everdeens; your spirit with the rest of your people, free in the woods.
Find the willow. Talk to the birds. They have not taken you, my stubborn, bright twin.
Burdock’s breath comes out in shudders. He tries to stop the worst of it by biting down on his cheek, but the resulting throb in his chest refuses his attempts. A whisker brushes his neck. Seems Calla has finally noticed his presence. Though she’s done it plenty of times to him, he’s sorry for disturbing her.
“Burdock?”
He looks over at his mama, at her blurred, sorrowful figure, holds up the scissors, and blubbers, “I’m ready.”
She doesn’t hesitate to cross the doorway, dropping onto her knees beside Burdock. Mama pulls him close and rubs circles on his back to get him to stop shaking. He focuses on the steadiness and rhythm of her hands, ties them back to the old lullaby she’d sing the two of you to sleep.
She’s been falling back on it as of the last few days. Hums it under her breath whenever she’s in the kitchen, or waiting on the porch for Papa to arrive from the mines. Burdock waits with her, the way he would when you got it in your head to do the same all those years ago. You were terrified that one day the mines would get him, and nothing could convince you otherwise until you saw him making his way home for yourself.
Burdock doesn’t think Mama’s scared in the same way. It’s more about reminding all three of them that there are still people in this home. Wasn’t easy coming back to it on the day they watched you…
The Gamemakers must’ve planned for it to be the last day of the Games, because Papa received word he wasn’t to work, and most of the Seam was given the directive to head on to the Justice Building. Peacekeepers rolled down the streets in their tanks after the morning recap, calling through the speakerphones for all available and able-bodied citizens to report.
They’ve never done that before; usually, they watch the end from wherever they are, and that’s that. But it’s a Quarter Quell, and the Gamemakers are always looking to build on their spectacle, and it’s not like everything else about these Games hasn’t been unusual. It wasn’t until they saw the cameras perched around that Burdock understood why they wanted a reaping-sized audience.
District Twelve has never had a tribute make it to the last day, let alone two of them. Well…not in the last forty years. Burdock wondered, at the time, what she’d make of the erasure.
A pair of Peacekeepers identified him, Mama, and Papa as the Everdeen clan. Promptly, they brought them to the front row, right next to Willamae and Sid. Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber were down seeing about Lenore Dove’s release, and good thing. If it weren’t for the cameras, Burdock might’ve found it a comfort to be surrounded by his people.
There was no comfort in watching you die like that.
Every gasp and murmured curse in the audience rang in his ears. The don’t leave her’s shouted at Haymitch’s departure from Wellie, the groans rippled in the air after you took Maritte’s knife to the abdomen. Worst of all—more than Willamae’s shriek for Haymitch when the ax sliced him, more than your dying wheezes, more than Haymitch’s scream for you—was Mama’s reaction.
She was a pillar through all of it, as she’d been at the reaping. Those cameras on the stage were looking for a reaction she, Papa, and Burdock would not give. When it came to pass, when the screens went dark immediately after the victor’s announcement, Burdock almost slipped. He pinched the skin around his nails to keep from throwing up, crying, both.
Willamae, who kept a sobbing Sid held within her arms, turned to them after the news set. Her tears fell freely, with joy and remorse in equal measure. “Barb Azure, I…”
Mama shushed her, mustered a weary smile, and squeezed the hand not stroking Sid’s hair. “Your boy’s coming home.”
Once home, Mama’s collapse was immediate. With a thud to the floor, she let out a sharp, agonizing cry, as if she were being swallowed by the earth. Burdock thought it a miracle she held it in for so long. He and Papa followed her down.
She hasn’t wailed like that since, but she hasn’t hid her sadness either. It seeps through in the way she holds Burdock a little tighter now, cooing gentle assurances. “Let it out, baby.”
The tremors stop long enough for him to draw a full breath. On the next inhale, Mama loosens her grip, and Burdock sections a bit of hair at the nape of his neck.
“You can grow long hair if you really want to,” you tell him, brows pinched up.
Burdock points the brush at you. “Mine doesn’t grow as quick as yours.”
He keeps the strands pinched between his fingers when the scissors cut through.
“It could.” You shrug.
“Just turn around, will you?”
Mama hands him the string he let fall from his lap. He’s not shaking at all as he ties it around the piece of hair.
You roll your eyes and let him get to work. When the braid’s done, you smile at him. “I still think you can.”
It rests on the floor between them. She wipes his face, waiting until he calms completely to say, “Asterid’s here to see you.”
“She is?” Burdock’s seen Asterid every day for the last two weeks, but his surprise comes from the hour in which she’s chosen to visit him now. The miners, his papa included, have long since begun their day, but it’s much too dark out for her to be here.
“I can ask her to come back later.” Mama rubs his shoulder.
She’s been outside for who knows how long, and Burdock isn’t about to let her go off without whatever it is she came here for. Besides, he needs to see her. He pockets the piece of hair and hands the scissors to his mama. “No, that’s okay. I won’t be long.”
She nods, watching him stand. When he doesn’t feel her behind him at the doorway, Burdock looks over at her again. She’s turned away now, her head resting on your bed as she reaches a hand towards Calla. Pesky little cat nuzzles into it.
Burdock breathes out and resumes his trek.
Really, it’s a good thing Asterid’s here so early. She’ll give him the strength he needs to finally pay a visit to Willamae and Sid. He hasn’t seen them since they watched Haymitch’s crowning together. A whole week now, which, for Burdock, has consisted of taking to the woods, staying in your room, or seeking out Asterid.
He hasn’t meant to avoid them, just as he’s sure they haven’t meant to do the same. On the night of the crowning ceremony, he overheard Willamae tell his mama she’d be there for them in whatever way she could, as his mama has been there for them. She wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t true, but he reckons Willamae believes what they need most right now is the space.
Sid’s reaction after the ceremony concluded must’ve been what planted that thought.
Sweet Sid was a wreck when they watched it live in the square. Covering his ears while Silka sliced off Wellie’s head, then his eyes as you took the brunt of her hysteria, turning green when Haymitch’s guts spilled out. Rewatching it—changed and warped as the Capitol made it out to be—wasn’t any better.
Sid ran out the second the recap ended, and before Willamae could lift off, Burdock did. He was already standing, no longer hurling into the sink. Sid stopped right down the steps, planting his feet into the dirt pathway like that might help keep him steady. Burdock grabbed onto his arms, in case it didn’t.
“I didn’t want her to die,” Sid blurted and sniffled. “I didn’t. But I—I really want to see Haymitch.”
His confession was laced with a guilt that shouldn’t belong to someone so soft-hearted and young.
Burdock swallowed down what remained of his nausea and embraced him. “I’m glad he’s coming back,” he whispered into Sid’s hair, meaning each word. He thought for sure neither one of you would survive. Not after the realization of how deep your feelings ran for each other. And especially not after you found little Wellie and all but swore to get her to the end.
He was relieved one of you made it out. He is. But that relief can’t exist without the voice in his head wishing it were you. Burdock knows if the roles were reversed, he’d feel as guilty as Sid. He already does.
The porch creeks under his boots. Asterid turns to him, staring into his eyes long enough for him to catch on to her exhaustion. In the sky, specks of stars are gearing up to turn into sunlight soon enough.
“I’m sorry I made you wait.”
“I don’t mind waiting.” Asterid holds up a glass jar of what Burdock immediately recognizes as sleep syrup. “I imagine you haven’t been sleeping well.”
Burdock accepts the jar, motioning for Asterid to sit beside him on the porch steps. “Have you? Been sleeping?”
She hesitates as she settles down and smooths out the sides of her skirt. “Mr. and Mrs. Donner gave me Maysilee’s canary. She sings quite early in the mornings. Earlier than I need to get up to open the shop.”
For all their natural animosity, it seems there’s little distinction between cats and canaries when it comes to grief.
“She probably misses her. Needs time to adjust to her new environment.” Needing to soothe the pain he knows Asterid keeps hidden, wanting to believe time really can bring healing, Burdock adds, “She will eventually.”
“I thought I might just set her free.” Her chin wobbles. Easy to miss for anyone not paying attention, but Asterid always holds his. “But I figure, if she’s so used to living in a cage, will she even know how to survive outside it?”
“Birds are stronger than people give ’em credit for.”
She stews in his words while he stares at the side of her face, taking notice of every detail of her from this angle. Fine as she seems now, Burdock remembers the way she shut down the day Maysilee died. A reaction as volatile as any other.
Horrific and merciless in nature, Maysilee’s death was no easier to watch than yours. Those birds came out of nowhere, and they only had eyes for Maysilee. You and Haymitch fought them off, but by the time her throat was ripped wide open, the best either of you could do was stay by her side and hold onto her.
Burdock was far from friends with Maysilee, but she mattered in her own right, and she was dear to Asterid. Dear to her own twin, who is no doubt carrying an empty weight similar to the one in Burdock’s chest.
Hearing you sing your people’s funeral song to her, there was no doubt in his mind that Maysilee meant a whole lot to you, too. Haymitch, Maysilee—you sure fooled the lot of them with your declarations of hate. When Burdock thinks back on it now, on every interaction you and Haymitch have ever had, he sees it clearer. The love. Makes it even harder to think of the state Haymitch will return in. Makes his own lungs ache.
They erased the song you gifted Maysilee during the recap, among other things. Shortened moments, scrapped details, warped happenings. It was almost a completely different Quell than the one they watched live. Shouldn’t be so surprising, given how the reaping turned out. Given that watching it live still left things up to the imagination. Like why your blood was black in the end, if you never touched the arena’s poison.
Burdock rationalized it with the assumption that Maritte’s knife was dipped in lake water or sap, like Maysilee’s blowdarts. It was bad enough that they changed anything at all during the recap. He didn’t have the mind to unravel their web then. If he really thinks about it now, he’ll drive himself crazy trying to make sense of it all.
His efforts are better spent making sure you’re remembered for who you are, not how you died. Taking care of those who remind him he is still needed in this world, and life will be good again one day. You’d damn him if he didn’t.
“Asterid?” Burdock scoots over until their shoulders are touching.
“Yes?”
He slips his hand into hers, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles as her eyes begin to well. “Thank you for the sleep syrup.”
She squeezes his hand and exhales slowly.
He wants to say so much more about how much he misses you, and how her grief isn’t secondary to his, and how he wants them to heal together, in whatever way that might look like. But the ash raining down from the sky, thicker than the kind that normally exists in Twelve, stops him short.
“Help!”
Burdock shoots up to his feet. Asterid isn’t far behind.
“Help! Help!”
The voice is coming from at least a half dozen houses over, muffled by the blanket of ash and the sinking realization of what’s happening.
Burdock turns to Asterid. “Stay here.”
She furrows her brows. “If someone needs help—”
“It’s a fire, Asterid.” He hands her back the jar. “Please stay here until we put it out.”
Reluctant, she nods once. Burdock takes off. Even if he didn’t recognize the house as the very one he grew up visiting, the shrieks coming from inside confirm it for him.
Their words are distorted, but Willamae and Sid are not quiet as they burn.
Fire catches quick around these parts, and so, the house is already engulfed when Burdock catches up to the crowd. Cayson McCoy, who’s to credit for the hollers for help, is wide-eyed and frazzled as he calls out, “Their cistern’s empty. What do we do?”
“Use the pump from the next house over,” demands Burdock, rushing to fill a bucket. Blair runs up behind him and fills his own. Every neighbor in direct proximity rushes to their own houses and begins the labor of putting out the flames. He yells out, “If we can clear out a path, one of us can run inside to get ’em. Now c’mon!”
They target the window on the side of the house which Burdock knows to be the main bedroom. Without any direct instructions, people fall into distinct roles: a group of them fill the buckets, the fastest runners transport them to Burdock, Blair, and the older neighbors, who fail to make a dent in the fire.
He can’t tell how long they’re at it, but they don’t give up. Not one of them throws in the towel, even if Willamae and Sid are no longer yelling.
“Ma!”
Oh, please, no. Burdock and Blair run towards Haymitch’s voice. They catch him right as he attempts to cross into the fire-drenched doorway. He puts up a fight, but the two of them manage to drag him onto the ground.
“Let me up! Let me loose, you—”
Burdock pushes him down forcefully, sitting on top of him and clamping a hand over his mouth to get him to listen. He’s vaguely aware of the dried blood on Haymitch’s fists. What were they doing to him? “It’s too late, Haymitch. We tried. It’s too late.”
In response, he sinks his teeth into his palm. With a hiss, Burdock retracts his hand and puts more weight on his chest. Haymitch only wails louder, “Ma! Sid! Maaaaa!”
Blair tightens his grip on his right arm. Tears streak down his soot-stained face. “We’re so sorry, Haymitch. We tried. You know we did. We just couldn’t save them.”
Haymitch refuses to hear it—or maybe he can’t. Burdock’s ears are still ringing, too. “No! Let me go!” He thrashes under them, screaming and pleading just like he did in that arena for you. Burdock doesn’t let up, though his own body is trembling again. “Let me go with them! Please!”
The fire is finally dying, a slow and stubborn process. As it dwindles, Burdock knows no one could have survived that. He should’ve come sooner.
Today’s sunrise is a harrowing one, putting the last fourteen to shame. The ash tinges the yellow of the sky with two more deaths on top of the three they’ve already been mourning. Haymitch refuses to let up, hysterical to the point where there’s a good chance he’ll hurt himself.
Burdock sees Asterid rushing over, and he forces himself to breathe. “Can you help him?”
She looks between the fire and Haymitch, her face bunched up. Kneeling beside his head, she unscrews the bottle of sleep syrup. “Drink this, Haymitch. Drink until I say when.”
He listens and parts his lips when she brings the bottle to them. She pours the syrup down his throat. “One, two, three, four, five—okay, when.” She pulls back the bottle and caresses his hair. “That’s right. That’s good. Try to rest now.”
Haymitch blinks languidly. “What…?”
“Just some sleep syrup.”
“Ma… Sid…” His hazy eyes find Burdock again, and he whimpers your name.
Such a small, pitiful sound, and yet, it breaks Burdock clean in half. He stumbles back.
Asterid glances at him, pained, then continues to reassure Haymitch. “I know. I know. We’ll do what can be done. You go to sleep now. Sleep.”
As Haymitch fades into unconsciousness, Burdock fleetingly thinks to take him back to his home. Mama wouldn’t deny him that, and neither would Papa. But Burdock… He has so many questions he wants to ask about things he saw and things he didn’t. Questions about your last moments and why you aren’t here. Questions that are his burden to bear, not Haymitch’s. When he wakes, he’ll have to reckon with what’s happened this morning, and with what happened while he was away.
In the freshness of his own loss—one they share in different ways—Burdock doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stick to that understanding. He doesn’t know how not to ask.
So, when Blair poses the problem of where Haymitch should go, he takes him to the McCoy’s.
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
The wide eyes that greet him are kinder than any of the creatures who haunted him in the Capitol lab. Much sadder, too. “Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Hay.” Louella brushes a curl out of her face. Past her shoulder, there are three other beds in the room. She moves from the floor to the edge of his mattress. “I’m real sorry about your ma, and Sid, and…”
His chest only responds with a slight pang. He’s almost entirely numb again, and he guesses the sleep syrup is to thank for that. “Do you know what happened?” To his ma and Sid. Everyone already knows what he did to you.
“Cayson saw the first kindlings. Shouted us all awake. We all ran to help any way we could. Well, they didn’t let me close enough to do much, but I tried.” She plays with the end of one of her braids.
“I’m sure you did, sweetheart,” he says with as much sincerity as his heavy heart allows. She did try. More than anything he ever did for them.
Mrs. McCoy walks in with a steaming mug of tea cupped in both hands. “Good, you’re up.” She shoos Louella off the bed. “Time to get ready, honey. Go put on your dress.” Haymitch accepts the mug, noticing the bandages around his knuckles. She sighs. “Sorrel brought a suit for you to wear. I reckon you want out of that.”
He glances down at Great-Uncle Silius’s champagne jacket. “Why do I need a…” The dread is instant. He thought he slept through the funerals.
Mrs. McCoy breathes in. “We really did try, Haymitch. But the pump was slow, and your cistern was dry. Nothing else we could do once the house was aflame.”
“My fault,” he mumbles. He didn’t fill up the cistern, he didn’t listen to Snow, he didn’t save any one of you.
“You’ll be thinking everything’s your fault for a long while. But that’s gotta wait. We bury them today. You know what your ma would want. You got others who need you today, too.”
Too numb to do anything else but listen, Haymitch gets out of bed. He dresses in your pa’s loaned suit, a blue as dark as the night sky, not the shade of your bird’s wings. The cuffs are lined with purple detailings. Each piece of cloth is a whip to his back.
Ima, their eldest daughter, comes in with the champagne ensemble clean and folded. Her eyes are filled with the same sympathy as Louella’s, as Effie’s, as all those back in the Capitol who’d come up to mention you. Punishing in opposite ways. “We’ll leave this here for now.”
Haymitch gives an absentminded nod. With his own clothes burned to ash, he’ll have to reuse that suit for the coming weeks. He tucks his flintstriker under his shirt.
Outside, a single pine coffin awaits them. Mr. McCoy clamps a hand over his shoulder. “They had hold of each other. Thought we’d let them stay that way.”
Ma and Sid clinging to each other for eternity. It’s all the comfort he’ll ever get.
Burdock comes by with your parents. In the light of day, his urgency faded to nothing, Haymitch sees him clearly. His hair looks unwashed, and the bags under his eyes give away the sorrow his stoicism attempts to hide. Your ma and pa share the same weariness. Each of them are dressed in dark colors, but not complete black.
Sorrel glances over at Haymitch, who immediately ducks his head. Barb Azure gives a gentle call of his name, and he pretends not to hear it.
He doesn’t deserve to see the faces who gave you yours.
Burdock and Sorrel help carry the coffin, alongside Blair and Mr. McCoy. Yours must be at the graveyard already. Haymitch’s shame grows tenfold. He took them from you, and still, they are here for him.
He limps behind them as they proceed. Mourners from every corner of the Seam join them. By the time they reach the graveyard, there are a couple hundred of them waiting. Most, if not all of them, should be at work. They’ll call in sick, come up with some excuse. But they all need to grieve together now.
Haymitch scans the crowd, avoiding the eyes flickering over to him, which are no doubt casting their judgement for how he did you wrong. He focuses on the four graves already dug, on the other three coffins spread throughout the hill. One for Maysilee, one for Wyatt, one for you. Yours is next to Wyatt, though, which doesn’t make sense. Neither does the fact that Burdock and Barb Azure are still by his side while Sorrel takes a shovel to the Everdeen plot. And why is the rest of your kin missing? They should be here for you now.
As Burdock steps back from Ma and Sid’s shared coffin, Haymitch finally gathers the will to speak to him. “Where’s Lenore Dove?”
“In jail.”
Seems he is capable of something other than shame right now: panic. “What?”
Burdock tugs him closer by the elbow and whispers, “She’ll be there for the burial. My uncles are getting her home now.”
“I don’t—” Haymitch meets his eyes, a different shade than yours, and yet all he’s met with is your reflection.
He doesn’t explain further. Instead, he points to the pine coffin beside Wyatt’s and asks, “Who’s the other one for?”
A woman behind them answers, “Jethro Callow. Hung himself yesterday when his boy returned. Couldn’t bear the shame.”
No money to be made off Wyatt’s death then. Good.
The mayor arrives to speak over the departed. Haymitch can hardly understand him. He listens to the birdsong instead, searches for your melody among them, tries to stand with dignity as Ma would want.
For a horrible moment, he sees Maysilee across the graveyard, dressed in her District 12 black, and calls out to her. She bursts into tears and buries her face into a handkerchief. Merrilee. Mr. Donner sobs beside her.
Haymitch recoils. More eyes fall on him again, taking in their deranged, selfish victor. Blair helps him back into his place. He keeps watch on those around the Donners. The mayor’s son, Asterid, Otho. Oliver Schmidt, downtrodden and crying like the rest of them.
Would he have let this happen to you? Probably not. Oliver Schmidt, with all his niceties, would’ve given you a better shot at life.
Coffins are lowered into the ground. Dirt falls atop them with rhythmic thuds. Burdock and Barb Azure join Sorrel by the small hole he dug, kneeling together. Sorrel retrieves something from his pocket that Haymitch can’t make out from here. He lays it into the dirt, and all three of them patch up the hole with their hands.
A kind soul lays wildflowers on each mound. Sorrel follows with willow tree branches. The sight of them, the wailing, the lingering scent of ash is all so wretched, Haymitch wants to run and hide away.
But then Burdock begins to sing, and the nearby mockingjays fall silent. What choice does Haymitch have but to do the same?
He floats through the first verses in that clear, sweet voice of his. Despite the pieces his heart must be in now, he doesn’t waver. He is as steadfast and open as when you sang for Mamaw. For Maysilee. His strength latches onto the mourners, who’ve all quieted by the time he reaches the end.
When I’m pure like a dove,
When I’ve learned how to love,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore.
Unlike the Covey girl, Burdock’s melody doesn’t haunt Haymitch. As the mockingjays pick up the tune, he only thinks of the hereafter in his song. Your other world, where you’re surely free now. Where Ma and Sid are, too.
Person after person begins their goodbyes to the dead. Haymitch presses his three middle fingers to his lips and raises his hand high, like everyone else. He glimpses at your family, now enveloped by stray mourners who’ve wandered, not to offer their condolences, but to cherish who you were.
Once it’s over, his numbness returns. The McCoys usher people back to their place. Blindly, Haymitch starts after them. Burdock stops him, pulls him away from the crowd and towards his parents. It’s unbearable to be near them. He doesn’t want, nor need, the reminder that he has no parents anymore. He doesn’t need to know the pain he’s caused yours in order to feel it.
He bites down on his tongue when Barb Azure pulls him into an embrace. She smells of blackberries and the dirt where some piece of you was just buried. Haymitch will not, cannot, cry. He has no right to force her into a position of comforting him.
She pulls back and holds his face in her hands, giving him no choice but to look at her. He sees you in her eyebrows, and nose, and the way she holds herself a little taller as she says, “Come along now.”
Haymitch can’t deny her, or any of your family, a thing. So, he forces his legs not to crumble as they start the trek out of the graveyard. He expects to see your house on the horizon, but they head the opposite way. Right towards the Covey home.
His feet stammer, and Sorrel lifts him up before he can trip over a rock. To the side of their garden, right next to the porch, is your coffin. “I-I can’t.”
“I know, son,” Sorrel says, choked.
It’s too late to run when Lenore Dove comes out the door in a red dress, much darker than the one she wore to the reaping. She spots him and somehow manages to smile through her tears. Scurrying down the steps, she hugs Burdock, who immediately drops his head onto her shoulder. She doesn’t give Haymitch a chance to refuse as she reaches for his wrist and ropes him in too.
For what seems like hours, they stand there, wrapped in their love for you.
Haymitch lifts his gaze and sees your uncles up on the porch. Tam Amber is carrying something wrapped in a blanket. It’s more fascinating to him than Haymitch; he’s careful not to look at him. Clerk Carmine, however, can only seem to stare at the boy he always knew to be trouble. Turns out he was right.
Burdock peels off first, and Haymitch finds himself face-to-face with your coffin again. Your parents and uncles are whispering beside it. “We’ll meet you by the fence.”
Lenore Dove nods, leading Haymitch through the meadow. The geese are free roaming, but not one of them stops to honk at him. Even they find him unworthy of anything more than indifference. Or maybe they’re too stricken by their own grief.
Once they reach the fence, he sinks down to the grass. She kneels in front of him. Part of him wants to ask why she was in jail and if she’s okay. But it’s clear she’s not. There’s no turning off the faucet of her sadness. The only thing he can do to help is to tell her what he was too much of a coward to say to Burdock directly. “I couldn’t save her. I tried, and I couldn’t, and I’m—” His voice catches, and Lenore Dove grabs his hands.
“Oh, Haymitch.” She shakes her head. “I don’t blame you. None of us do, and she’d be furious if you believed otherwise.”
How does he begin to explain to her that Clerk Carmine does blame him, and so does everyone else in Twelve, and it’s only a matter of time before the odd ones out fall in line? He cannot say anything to hurt her further. So, he only murmurs, “She’s already angry with me.”
“For what? Pulling her name from that bowl? Creating the Hunger Games to begin with? Because if that’s the case, then we’re all to blame.” She stifles a sob and wipes her face. “You didn’t make things the way they are, Haymitch, but every one of us is responsible for finding a way to change them. Now more than ever, don’t you see that?”
He does. Of course he does. He fought to make things better. All it got him was a pool of blood on his hands that started with Ampert and ended with his own family. “She’s dead, Lenore Dove. She’s dead, and I can’t change that. I can’t change anything, because it is my fault. Every one of them—I killed them.”
“No,” is all she says as the others near. She stands, sniffling. “You didn’t.”
Yes. I did.
Lenore Dove and Barb Azure pry the opening in the fence for them to slip your coffin through. They cling to each other as the others carry it. Haymitch trails behind, as useless as he was earlier with his own ma and Sid. Why is he even here?
Clerk Carmine doesn’t want him around, that’s always been clear. Tam Amber hasn’t even acknowledged him. Your parents have brought him because they’re good people. Burdock’s allowed it because he’s still committed to the friendship Haymitch broke. Aside from Lenore Dove, the only person who may have genuinely wanted him here is you. But you don’t.
“Don’t follow.”
They’re your kin. Haymitch is nothing but the reason you’re dead.
“Don’t follow.”
He wants to. He wants to be free in your heaven. He wants to be with you and his whole family. He wants to beg your forgiveness, and that of everyone else who’s surely angry with him too. Instead, he’s here. Wading through the woods with those who loved and knew you best.
“Don’t follow.”
The illicitness creeps up on Haymitch. He’s fourteen and carrying you to them again, listening to the Covey sing, intruding on something he hasn’t earned the right to witness. Up front, the blanket slips off the item in Tam Amber’s right arm, revealing the edges of a gravestone.
“No,” Haymitch mutters, stumbling.
Lenore Dove turns around. Everyone stops. “Haymitch, what is it?”
“I can’t,” he repeats. “I can’t be here. Can’t follow.”
“You can be here,” she insists, reaching for his hand again. “We want you here.”
He shakes his head, trying to ward off the chill in his spine. Everything’s already blurred around the edges. “Can’t,” he mumbles one last time. He lets go of Lenore Dove’s hand and makes a break in the opposite direction.
“Haymitch, wait!” Burdock calls out for him.
He hears Clerk Carmine chide Lenore Dove as she joins Burdock’s attempts to stop him. Haymitch doesn’t wait to see if they’re running after him, picking up his pace to get far, far away. He doesn’t retrace his steps back to Twelve. He’s better off finding his own hole of earth to crawl into and die.
The trees fade around him, and his dizziness is as much to blame as the haze of his eyes. Effectively lost, Haymitch crumbles to his knees and gags. Nothing comes out. His stomach contracts, thrumming with a hunger he didn’t think he was capable of anymore.
He dry heaves once. Then again. And again and again. The sobs are instantaneous. He digs his nails into the dirt and rocks, slamming his head downward. He’ll wither away out here, starve to death, and that’ll be just fine. Maybe a coyote will find him and speed up the process. Or a wolf. Or a snake. There are any number of things that can put him out of his misery.
I can’t be here.
“What’s the matter, peach?”
His head snaps up, searching high and low until he finds the maple tree. Finds you. Perched on a branch, in your colorless arena outfit, hair wild and free in the wind. Glass sticks out of your abdomen. The next sob lodges itself in his throat.
You tilt your head, pouting. “Thought you wanted to be with me.”
Haymitch keels over and spills out his empty stomach.
synopsis : reader is mckenna grace's cousin who gets to visit her in germany as she films sunrise on the reaping ! what happens when mckenna's costar, joseph zada, takes a not so subtle interest in her ?
fc: pdm clara
requested by anon <3 !!!
HEYYY ! my first request !!! thank you anon for submitting this ! i thought this concept was so cute when i first read it in my inbox but i never quite got around to it until now 🥹 also sorry i couldn't find the full name for the fc for this one, but her instagram is pdm.clara ! anyway, thanks for the request, i hope you enjoy it, see you soooon <333
Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Everdeen!reader, Implied BIPOC!reader
✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶
“No deal.”
“Oh, c’mon!” groans Hemlock, the tailor who you’ve been haggling with for the last twenty minutes.
Hemlock does more than sew—his business in the Hobb sways towards the selling of clothes and fabric, not the mending of them. You could fix up a piece of cloth quicker than he can, but the silks and tulles at his display keep you coming. And you need a very particular one right now to finish a trade with Cindy, who deals in more luxury goods.
Dealing is an art. You’ve spent years observing and picking up on your papa’s approaches, developing your own. You also learned early on that each seller requires a personalized touch. In Hemlock’s case, he responds better to playing hardball. Gets a kick out of good banter, and always knocks the price when you give it to him.
So that’s what you do now. “You want me to cough up twice the worth of tulle, the jar of honey, and the blackberries? You know how hard it was to find ripe blackberries this time of year?”
“You know what tulle is worth, girl?” says Hemlock, propping his palms on the table and rattling the coins.
“I know you’ve charged me less for more in the past,” you snipe. But he’s being especially difficult now, and it has more to do with his current gripe with Cindy than with you.
The two of them have been on-and-off for as long as you’ve been coming down to the Hob with your papa and Burdock. At the moment, they’re off again. They’re well into their thirties, but they act like a pair of teenagers when it comes to one another. That’s what Hattie said once when you dropped by to pick up a bottle for a different trade with Asterid.
“Ain’t gossip if it’s true,” she said when you chided her for spreading their business around. Everyone in Twelve was guilty of it—gossip, that is. Seam folk, for all their integrity, always patched up their chatter of others with a simple who are we to judge? Or some variation of Hattie’s dismissal. Not like you didn’t do the same. How else are things meant to get around if not by word-of-mouth?
Haymitch was there at the time, lugging in the carts and helping set up shop. He caught wind of your conversation because apparently he had nothing better to do than eavesdrop. His shit-eating grin only grew as he chimed, “You’re the one who asked what terms they were on today, sunshine.”
“Was I talking to you?” you snapped. He laughed and laughed until Hattie sent him back to work.
They’re not here yet, and good thing. You made sure to time your excursion around their arrival. It’s a Saturday, so there’s no school. The miners aren’t off until Sunday, meaning the Hob’s got a steady flow but it’s not bustling with business. Hattie and Haymitch won’t be here until mid-morning.
That’s how it is every Saturday, save for those rare occasions when the mines are closed for upkeep. They set up at normal time then. On Sundays, they arrive even earlier, and during the weekdays, Haymitch helps her pack on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
You’ve memorized the schedule because it serves you to know when Hattie’s around to trade—white liquor can buy you just about anything with most shopkeepers. Not because you care about Haymitch’s whereabouts.
Well—you do right now. If he sees you still at Hemlock’s by the time he's off, then he’ll wander over to pester you. And once he’s planted himself, there’s no uprooting him. So then you’ll have to come Monday to finalize things. By that point, Hemlock and Cindy may have reconciled, and the price she offered—one yard of sheer silver tulle she’s too stubborn to ask for herself—will have tripled in actual money.
Hemlock breaks your staring contest with a huff. “Times are hard, girl.”
“No harder for you than everyone else,” you say, scooping up the coins.
“All right.” He holds up a hand to stop you. “I’ll knock off the honey for double the change.”
Any other day, he’d give you the yard for blackberries alone. “No deal.”
“You gotta be—”
“No. Deal.” You spit out each word intentionally.
Hemlock throws up his arms, exasperated.
“There a problem over here?”
You don’t have to look over to know which of the sleazeballs is talking.
Slater has been here for seven months now, enlisted at the age of twenty-two from District Two, an alliteration you’re not fond of. He’s an only child, orphaned at sixteen, and was in the top ten of his class at the Peacekeeper’s academy. But he has to pay his dues if he wants to climb on up the ladder.
You learned all that through Myrtle, the loose-lipped grandma who lives across from you and insists all the kids call her Meemaw. You like her fine enough to do as she prefers.
“No, sir,” answers Hemlock, painting on an easygoing smile.
“And you, doll?” Slater steps closer, tapping your bare shoulder with his knuckle. You suddenly regret choosing the sleeveless blouse today. “He giving you trouble?”
He’s not the first Peacekeeper to call you that, to look at you the way he does, but he is the first to toy with your boundaries so blatantly. The most frustrating part is that he’s technically subtle—a light caress, a quick bump of shoulders, a lean into your space. Even if he escalated past that, it’d be another thing swept under the rug.
Sometimes, though, you think of what an arrow might look like sticking out of his head, not just above it. Now’s one of those times.
Slater is out of uniform, in casual dress, which is just a plain old jumpsuit. He looks older than his age, but he’s handsome, which you feel certain has gotten him out of plenty. It makes you sick to your stomach.
“Not at all,” you say sweetly. Slater may be top ten strength-wise, but he’s dense as rocks and too full of himself to ever pick up on the bite in your tone. “Just a friendly haggle.”
He looks down at the scattering of fabric, steps closer to you. His presence is a secondary feeling to another; out of the corner of your eye, you see Burdock approaching with urgency. Lucky thing Slater’s done poking around. “Hmm. Carry on then,” he says, and leaves you with a wink.
Burdock takes Slater’s place with a kinder, familiar disposition. His eyes flicker from you to the back of the sleazeball’s fading head before they permanently settle on your face with a silent question. Your smile comes as sincere as can be—relieved and simultaneously intended to brush off Burdock’s concern. But it's wobbly enough that he can tell your feigned ignorance is exactly that.
“What’s going on?” he says more than asks.
You sigh. “What’s going on now is Hemlock still won’t budge.”
The seller in question mutters about difficult customers.
Burdock purses his lips, but a lift of your shoulder gets him sighing himself. He turns to Hemlock. “Still? You dragging this on all day then?”
He taps the table. “It’s like I told your sister, boy, tulle’s a hot commodity these days.”
“You had this exact piece last week,” you scoff out.
“You know,” chimes Burdock, “Zeb said he’d throw in two more bars of soap for half a tray of blackberries.”
“Did he? I am fond of the jasmine.” Zeb’s is a hot spot on account of him being the only supplier of top-of-the-line toiletries and fragrances.
“He’ll probably throw in some paraffin too if we give him the whole thing.”
Feeling Hemlock’s attention grow panicked, you hum contently. “Mama’s been wanting to make candles of late. It’d be a nice surprise for her.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Burdock clicks his teeth and grabs hold of the tray. “I’ll take ’em to him now.”
You pocket your coins and hold up the honey jar. “What do you think he’ll give us for this?”
He shrugs, already turning around. “Hand cream, probably.”
“Fine by me.”
“Wait.” Hemlock huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. You and Burdock regard him neutrally as he mulls over his next offer. “I’ll give you the tulle…for the blackberries and first pick of tomorrow’s game.”
You cross your arms. “Second pick.”
“First,” he insists.
“Hattie’s got first,” Burdock says. “It’s second or not at all.”
Hemlock narrows his eyes. “Okay. Second.” He lets up when Burdock places the tray of blackberries back on the table. With a sigh, he hands over your prize.
You beam, snatching the fabric. “Pleasure doing business with you, Hemlock.”
He rolls his eyes. “And with you, sweetheart.” As you walk away, you catch him muttering, “Got me a damn headache now.”
There’s a victorious smile playing on your lips as you drag Burdock to Cindy’s booth. Your very last stop, where the sixth piece to your puzzle awaits, and then finally, finally, you’ll be done with the collection.
Burdock spares you a curious look. “You’re going through an awful lot of trouble for this gift.”
“I go through trouble for everyone’s gifts,” you say dismissively, because you do. Just—
“Not like this,” he says, swiping the tulle from your hands. “Not for Haymitch.”
Your stomach churns, and the sensation—the fear—of exposure spreads throughout your body. “I got him something last year. And the year before. And the year before that.”
“Sure, okay.” Burdock waves a hand in the air to keep you from rattling off your tally. “I’m just pointing out that this year you’re real concerned about what to get him.”
“I am not concerned,” you snap. “Sixteen’s a special birthday.” Made all the more by the shit luck of being born on reaping day. So what if you want to give Haymitch something worthy of the occasion? It’s not a big deal, and it is not abnormal.
“Not as special as eighteen,” he counters with a snort. The year everyone holds out for. The year you’ll finally be able to breathe. Burdock has a point there.
You snatch the tulle back from his dusty hands. “Don’t worry, Burdie, all this means is I’ll just put less effort into your birthday gift this year.”
“Ha ha.” He clonks his side into you; you elbow him in return, going on with this back-and-forth shoving until you reach Cindy.
Never one to dawdle or chitchat, she gets right down to business. “You got what I asked for?”
You hold up the tulle smugly. Her dull gray eyes brighten. Before she can reach for it, you pull your hand back. “And my charm?”
Cindy squints your way and digs through a ceramic bowl of beads. She pinches the raindrop-shaped pendant between her fingers. The indigo petals encased within the resin are as vibrant as the day they first bloomed.
Burdock gapes. “That a larkspur?”
“Shut up,” you hiss, feeling your face burn up. You put the tulle next to a jar of buttons and clips. Cindy drops the charm into your outstretched hand. Sweet and simple. Unlike her better half.
She smiles as she runs the fabric across her cheek, looking up-and-down at Burdock, who’s still slack-jawed. “What’s the deal with larkspur?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says with mock neutrality. “Only that—”
You flick him upside the head. Ignoring his ow! and pocketing the pendant, you clear your throat. “Hemlock misses you.”
Cindy nearly lets the tulle slip from her fingers. “Does he? Hm.”
You nod, feigning innocent care. “It’s written all over his face.”
“Course it is. Maybe he wouldn’t miss me so much if that no good son of a—” She cuts herself off, taking deep, heavy breaths until her composure returns. She folds the tulle and smiles tightly. “Y’all have a nice day now.”
“Back at ya,” mutters Burdock, rubbing the nape of his neck.
“Stop exaggerating,” you chide as he continues to nurse the infliction. The two of you round a corner back down where you came up. “It didn’t hurt that bad.”
“You nicked me with your nails. They’re sharp.” He scoffs, then immediately falls back into taunting, “And what was that about you not being concerned over this?”
“Sometimes a larkspur’s just a larkspur, Burdock,” you say, annoyed. “I read in one of C.C.’s nature books that they’re July’s birth flower.”
“What’s ours?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t read that part.”
“Convenient.”
“My point,” you grumble, “is that’s the reason I picked this one out. No other.”
“Oh, is that it?” Burdock snickers. “Look, it’s thoughtful of you. All I’m saying is Haymitch is gonna bug you ’bout this ’til he’s blue in the face if he finds out. I know he still gets under your skin.”
He’s never left it, really. “Good thing you’re not gonna tell him ’bout it then,” you snark. “None of his business anyway.”
You might’ve, very briefly and accidentally, mentioned it once to Haymitch already. When showing him Clerk Carmine’s book, actually. This was a couple years back during lunchtime at school. You’d been reading the book while waiting for Lenore Dove, who had a quiz to retake on account of an absence credited to her second arrest. Of course, Haymitch decided to use the opportunity to pester you.
To get him off your back, you showed him the page on larkspur. The book, less about nature’s proprieties and technical uses, more about superstitions since shed for others, led him to ask a whole string of questions. From there, your papa’s story of larkspur’s significance to your papaw and mamaw, the sweet details of their loving engagement, spilled right out of your mouth. Such a quick comment in a much larger conversation, you doubt he remembers it.
Burdock huffs out a laugh. “Shit, you got me rethinking my gift to him.”
He and Haymitch don’t give each other gifts in the traditional sense. They tend to carve out a time in the day to do something, or impart a gesture, instead.
“Skinny dipping again?” You don’t hide the distaste on your face.
“Blair’s joining this time,” he says as if that’s sure-fire proof of a great plan.
“Fun.”
“It will be.”
You roll your eyes, slipping your hand back into the pocket of your skirt. Once you deliver the pendant to Tam Amber, you’ll be free to spend the rest of the day with Lenore Dove and Burdock in the meadow. Maybe even venture into the woods, stir up whatever mischief the day’s left you with.
Haymitch’s birthday isn’t for another month and a half, which is plenty of time to bind the charms together, and only a third of the time you’ve spent saving for and finding them all. You haven’t minded though, at all.
The idea struck you soon after finishing Lenore Dove’s birthday gift—a binding of all the loose leaf poetry you’ve found over time—and you weren’t about to ignore it. Any year grown older is special—there’s nothing grand about you wanting to make it so for Haymitch? Besides, it's high time you stepped up the quality of your presents. It isn’t as odd as Burdock finds it, and it is in no way indicative of anything but the fact that you’ve been somewhat friends for a good number of years now.
“Hey, Hay!”
Your head nearly snaps off with the force of how quickly you turn around. Burdock can’t keep his mouth shut long enough for you to walk the two feet it’d take to reach the exit and be home-free? No, of course not. He has to flag Haymitch down as soon as he spots him and Hattie. And why stop there? He’s gotta go say hi to his best friend, invite him to join you later, force you along with him. After all, passing on the opportunity to snipe at Haymitch will only look suspicious. To both of them.
You get away with only a curt nod in greeting. Burdock’s already got center stage, telling Haymitch all about his own luck trading today.
“How were the Marches this morning?” asks Haymitch, utterly smug.
“Lovely as ever.” Burdock shrugs nonchalantly, but there’s no hiding the love-struck grin on his face.
You snicker. Pretending not to notice the way Haymitch’s eyes flicker your way, or how they look more gray than blue today, you chat up Hattie. “You hear Hemlock and Cindy are on the outs again?”
Hattie sighs, organizing the bottles on her table.“Damn fool forgot their anniversary.”
Haymitch lifts another crate. “Which one?”
“Their original.”
Burdock shudders. You and Haymitch let out a simultaneous oooh. He wrinkles his nose. “Bad move, Hemlock.”
Hattie agrees with a short hm, then she narrows her eyes at Haymitch. “Am I paying you to gossip, boy? Finish lugging in the crates.” She looks you and Burdock over. “And then you can get with your friends.”
Your groan is drowned out by Burdock and Haymitch’s disbelieving smiles.
“Really?”
“Well don’t make me change my mind,” says Hattie, motioning to the table.
Eager to speed up the process, Burdock volunteers, “Here, I’ll help.” He makes a beeline for the heavier crates behind the booth while you drag your fingers across the tablecloth.
Haymitch, picking up on your discontent, gestures your way and tells Hattie, “She doesn’t like it when you call us friends.”
She spares you her skepticism. “She’d like what I should call you even less.”
You frown, your confusion mirrored by Haymitch when you lock eyes. Hattie chuckles under her breath, and instead of asking her what she means like you want, you frown at him, “Don’t talk about me like I ain’t here.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say, sunshine.” But the grin plastered on his face says he’s more than happy to keep pushing your buttons.
You scoff and turn away, waiting for him and Burdock to unpack the last of the crates, the larkspur burning a hole in your pocket. You relent and offer your own help once the irritation wears off.
“All done, Hattie,” says Haymitch, noticeably vibrating with the anticipation of his dismissal.
She assesses the work done, the lines of bottles atop the table, the stacks of crates organized behind it. “All right.” She gives his shoulder a pat. “Go on now. Bright and early tomorrow, you hear me?”
Falling in step with you and Burdock, Haymitch shoots her a thumbs up. He waits until you’re out of the Hob, walking down the spiraling gravel, to ask, “Where’re we going then?”
“To our uncles’ first,” says Burdock, shrugging. “Day’s up in the air after that.”
“We picking up Lenore Dove?”
“Yup,” you answer, skipping over a rock in your way. “And I have to chat with Tam Amber about something.” You grimace almost immediately, cursing your slip up. Stupid.
“’Bout what?”
“Doesn’t concern you, Abernathy.”
Burdock gives you a sidelong glance, his earlier teasing rematerializing across his expression. Concerns him a little.
You ignore him, readjusting your hair scarf when you feel it slipping down.
“That new?” asks Haymitch across from Burdock’s head.
“Mhm. Made it out of an old scrap.” A ripped magenta shirt Tam Amber used around his workshop.
“I like it on you,” he says, clearing his throat a little when Burdock eyes him judgementally. You don’t know if your brother notices the flush on Haymitch’s cheeks, but you do. “The color, I mean. It’s nice.”
“Me too.” You wince and add, “Thanks.”
Burdock exhales a whistle, an indication of gratitude not to be caught in the middle of a catfight like he’s been in the past. You let him take over talking from here to your uncles’ home, passing your own on the way. Like most Saturday afternoons, loose-lipped Myrtle rests on her porch. She warms the three of you with a smile when you let out harmonious greetings of hi, Meemaw.
Lenore Dove is reading on the steps by the time the house fades into your line of sight. You run without waiting for Burdock and Haymitch to catch up. Back turned, she must sense you, because she stands to her feet and whirls around to catch your hands in hers.
“Don’t you look darling,” you say, planting a kiss on her cheek.
“Don't you look happy.” She laughs, squeezing your fingers. “I take it that trading went well?”
“Very.” You reach into your pockets but don’t pull out the charm yet. Can’t risk it with Haymitch nearby. “How’re the geese today?”
“Leslie’s mad at Violet.” Lenore Dove frowns, concerned. “She keeps hissing at her! Won’t even let her get within an inch of her. I don’t know what happened between them last night.”
You sigh, thinking back on Hemlock and Cindy’s conflict. “Seems to be the common theme lately.”
Lenore Dove knits her brows together.
“Tell you about it later.” You tap her elbow and motion behind you, sensing doofus one and two approaching.
“Oh.” Her eyes go wide with joy when she peeks over your shoulder. She greets with a toothy smile, “Hi, Haymitch. I thought you were with Hattie all day.”
“She thought I deserved the time off,” shrugs Haymitch, just as kind-mannered.
There’s relief in seeing Lenore Dove’s excitement, one that comes tinged with an old ache—made worse when Haymitch invades the space at your side—that you’d rather not analyze. If you were to do so, if you were to tug on the string and follow it straight down to the cause, it’d only put you on a path you can’t afford. It’s a fleeting sensation, anyway, one you haven’t really felt in a while. One made up of guilt more than want, paling in comparison to your sweet cousin’s wellbeing.
Clearing your throat, you ask, “Tam Amber’s inside, right?”
Lenore Dove nods, fiddling with the ring on her thumb. “He’s been waiting on you.”
“Hold on now,” Burdock stops you halfway up the steps. He pulls the soap bars from his jacket, handing them over. “Take these to C.C., will you?”
Lenore Dove snatches them before you can. “I’ll take them with you. C’mon.”
She carries the soap atop the book she’d been reading and dashes up the steps, yanking on your arm. Her eagerness to see the charm slips through her cover. As soon as you’re both inside, she slams the door shut and closes the curtains on the window granting a direct view into the kitchen.
You scurry to shut the curtains on the other side of the door, peaking out to make sure Haymitch and Burdock are still below the steps.
“What are y’all peeping at?”
Your feet skid across the floor, seeking out the voice and greeting Tam Amber with a hug. He looms over the couch where Clerk Carmine is sitting with a book of his own. You lean down to accept his kiss to your hair. He sets his book down on the couch. “Did I hear that boy out there?”
“He followed us back from the Hob,” you say, picking up his book to smell the pages. Rusted with wood and earth. Just how you like them.
Clerk Carmine arches both brows, unimpressed. “Like a stray?”
“C.C., please,” scolds Lenore Dove, jaw tightening as she turns to you from the kitchen window with eyes both pleading and sympathetic.
“I invited him to join us,” you lie, because that’s the easiest way to get Clerk Carmine to let up on Haymitch being around.
He settles back against the pillows. “What’d you do that for?”
“Felt like it.” You shrug, maneuvering the conversation to better news. “I got the last charm.”
Tam Amber squeezes your shoulder. “Let’s see it, sunflower.”
Even Clerk Carmine, whose face is still soured by the knowledge of Haymitch standing outside their home, lightens when you hold the larkspur high above for them to see. You’re certain, by his reaction more than Lenore Dove’s or Tam Amber’s, that your mama has never mentioned the story to them. You’ve never told Lenore Dove, never had reason to, though you have found one to keep it in the Everdeen family now.
“It’s just like you described it,” says Lenore Dove, beaming. Her attention flickers down to the loot in her own hands. “Oh! Burdock brought these.”
Tam Amber grabs one of the bars. “Why didn’t he come in?”
“He’s keeping Haymitch company.”
Clerk Carmine mutters under his breath.
Tam Amber passes Lenore Dove the bar again. “Put them in the bathroom for me, honey.”
She nods and rushes down the hall.
He looks back at you, stretching his hand for you to drop the pendant. “It’s a thoughtful gift you’ve planned.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” You toy with the charms clipped to your skirt’s waistline. They supplement the weight of the larkspur in your hand. “It’s nothing.”
Tam Amber taps your nose. “Don’t diminish how big that heart of yours is, sunflower.”
“Bigger than he deserves,” mumbles Clerk Carmine.
“Hush now, C.C.,” chides Tam Amber with the same scolding tone Lenore Dove uses.
You swallow down the nerves in your throat, unable and uncaring to figure out why they’re there in the first place. “Do you think he’ll like it?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Tam Amber runs a hand through your hair, smiling down at you. To your surprise, it’s Clerk Carmine who answers stiffly, “You could get that boy a lump of coal and he’d cherish it like gold.”
Though his tone is laced with distaste for Haymitch, something about the words causes warmth to flood your chest.
Tam Amber closes his fingers around the larkspur. “I’ll put it with the others and get to work tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” You roll your shoulders until the warmth unfurls, leaving you relieved.
Lenore Dove rounds the hallway corner, addressing your uncles quickly. “We’ll be in the meadow, okay?”
Clerk Carmine turns his head back to check the clock. “Uh—”
“We’ll keep to the boundary line,” you say, another poorly offered fib meant to ease him.
“Just be careful, yes?” Tam Amber hums. You’ve never known the meadow to be anything but.
“And be back an hour before sunset, Lenore Dove. Same goes for you and Burdock, little miss,” Clerk Carmine waves a finger at you. “Best not keep your mama worrying.”
You’re already halfway out the door with Lenore Dove rushing behind you. “We won’t. Promise.”
Your mama does like for you and Burdock to be home before it’s too dark out, unless she knows where you’re off to. But she’s nowhere near as strict as Clerk Carmine is with Lenore Dove. He relaxes more on weekends; on many, he still sets a curfew.
Down the steps, Burdock and Haymitch are locked into a game of rock-paper-scissors. You whir past them, tugging on Lenore Dove’s wrist and looking over at them. “You standing there all day?”
The thuds of their boots trail after you to the juniper by Lenore Dove’s rock. You plop down under the shade, one-by-one. Lenore Dove takes to making flower crowns, Burdock and Haymitch fall into uncharacteristic silence, you rest your eyes for a beat. You’d be more than happy to stay like this forever: under the comfort of the meadow, basking in the quiet birdsong, surrounded by your favorite people.
Not including Haymitch, obviously, who interrupts the serenity by asking, “What now?”
Burdock lifts a shoulder. “Cards?”
“I don’t have a death wish today, thanks,” he says, very pointedly towards you.
“We could play tag?”
You scrape your nail polish. It’s been years since you’ve played. “Mm, I’m not in the mood. We could do a scavenger hunt.”
“Gonna make us search for lilies again, huh?” asks Haymitch, leaning back on his hands.
“Not just lilies. It was honeysuckle and roses, too.” You weave your fingers through the grass. “And no. We could just…agree on a theme.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like,” you shrug, “leaves.”
“Or bugs,” sighs Burdock, lying flat on his back.
Lenore Dove passes you a dandelion wish. “We could also do rocks. There’s plenty of themes to choose from.”
You twirl the stem between your fingers. “Let’s do rocks. Whoever collects the most siltstone from the woods wins.”
Haymitch rubs his nose. “We going at it alone, or in pairs?”
“Pairs,” says Burdock. He sits up with a yawn. “Haymitch’s with me.”
“That’s too easy.” Lenore Dove shifts into a criss-crossed position. “Where’s the challenge if you just pick whoever you think is going to help you win?”
“Well, it's a good strategy. We’re allowed to choose our teams at school,” counters Haymitch.
“Air tight argument you got there,” you muse, setting the dandelion wish on your skirt. “Your team lost dodgeball yesterday.”
Burdock snorts. “Got you there, Abernathy.”
Haymitch nudges his shoulder. “You wanna be paired together now or not?”
“Here’s what we’re doing,” cuts in Lenore Dove, picking two pink wildflowers and two dandelions. She plucks off the buds. Understanding her intent, you slip off your hair scarf to fashion it into a pouch of sorts. “Pick one.” Lenore Dove drops in the buds and gives the makeshift pouch a shake. “And whoever’s matching will be paired together.”
Haymitch and Burdock mumble their agreement. “Yeah, all right.”
Lenore Dove holds the pouch out to you. With a sigh, you lift your wish right up to your lips and close your eyes.
Oh, wise birds of the heavens, do not stick me with Haymitch.
The seed heads are still floating around you when you pull out a new dandelion. Yellow-petaled this time. Burdock pulls out the pink wildflower. You cross your fingers and suck in a breath.
Your wish falls on deaf ears the moment Haymitch shows off the second dandelion, smiling from ear-to-ear. Why do you forsake me, birds of mine?
Lenore Dove tilts the pouch upside down, and out comes the second wildflower atop her lap. “Should we set perimeters?” She answers her own question, “Anything before the lake is fair.”
You accept the pouch back from her, aptly avoiding Haymitch as you push up. You tuck the dandelion behind your ear. “Whatever you say, cuz.”
Without wasting more precious minutes on rule-setting, you and Lenore Dove lead the way to the fence. She lets you slip through first, and as soon as she’s on the same side, you pull her far enough from the wire.
“Can we switch?” you whisper, glancing behind you.
Lenore Dove tilts her head, her eyes narrowed in disagreement rather than outright judgement. “Why?”
Why not? Why wouldn’t she jump at the chance to be on Haymitch’s team? She should. Immediately, that horrid, unwanted vulnerability begins bubbling in your stomach again. “You and Haymitch should be paired together.”
She stares at you patiently, peculiarly, like she’s waiting for you to admit to something. “The pairings are fine as is.” Lenore Dove smiles in that coded way the two of you use whenever you’re trying to let the other in on a secret. Except there is none to share on your end, so the code is completely unnecessary right now. “It’s okay.”
“Okay for you,” you grumble, rubbing your hands up and down your skirt to soothe yourself. “You’re not stuck with Abernathy.”
“What was that?” He pops up beside you like the irksome weed he is.
“Nothing,” you say and reach for his sleeve, giving a light tug for him to follow you. “Just that you better not make us lose.”
“If we lose, it’ll be on you, sunshine,” he mocks.
You poke his shoulder. “I know these woods better than you, jackass, so don’t think for a second that you’re carrying us.”
Burdock snickers, nudging Lenore Dove. “We’re so winning this thing.”
“Shut up, Burdie,” you and Haymitch spit out at once, which only makes them both laugh. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to sink into yourself.
Lenore Dove pats your arm. She points at the tallest mountain in the distance. “We meet back here by the time the sun reaches that mountaintop.”
Couldn’t come any sooner, apparently. Daytime stretches on as far as the eye can see in the woods. Taking to the eastern edge of the woods, Haymitch defers to you to recognize the siltstone. You use your makeshift pouch to carry a good amount of the collection. Haymitch pockets the rest.
“Ten so far.” He counts while you scan for more under the oak you’ve taken a break under. “Not bad.”
“We’ve got another hour.” By your estimate, that is. Plenty of time to double your loot. And when the sun touches the mountaintop, there’ll also be plenty of light left to make the most of the meadow before Lenore Dove is beckoned home. Before you and Burdock are expected back with her.
Haymitch twirls a limestone between his fingers. Not relevant to this scavenger hunt, technically, but it was worth picking up to him. You like limestones, anyway. Rare to find them around these parts. “So what’d you get from Cindy?”
His abruptness falls on you like an avalanche. Your feet forget what it means to actually work, and it takes more effort than it should to remind them how to resume your path casually. “How’d you know I was with Cindy?”
“I saw you leaving there on the way in with Hattie.”
“No you didn’t,” you deny instantly. “I mean—” A charm is too much of a giveaway, and he’ll only ask what kind or why you bought one or why you aren’t wearing it along with the others now. You could say a belt, but that doesn’t fit in your pockets, so he’d have seen it. There’s earrings, zippers, all kinds of materials that would be small enough to carry unnoticed and would serve as a satisfactory answer. “Buttons!”
Haymitch jolts a little, and you’re careful to lower your volume as you ramble on, “Buttons to fix my overalls. That’s what I got from Cindy. And you know, that’s also what I was talking to Tam Amber about. He’s fixing ’em for me.”
“Oh. Why don’t you fix ’em yourself?” He sputters when you glare at him, “I just— You could, that’s all I’m saying. You know how to sew, and that’s not really his…specialty.”
“Oh, right.” You always do your own mending, ever since you learned how, which of course Haymitch knows. He always notices these details about you. It’s infuriating. “’Cause of the buckles. They’re made of metal, and that is right up Tam Amber’s alley, so I thought I’d enlist his help. There’s nothing suspicious about that.” You nearly choke on the speed of the words flying out of your mouth.
Haymitch furrows his brows.
“I mean, wrong. There’s nothing wrong with asking for his help, and—” You stop in your tracks again. “And anyways, why were you watching me?”
“I wasn’t watching,” he says, his nose turning red. “I only noticed the back of your head. And your skirt. Could spot you a mile away in that thing.”
You bunch up your skirt. “You insulting my clothes now?”
His eyes bulge out of his head. “No!”
“I don’t go around picking at your patchwork,” you point at his shirt, made of blue and brown patches as opposed to your green and pink. “We’re practically matching!”
At that, the panic in his expression gives way to complete, utter amusement. “We are, aren’t we?”
Your skin burns, all the way to your toes. You suck your teeth. “There’s a siltstone right over there.”
He follows your finger to a large splotch of mud. “I don’t see it.”
“It’s right there. On the other side of the puddle.”
“That is not a puddle.”
You scoff. “It’s a puddle.”
“I can’t hop over it,” argues Haymitch. “You hop over puddles.”
“You splash in puddles,” you correct.
“Well puddles should be small enough to hop over.”
“Just go get it already.” You give him a push, and it’s unfortunate he doesn’t see the fallen branch in his way, which sends him face-down into the mud.
Doubling over, you wrap your arms around your stomach and press down to soothe the laugh aches. He flips onto his back, glowering. “Real funny.” He sits up, patches of mud all over his face and hair. “Help me up.”
“No way.” You drop your arms, keeping the pouch clutched in one hand. “I’m too smart to fall for that.”
“Where’d your bluebird go?” His wide eyes stare at the waistline of your skirt.
Your heart drops, and your head goes with it. “Huh?”
Haymitch gives your wrist a yank, and before you know it, mud lodges itself up your nose.
“Eugh!” You pinch the bridge of your nose and blow it out. You wipe your right hand, where your magenta hair-scarf-turned-pouch was just a second ago, down your skirt. “What the hell is wrong with you, Abernathy?”
He answers in full-blown chortles and gasps for steady air.
“Quit it, or I swear—” You can’t even take yourself seriously, your laugh bubbling into wholehearted snorts.
“You’ll what, exactly?” Haymitch demands through his own delirium. Neither of you are in the position to form exact sentences right now.
Between the mud coating your bottom lashes, whatever’s spotted on his face, and the tears spooling from the force of your laughter, you can hardly make him out. It’s the details that pull you back in: his sunmarks, the curve of his cupid’s bow, the freckle right above it, the flush peaking out of the mud stains.
You don’t make it a habit to notice these things about him—to admit you notice—but Haymitch looks unfairly pretty like this. Care-free and young, entirely unburdened by the need to shoulder the weight of the world.
“Sunshine,” he says, bordering on dazed, and you realize you’ve stopped laughing a good while ago. You hate when he gets like that—stuck in a daydream of sorts, voice so soft you have no choice but to confront the fuzziness he elicits in you. “Are you—”
“You got mud on your nose,” you blurt out.
Haymitch reels back, lips curving into a grin. “Might wanna look in a mirror.”
You bite down on the inside of your cheek. Beneath your palms, the mud squelches as you push up on steadier limbs, extending a hand as an olive branch between you and Haymitch. He doesn’t take it yet.
“Gimme a second.” He reaches behind, over another foot of mud, and picks up the siltstone. With the same hand, he grabs hold of your fallen pouch as you pull him up.
His fingers are calloused but warm, albeit sullied from the mud, and you shake off the instinct that tells you to lace your own through them. You dust them clean on your shirt instead, distracting yourself by watching the brown smear across the sage fabric.
“Eleven now,” muses Haymitch, bending down for the limestone that slipped from his grasp when he did.
“Let’s keep at it then.”
You don’t delve further into the woods, though, instead tracing the way back out to your meeting spot. There, seventeen rocks spread across each of your pockets, the eighteenth irrelevant, you collapse downward.
Flat on the grass, your palms laid on your stomach, now rumbling lightly with hunger, you expect the triumphant declarations of your brother and cousin any second now. Your eyes blur over, an exhaustion credited to an afternoon well spent as opposed to one in the throes of labor. A privilege that grows scarcer the older you get. They’re halfway shut when the glisten of a jagged white stone blocks the sun and steals your vision.
“This one’s for you,” says Haymitch, motioning for you to take the limestone.
You pinch it between your thumb and forefinger, letting it catch light before placing it atop your stomach.
“Think we won?”
You shake your head. “But I guess we’re both to blame.”
Haymitch wipes dried mud from his cheek. “Guess so. Still…wasn’t much of a loss.”
“No,” you agree softly. “Not a loss at all.”
It’d be nice to have a camera on you right now, to capture his picture perfect contentment. No matter, you’ll memorize it. He sighs, “Burdock's gonna be real annoying about this.”
“Probably,” you laugh.
One of the clouds merges into another, forming what looks like a blob of cotton candy. You assign the others images too: a duckling, a house, a fish.
“Hey, sunshine.”
You peek at Haymitch again. “Hm?”
He shifts to lie on his stomach, propped on his elbows. “How’s that poem of yours end again?”
So many poems to choose from, but you know the one he means. “Which part?”
“The happy part.”
You think to tell him that all three parts are happy in their own way, as they are mournful. Hope, at the very least, exists in equal measure with sadness, even at the poem’s most bleak.
Instead of telling him so, instead of ruining the gentle expectation on his face, you recite the lines that make you the happiest. The ones that remind you dawn always comes after night’s darkest hour.
Beat, happy stars, timing with things below,
Beat with my heart more blest than heart can
tell.
Blest, but for some dark current woe
That seems to draw—but it shall not be so:
Let all be well, be well.
His smile falls a little as the words settle in. “Sounds less happy than I remembered it.”
“It’s in there.” You turn back to the sun, letting your eyes fall shut. “You just gotta take both.”
“Both what?”
“The good and the bad.”
Even with your eyes closed, you feel the drag of his gaze across your face. Not scrutinizing in the slightest—he never is with you—but just as disarming. Under the afternoon sun and his delicate stare, you’re utterly defenseless.
You don’t even notice who moves first. Only that your arm brushes against his, sending shocks across your skin. They soothe into a calming buzz easily mistaken as peace. Too relaxed to care about much else, you allow the proximity. Haymitch doesn’t seem to mind either.
“Y’all give up that easily?” Burdock stands over you, words dissolving into snickers when you both sit up to properly look at them.
Lenore Dove muffles her giggles into her palms. “What happened?”
You pick at the crusted dirt on your chin. Haymitch sniffs. With an exchange of hesitant glances, you both answer, “A puddle.”
Suddenly aware of how close he still is, you scoot a foot away. “How many did y’all find?”
Lenore Dove sits across from you, emptying out her pockets while Burdock does the same. “Twenty-four. We won, didn’t we?”
“By a landslide,” snorts Haymitch.
You fall back on the grass, huffing as Burdock’s taunts of told you so reach your ears with a grate. “New game: whoever can find the duck in the sky gets to throw mud at Burdock.”
“I think we’re done letting you choose the games,” he snipes, much to your amusement.
No one finds the duck, but you do find a cloud that’s a dead wringer for a larkspur. Burdock sees it, too, wiggling his eyebrows at you, questioning instead of outright teasing this time.
You don’t think you’d care much if he were poking fun at you now. Long gone is the wretched vulnerability that normally curdles in your gut like soured milk, lulled into a peace only found in your meadow. With your people. For the time being at least.
Much later on the walk back through the meadow, with the lilac sky waning into night across the Seam, testing Lenore Dove’s curfew, you hope every Saturday to come makes you feel like this one.
And when you and Burdock arrive home arm in gentle arm, your new limestone finding its place on your windowsill, you feel certain this wish will come true. As true as the sky is blue, as the grass is green, as a larkspur’s just a larkspur.
Summary: in which Macklin asks you out seventeen times, makes a bet, and scores a hat trick (in that order)
Series Masterlist
The first time Macklin sees you, he’s pretty sure his heart actually stops.
It’s a Monday morning in early October, and he’s walking through the administrative hallway at SAP Center with Will Smith, both of them still in their workout gear, when you round the corner with an armful of file folders and a coffee cup balanced precariously on top.
“Whoa, careful-” Macklin starts, reaching out instinctively.
You sidestep him smoothly, not spilling a drop. “I’ve got it, thanks.”
And then you’re past him, heels clicking efficiently down the hallway, and Macklin is standing there like an idiot, watching you go.
“Dude,” Will says. “You good?”
“Who was that?”
Will glances back. “Oh, that’s the new legal intern. Started last week, I think? Why?”
“No reason,” Macklin lies, but he’s already calculating how quickly he can manufacture a reason to visit the legal department.
***
He finds out your name is Y/N Y/L/N. You’re twenty-three, which makes you four years older than him — a fact that Will points out is “not that much, bro” when Macklin mentions it, which Macklin definitely wasn’t asking about. You went to Stanford for undergrad, you’re doing your law degree at Santa Clara, and you’re apparently the most organized person the Sharks’ legal team has ever seen.
Macklin thinks you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, but he keeps that part to himself.
For about three days.
“So,” he says, catching up to you in the hallway on Thursday afternoon. “Y/N, right?”
You don’t slow down. “Right.”
“I’m Macklin. Macklin Celebrini.”
“I know who you are.” You shift the folders in your arms. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”
His heart does a stupid little flip. “Yeah? I mean—cool. That’s cool. So, I was thinking-”
“I’m not interested.”
He blinks. “I didn’t even-”
“You were going to ask me out.” You finally stop walking, turning to face him with a look that’s equal parts amused and exasperated. “The answer is no, but I appreciate the interest.”
“How did you-”
“You’ve been staring at me for three days straight, Macklin. You’re not exactly subtle.” But you’re smiling a little, and it gives him hope.
“Okay, fair,” he admits. “But hear me out-”
“No.”
“Just coffee-”
“No.”
“Lunch?”
“No.”
“Breakfast?”
“Still no.”
He grins, undeterred. “What about second breakfast?”
You actually laugh at that, short and surprised. “Did you just make a Lord of the Rings reference?”
“Is it working?”
“No.” But you’re still smiling as you walk away, and Macklin counts it as a win.
***
Will thinks he’s lost his mind.
“She’s said no, like, fifteen times,” he points out a week later, watching Macklin check his hair in his phone camera before heading to a “random” stop by the legal department.
“She laughs at my jokes, dude. That’s a good sign.”
“Or she thinks you’re funny-looking.”
Macklin flips him off and heads out.
He finds you in the break room, heating up leftovers in the microwave. You see him coming and immediately shake your head.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You were thinking it.” The microwave beeps, and you pull out your container. “The answer is still no, Macklin.”
He leans against the counter, watching you stir your pasta. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“Let me guess.” You cap your container, turning to face him. “Coffee, lunch, dinner, or some creative variation thereof. Am I close?”
“I was actually going to ask if you wanted to come to the game on Saturday,” he says. “We’re playing Vegas. Should be a good one.”
“I have season tickets,” you say. “Section 107.”
“Oh.” He brightens. “So you’ll be there anyway?”
“With my dad, yes.”
“Cool, cool. So after the game-”
“No.”
“Come on.” He’s smiling because he can’t help it, because you’re standing there in your perfect blazer and your hair is coming loose from its bun and you’ve got a tiny bit of sauce on your chin. “One date. That’s all I’m asking.”
You grab a napkin, wiping your chin like you can read his mind. “Macklin, you’re nineteen.”
“So?”
“So I’m twenty-three. That’s-”
“Four years. Which is nothing.”
“It’s not nothing when you’re nineteen.” But your voice is gentler now. “You’re a baby.”
“I’m not a baby,” he protests. “I’m in the NHL. I have a 401k.”
That gets another laugh out of you. “Oh, well, a 401k. That changes everything.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.” You pick up your lunch, heading toward the door. “You’re very sweet, Macklin. But the answer is no.”
“For now,” he calls after you.
You don’t disagree, and he takes that as progress.
***
By mid-November, the rejections have become routine. He asks, you say no, you both smile about it, and life goes on. It’s become a thing, he realizes. Your thing.
“This is sad,” William Eklund tells him after watching Macklin’s latest attempt get shot down in the parking lot. “Like, genuinely sad.”
“She’s going to say yes eventually,” Macklin insists.
“Based on what evidence?”
“She hasn’t told me to stop asking.”
“Maybe she’s just being polite.”
Macklin shakes his head. “You don’t know her like I do.”
“You don’t know her at all, dude. You’ve had, what, maybe five actual conversations?”
“Fourteen,” Macklin corrects. “And a half.”
“What’s half a conversation?”
“She said good morning to me once.”
Ekky stares at him. “You need help.”
But the thing is, Macklin does know you. He knows you take your coffee black with exactly one sugar. He knows you’re always exactly seven minutes early to everything. He knows you chew on your pen cap when you’re thinking and that you organize your folders by color and date. He knows you’re funny and sharp and kind, and that you always stop to talk to the arena staff, asking about their kids and remembering their names.
He knows that when you smile — really smile, not the polite professional one — your whole face lights up.
And he knows that you’re not entirely unaffected by him, even if you pretend to be. He catches you watching him sometimes, quickly looking away when he notices. You always know his stats from the previous game. You laugh at his jokes even when they’re terrible.
There’s something there. He’s sure of it.
***
The breakthrough comes in early December, before a game against Utah.
You’re walking past the locker room — which you normally avoid like the plague — when Macklin spots you and jogs over, still in his suit.
“Y/N, hey.”
You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Macklin.”
“Big game tonight.”
“I’m aware.”
“You coming?”
“Section 107, same as always.”
He takes a breath. This is it. His last shot. “What if I made you a deal?”
You raise an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“If I score a hat trick tonight-”
“You’re playing Utah,” you interrupt. “No offense to them, but come on.”
“Okay, fair point.” He thinks for a second. “If I score a hat trick, and we win, you go out with me. One date.”
You cross your arms, considering. “And if you don’t?”
“Then I’ll stop asking.” The words hurt coming out, but he means them. “Completely. You’ll never have to say no again.”
You study him for a long moment. He can see you weighing it, calculating the odds. Three goals plus a win is a tall order against any team.
“You’ll really stop?” You ask quietly.
“If that’s what you want, yeah.”
Something flickers across your face, too quick to read. “Okay,” you say finally. “Deal.”
His heart jumps. “Yeah?”
“But Macklin?” You step closer, and he can smell your perfume. “I’m not saying yes because I think you’ll do it. I’m saying yes because I think you won’t, and maybe this way you’ll finally move on.”
It should sting, but he’s too busy grinning. “We’ll see.”
“Yes,” you say, already walking away. “We will.”
***
In the locker room, Macklin is vibrating with energy.
“You good?” Tyler Toffoli asks, watching him bounce on his toes.
“I need a hat trick.”
“Okay …”
“Tonight. I need a hat trick tonight.”
Ryan Reaves looks up from taping his stick. “Why?”
“Because if I get one, Y/N finally has to go out with me.”
The room goes quiet. Then everyone starts talking at once.
“Wait, the legal intern?”
“You bet a date on a hat trick?”
“Dude, that’s actually kind of smooth.”
“He’s been chasing her for months-”
“Two months,” Macklin corrects. “And one week.”
Will throws a tape roll at him. “You’re insane.”
“I prefer determined.”
“What happens if you don’t get it?” Will asks.
Macklin swallows. “I have to stop asking her out. Forever.”
The room goes quiet again.
“Well,” Ryan says finally, “better make it count then.”
***
The game starts badly.
Utah scores first, a garbage goal that somehow squeaks past the goalie. Then they score again midway through the first period, and Macklin can feel the opportunity slipping away.
He can see you in Section 107, sitting with an older man who must be your dad. You’re wearing a Sharks jersey — his number, he notices with a jolt — and you’re watching the ice intently.
Focus, he tells himself. Focus.
He gets his first goal with three minutes left in the first period. A quick wrist shot from the slot that goes top shelf. He doesn’t celebrate much, just taps his gloves and gets back to the bench.
“One down,” Will says, bumping his shoulder.
“Two to go.”
The second period is a grind. Utah’s defense tightens up, and Macklin can’t find any space. He takes a penalty for holding, spends two minutes in the box hating himself, and comes out determined to make up for it.
With six minutes left in the second, he gets his chance. A beautiful feed from Dmitry Orlov, and Macklin one-times it past the goalie.
2-2.
And more importantly: two goals.
The arena erupts, and Macklin lets himself look up at Section 107. You’re on your feet, clapping, and even from here he can see that you’re smiling.
One more, he thinks. Just one more.
***
The third period is agony.
Utah scores again, making it 3-2. Then Will ties it up with eight minutes left, and the game becomes a desperate scramble. Both teams are exhausted, sloppy. The ice is choppy.
Macklin gets chance after chance, but nothing falls. He hits the post twice. Once, he has an open net and somehow puts it wide.
“It’s okay,” Ekky tells him during a TV timeout. “We’re going to OT. You’ll get another chance.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t. But you’re not giving up now.”
Regulation ends 3-3. Overtime.
***
Three-on-three hockey is chaos at the best of times. Tonight, it’s absolute mayhem.
Utah nearly ends it thirty seconds in. Then the Sharks almost score. Back and forth, both goalies standing on their heads.
Macklin is exhausted. His legs are burning, his lungs are screaming, and all he can think about is you in Section 107, watching.
Two minutes left in OT.
Macklin gets the puck at center ice. He sees Ekky streaking down the right side, Tyler driving the middle. The Utah defenseman commits to Will, leaving a gap.
Macklin takes it.
He’s never skated faster in his life. The Utah goalie is sliding across, trying to cover the angle. Macklin fakes the pass to Tyler, pulling the goalie even further-
And then he shoots.
Time slows down. He can see the puck spinning, can see the goalie reaching, can see the tiny space between the glove and the post-
The puck goes in.
The horn sounds.
The arena explodes.
Macklin’s teammates mob him, screaming and laughing, but all he can think about is looking up at Section 107. You’re standing, hands over your mouth, and even from the ice he can see that you’re shaking your head.
But you’re smiling.
***
After the game, after the media and the showers and the endless chirping from his teammates, Macklin finds you waiting outside the locker room.
“Hi,” he says, suddenly nervous.
“Hi.” You’re still in his jersey, and it does something to his heart. “That was-”
“A hat trick?”
“Show-off.”
He grins. “A deal’s a deal.”
You sigh, but there’s no heat in it. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”
“Did you watch the whole game?”
“Of course I did.” You say it like it’s obvious. “I had to see if I was going to owe you a date.”
“And?”
“And apparently I do.” You’re trying to sound annoyed, but you’re failing. “When?”
“Now?”
You laugh. “You just played almost seventy minutes of hockey. You’re exhausted.”
“I’m not tired at all,” he lies. He’s pretty sure he could fall asleep standing up.
“Macklin.” You step closer, and his breath catches. “I know you’re not tired. But I am. And I’d rather our first date not be at eleven PM when we’re both dead on our feet.”
“Our first date,” he repeats, grinning like an idiot. “So there’s going to be a second one?”
“Let’s see how the first one goes.”
“When?”
You consider. “Friday? After work?”
“Done. Yes. Perfect.”
“There’s a Thai place near my apartment-”
“I’ll eat anything,” he says quickly. “Whatever you want.”
You smile that real smile, the one that lights up your whole face. “Okay. Friday.”
“Friday,” he agrees.
You turn to leave, then pause. “Macklin?”
“Yeah?”
“That was a really good game.” Your voice is soft. “Really good.”
“I had motivation.”
“Apparently.” You shake your head, still smiling. “Get some rest. I’ll see you Friday.”
“Wait-” He catches your hand without thinking, then immediately lets go, embarrassed. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did you actually think I couldn’t do it? Or were you hoping I would?”
You’re quiet for a moment, and when you speak, your voice is honest. “I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe both? I told myself you wouldn’t do it, that it was impossible. But then you kept getting chances, and I kept thinking-” You break off, laughing a little. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Were you cheering for me?”
“I was cheering for the Sharks.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You bite your lip, and he’s never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. “Maybe a little,” you confess. “When you scored the third goal, I-” You shake your head. “Never mind.”
“Tell me.”
“I thought, ‘Oh no.’” You’re smiling now, embarrassed. “Because I realized that some part of me wanted you to do it. Wanted an excuse to say yes.”
His heart is going to explode. “You could have just said yes.”
“I know.” You meet his eyes. “But where’s the fun in that?”
“You made me work for it.”
“You needed to work for it.” Your voice is gentle. “You’re nineteen, Macklin. You’ve had everything come easy to you your whole life. Hockey, school, girls probably-”
“Not this girl.”
“No,” you agree. “Not this girl. And maybe that’s good. Maybe you needed to want something you couldn’t just have.”
“And now?”
“Now you can have it.” You reach out, squeezing his hand quickly. “One date. Friday. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be early.”
“I know you will.” You’re already walking away. “Goodnight, Macklin.”
“Night, Y/N.”
He watches you go, and this time when you reach the end of the hallway, you look back. You catch him staring and shake your head, but you’re smiling.
He’s smiling too.
***
Friday takes forever to arrive.
Macklin changes his outfit four times, shows up twenty minutes early, and has to walk around the block three times to avoid looking desperate. When he finally knocks on your apartment door at exactly 6:30, his palms are sweating.
You answer in jeans and a soft sweater, your hair down for the first time he’s ever seen, and he forgets how to speak.
“Hi,” you say, amused.
“Hi. You look-” He clears his throat. “Really pretty.”
“Thanks.” You grab your jacket. “You clean up nice yourself.”
The Thai restaurant is small and warm, tucked into a strip mall. You clearly come here often — the owner greets you by name and gives Macklin an appraising look that makes him sit up straighter.
“So,” you say once you’ve ordered. “Tell me about yourself.”
“You know about me.”
“I know you’re a hockey player. I don’t know you.”
So he tells you. About growing up in Vancouver, about his family, about the pressure of being first overall and the weight of expectations. He tells you about his teammates, about learning to do his own laundry for the first time, about how sometimes he still feels like a kid playing dress-up in an adult’s life.
You listen like everything he says matters, asking questions, laughing in the right places. And when he asks about you, you tell him about law school, about wanting to work in sports law, about your dad who brought you to Sharks games since you were six.
“He was pretty excited about the hat trick,” you admit. “He might be more invested in you asking me out than you were.”
“Impossible.”
You laugh. “He said any guy who works that hard for a date probably deserves one.”
“Smart man.”
“He has his moments.”
The food comes, and you steal bites off his plate without asking. He pretends to be annoyed but immediately offers you more. You argue about the best Sharks players of all time, about whether the 2000s or 2010s had better rom-coms, about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
“It absolutely does not,” you insist.
“It’s fruit! It’s healthy!”
“It’s an abomination.”
“You’re an abomination.”
You throw a napkin at him, and he catches it, grinning.
Somewhere between the pad thai and the mango sticky rice, he realizes he’s never been this happy. Not after winning games, not after scoring goals. Just sitting here, watching you laugh at his stupid jokes, arguing about pizza toppings.
This. This is what he wanted.
***
After dinner, you walk slowly back toward your apartment. It’s cold, and you huddle into your jacket. Without thinking, Macklin puts his arm around you.
You don’t pull away.
“So,” you say as you reach your building. “Verdict?”
“Best date of my life.”
“You’re nineteen. How many dates have you been on?”
“Enough to know this was the best one.”
You smile, looking down. “It was pretty good.”
“Just pretty good?”
“Okay, really good.” You look up at him. “You’re not what I expected, Macklin Celebrini.”
“Better or worse?”
“Better,” you admit. “A lot better. You’re-” You pause, searching for words. “You’re genuine. And funny. And you actually listen when people talk. That’s rare.”
“Especially for a nineteen-year-old?”
“Especially for anyone.” You lean against your door. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”
“I’m not.” He steps closer. “You were right. I needed to work for it. And now-” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
“Now?”
“Now I appreciate it more.” He’s looking at your lips. “Can I kiss you?”
You pretend to think about it. “I don’t know. Maybe you should score a hat trick for that too.”
“If I need to, I will.”
You laugh, and then you’re kissing him, and it’s better than scoring any goal, better than anything he’s ever felt. You taste like mango and you’re smiling against his mouth and his hands are in your hair and-
You pull back, breathless. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“So,” you say, still in his arms. “About that second date …”
He grins. “I thought we had to see how the first one went?”
“It went pretty well.”
“Just pretty well?”
You kiss him again, slower this time. “Really, really well.”
“Tomorrow?”
“You have a game tomorrow.”
“Sunday, then.”
“Pushy.”
“Determined,” he corrects.
You laugh against his neck. “Sunday. But only if you promise to actually focus on the game, not just stand around thinking about kissing me.”
“I can multitask.”
“Macklin.”
“Fine, fine. Hockey first, kissing second.”
“Good boy.”
He groans. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it does things to me.”
You pull back, grinning wickedly. “Good boy?”
“You’re evil.”
“And you’re nineteen and adorable and way too into me.”
“Guilty on all counts.” He kisses your forehead. “But you like it.”
“Unfortunately,” you say, but you’re smiling. “I really do.”
***
Later, after he’s left (and texted you goodnight, and good morning, and a meme he thought you’d like), Macklin lies in bed staring at his ceiling.
Joe Thornton pokes his head in. “So? How’d it go?”
“She kissed me.”
“I gathered, from the stupid grin you haven’t stopped doing.”
“I’m going to marry her.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve been on one date.”
“Best date of my life,” Macklin says dreamily.
Joe heaves a heavy sigh. “You’re hopeless.”
“Hopelessly in love.”
“Oh my god, I’m leaving.”
But Macklin doesn’t care. He’s already planning Sunday’s date, already thinking about how to make you laugh, already counting down the hours until he sees you again.
He thinks about you saying he worked for this, that he needed to. And maybe you were right. Maybe that’s why it feels so good now — because he earned it. Because you made him prove that he wasn’t just some kid with a crush, but someone who could be patient and persistent and worth your time.
His phone buzzes. A text from you: Stop smiling at your ceiling and go to sleep. You have practice tomorrow.
He laughs out loud. How did you know?
Because I’m doing the same thing.
His heart soars. He types back: Goodnight, Y/N. Thanks for saying yes.
Thanks for scoring a hat trick.
Thanks for wearing my jersey.
Goodnight, Macklin.
He falls asleep smiling, dreaming of Thai food and arguments about pizza and the way you look when you laugh.
Tomorrow, he’ll go to practice. He’ll take the chirping from his teammates about being whipped. He’ll count down the hours until Sunday.
But tonight, he’s just a nineteen-year-old kid who worked his ass off for one date with the most amazing girl he’s ever met.
And it was worth every single rejection, every single no, every single moment of doubt.
Because in the end, he got his hat trick.
And he got the girl.
***
On Sunday, you wear his jersey again. And when he scores (just one goal this time, but it’s enough), he points up at Section 107.
You’re already smiling.
After the game, he takes you for ice cream even though it’s December and not nearly warm enough. You get chocolate, he gets vanilla, and you share like you’ve been doing this forever.
“So,” you say, stealing his cone. “Three dates in one week. That’s pretty serious.”
“Is it?”
“For a nineteen-year-old and a sophisticated twenty-three-year-old? Absolutely.”
He steals your cone back. “What about for just two people who really like each other?”
You soften. “Then I guess it’s just right.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You lean into him, and he wraps his arm around you, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. “You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“I knew you were going to get that hat trick.” You look up at him. “The whole game, I kept thinking, ‘He’s going to do it. He’s actually going to do it.’”
“And?”
“And I was terrified.” You laugh. “Because I knew that if you did, I’d have to admit I wanted you to. That I’d been wanting to say yes for weeks. That maybe you weren’t just some kid with a crush, but-” You break off.
“But what?”
“But someone I could actually fall for.” Your voice is quiet. “If I let myself.”
He stops walking, turning to face you. “So let yourself.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re nineteen, and I’m twenty-three, and you’re an NHL player, and I’m just-”
“You’re not just anything.” He cups your face in his hands. “You’re brilliant and beautiful and funny and kind. And yeah, I’m nineteen. But I know what I want. And I want this. I want you.”
Your eyes are shining. “Macklin-”
“You don’t have to say it back. Not yet. Just-” He swallows. “Just don’t count me out because of a number, okay? Give me a chance to prove I’m not just some kid.”
You’re quiet for a long moment. Then you smile, slow and sweet. “You already have.”
And when you kiss him this time, right there on the sidewalk with ice cream melting in your hands and the December wind biting at your faces, he knows.
This is it. This is everything.
Four years, four months, four decades — it doesn’t matter. When you know, you know.
And Macklin has never been more sure of anything in his life.
Summary: the one where arena employees don’t believe you’re dating Sidney Crosby
Series Masterlist
The thing about dating Sidney Crosby is that sometimes people simply don’t believe you’re dating Sidney Crosby.
You’re learning this the hard way, standing in the hallway outside the suite level at PPG Paints Arena, clutching your purse and trying very hard not to cry.
It started twenty minutes ago, when you arrived at the arena for your first game in the Friends and Family box. Sidney had been so excited when he asked you to come, explaining that it was a big step — meeting more of the team families, being officially part of his world in this very public way. You’d been nervous but excited, carefully choosing your outfit (his jersey over dark jeans, nothing too flashy), making sure you had the special pass he’d arranged for you.
The pass that’s currently being examined with deep suspicion by a security guard who clearly thinks you’re a liar.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to come with me,” the guard says for the third time. He’s a large man, probably in his fifties, with the kind of face that suggests he’s seen every scam in the book.
“I told you,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “Sidney Crosby arranged this pass for me. If you just call up to the box, someone can verify-”
“Sidney Crosby,” he repeats, his tone making it clear he doesn’t believe a word. “Right.”
“Yes,” you insist. “I’m his girlfriend. He gave me this pass. My name should be on the list.”
The attendant who first stopped you — a woman in her forties with a severe ponytail and a name tag that reads KAREN — crosses her arms. “Honey, do you have any idea how many girls try this? ‘I’m Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend,’ ‘I’m Evgeni Malkin’s cousin,’ ‘I’m Kris Letang’s dog walker.’ We hear it all.”
“But I actually am-”
“You look about twenty years old,” Karen interrupts. “Sidney Crosby is not dating someone barely out of high school.”
“I’m twenty-three,” you say, frustration building. “I’m getting my PhD. And if you would just-”
“The pass is clearly fake,” she continues, ignoring you. “Probably Photoshopped. You can tell by the quality of the printing.”
“It’s not fake!” Your voice is climbing now, anxiety making you shrill. “Sidney literally gave this to me this morning. He had it specially made because this is my first game in the family box.”
“Uh huh,” Karen says. “A crazy fan with a parasocial complex and a fake pass to the family box. This is exactly the kind of thing security is here to prevent.”
“It’s not fake,” you repeat desperately. “Please, just call someone. Ask one of the other partners. Get the team liaison. Call anyone who can verify this.”
The security guard puts a hand on your elbow. “Ma’am, you need to leave the suite level. If you cooperate, we won’t have to involve arena security.”
“I am cooperating!” You pull your arm away. “I’m trying to tell you there’s been a mistake. I’m supposed to be here. Sidney is expecting me.”
“Sidney Crosby is downstairs preparing for a game,” Karen says firmly. “He’s not thinking about some random girl who claims to be his girlfriend. Now, you can either leave voluntarily or we can have you escorted out of the arena entirely.”
“This is insane,” you say, your voice breaking. “I’m not some crazy fan. I live with him. I can prove it—look, I have pictures on my phone-”
“Pictures can be Photoshopped too,” Karen says dismissively. “I’ve seen girls show up with entire fake Instagram accounts. You’re going to have to try harder than that.”
The security guard’s hand is on your elbow again, firmer this time. “Let’s go.”
“No, wait-” You’re actively trying not to cry now, which is only making you look more unstable. “Please, I’m telling the truth. Just let me talk to someone who knows Sidney. Catherine Letang is supposed to be in the box tonight — she knows me. Or Anna Malkin. Or Kelsey Rust. Any of them can tell you I’m supposed to be here.”
“Ma’am-”
“Please,” you beg. “I’m not causing a scene. I’m not trying to sneak in anywhere. I just want to watch my boyfriend play hockey. That’s all.”
Karen’s expression softens slightly, but not enough. “I’m sure you believe that. But we have protocols for a reason. If you really are who you say you are, you can contact Mr. Crosby after the game and sort this out.”
“But he’s expecting me now,” you protest. “He’ll wonder where I am-”
“Then he’ll contact you,” she says. “But right now, you need to leave the suite level.”
The security guard is actively pulling you away now, and you don’t resist because what choice do you have? Fighting will only make this worse. So you let yourself be led away from the suite level, down the elevator, your face burning with humiliation and frustration.
“Where are you taking me?” You ask quietly.
“Security office,” the guard says, not unkindly now that you’re cooperating. “We need to document the incident.”
“Document-” You stop. “You’re treating me like a criminal.”
“We’re treating you like someone who tried to access a restricted area with a suspicious pass,” he corrects. “Standard protocol.”
You want to scream. You want to call Sidney, but his phone will be in his locker and he won’t see it until after the game. You want to call someone, anyone, but who?
So you sit in the security office, giving your information to a bored-looking officer who types it into a computer with two fingers, and try not to think about the fact that the first period is starting and you’re missing it. Try not to think about Sidney looking for you in the box between warm-ups and the game, wondering where you are. Try not to think about how excited he was this afternoon when he kissed you goodbye and told you he couldn’t wait to see you in the stands.
“Can I at least text someone?” You ask. “To let people know where I am?”
“Who would you text?” The officer asks.
“My boyfriend,” you say tiredly. “Sidney Crosby.”
The officer gives you the same skeptical look everyone else has. “Sure. Go ahead.”
You pull out your phone with shaking hands and text Sidney, knowing he won’t see it but needing to do something.
Hey. Got stopped by security. They don’t believe my pass is real. I’m in the security office. I’m so sorry. I’ll try to sort this out. Good luck tonight. Love you.
You hit send and put your phone face-down on the table, blinking back tears.
This is a nightmare.
***
Meanwhile, up in the Friends and Family box, Catherine Letang is looking around with a frown.
“Has anyone seen Y/N?” She asks Anna Malkin.
Anna looks up from helping her daughter with a juice box. “Who?”
“Sidney’s girlfriend. She was supposed to be here tonight, her first game in the box.”
“Oh!” Anna’s face lights up. “Yes, he mentioned that. But I haven’t seen her.”
“Neither have I,” Catherine says, checking the time. “The game’s about to start. That’s strange.”
Kelsey Rust joins the conversation. “Maybe she got held up? Traffic?”
“Maybe,” Catherine says, but something feels off. Sidney had been so excited about this, so insistent that they make you feel welcome. It seems unlike you to just not show up.
The puck drops and the game begins, but Catherine can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. Catherine frowns, then makes a decision. She finds one of the suite attendants and asks if they can check whether you checked in anywhere else in the arena.
The attendant makes a call, listens, then looks up with surprise. “There was an incident on the suite level about thirty minutes ago. A young woman claiming to be Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend was removed by security. She’s currently in the security office.”
“What?” Catherine’s voice climbs. “She was removed? Why?”
“Suspicious pass, apparently. The attendant thought it was fake.”
“It’s not fake!” Catherine says, incredulous. “She’s actually his girlfriend. This is her first game here — Sidney arranged everything.”
The attendant looks uncomfortable. “I’ll make some calls.”
“Yes, you will,” Catherine says firmly. “And someone needs to tell Sidney. Now.”
***
You’re still in the security office, watching the game on a small TV in the corner because apparently even while detaining you they’re not cruel enough to make you miss it entirely, when your phone rings.
Unknown number. You answer anyway, desperate.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Sidney Crosby’s guest?” A woman’s voice, professional and slightly stressed.
“Yes,” you say. “I’m his girlfriend. I was trying to get to the family box but-”
“I know, I’m so sorry,” the woman interrupts. “There’s been a terrible misunderstanding. I’m Rebecca, the team’s family liaison. Catherine Letang just contacted us. We’re sorting this out right now.”
Relief floods through you. “Thank god.”
“I can’t apologize enough,” Rebecca continues. “Your pass was completely legitimate. There was no reason for you to be detained. Where are you now?”
“Security office. Lower level.”
“Stay there. I’m coming to get you personally, and I’m bringing someone from team management. We’ll have you in the box in ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I wasn’t trying to cause trouble. I just wanted to watch the game.”
“I know,” she says kindly. “This never should have happened. We’ll make this right.”
She hangs up and you look at the security officer, who’s been listening to your side of the conversation.
“That was the team’s family liaison,” you tell him. “She’s coming to get me.”
He has the grace to look embarrassed. “If there’s been a mistake-”
“There has been,” you say quietly. “I told you I was telling the truth.”
“We were following protocol,” he says defensively.
“Your protocol humiliated me and made me miss watching my boyfriend play,” you counter. “So forgive me if I’m not particularly understanding right now.”
He doesn’t have a response to that.
Rebecca arrives seven minutes later with a man in a suit who introduces himself as the arena’s operations manager. They’re both apologetic, both clearly stressed, and both very keen to get you out of the security office and into the box as quickly as possible.
“We’ll be reviewing our security protocols,” the operations manager assures you as you’re escorted back up to the suite level. “This should never have happened.”
“Thank you,” you say, because you’re too tired to be angry anymore. You just want to watch hockey and pretend this nightmare didn’t happen.
But when you arrive at the suite level, Karen is still there. And she goes pale when she sees you walking with Rebecca and the operations manager.
“Oh,” she says faintly.
“This is Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend,” Rebecca says, her voice cool and professional. “The pass you confiscated was legitimate. She should have been admitted to the family box over an hour ago.”
“I-I didn’t know,” Karen stammers. “She looked so young, and the pass seemed-”
“The pass was issued by our office this morning,” the operations manager interrupts. “It was completely authentic. Your job is to check credentials, not make judgments about who looks like they belong somewhere.”
“I was trying to protect the families,” Karen protests weakly.
“You were making assumptions,” Rebecca corrects. “And those assumptions led to a guest being detained and missing part of the game. We’ll discuss this later.”
Karen looks like she wants to disappear into the floor. You almost feel sorry for her. Almost.
“Come on,” Rebecca says to you gently. “Let’s get you to the box.”
She leads you down the hallway and opens the door to the family box, and suddenly you’re surrounded by concerned faces — Catherine and Anna and Kelsey and several other women you recognize from previous brief encounters.
“Oh thank god,” Catherine says, immediately pulling you into a hug. “Are you okay? We heard what happened.”
“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice is shaky. “Just—that was really stressful.”
“I can imagine,” Anna says sympathetically. “Come, sit. We saved you a seat next to us.”
You’re settling into your seat when Rebecca touches your arm. “I need to inform Sidney about what happened. He’ll want to know.”
“Oh god, please don’t tell him during the game,” you beg. “He needs to focus. Tell him after.”
Rebecca hesitates. “He’s already asked about you twice. Between periods they told him you were delayed but that you’d be here for the second. If I don’t give him an update-”
“Then tell him I’m here and I’m fine,” you say. “Please. Don’t tell him the rest until after the game.”
She nods reluctantly. “Okay. But he’s going to find out.”
“I know,” you sigh. “I’ll tell him myself after.”
Rebecca leaves and you turn your attention to the ice, trying to find Sidney. He’s in the middle of a shift, skating hard, and even from up here you can read the tension in his shoulders.
“He was worried,” Catherine says quietly. “When you weren’t here for warm-ups.”
“I’m so sorry,” you say miserably. “This is exactly the opposite of how this was supposed to go.”
“It’s not your fault,” Kelsey assures you. “That attendant was completely out of line.”
“She didn’t believe I was actually dating him,” you explain. “She thought I was some obsessed fan with a fake pass.”
Anna makes an outraged sound. “Because you look young? That’s ridiculous.”
Catherine shakes her head. “People make the strangest assumptions. I’m so sorry your first time in the box was like this.”
“At least I’m here now,” you say, watching Sidney skate. “That’s what matters.”
The second period ends with the Penguins up 2-1, and you watch Sidney skate off the ice, his helmet tucked under his arm. Even from here, you can see him scanning the stands, and you wonder if he knows you’re finally here.
You look up and find Catherine watching you with an amused expression.
“He’s upset,” she observes.
“He’s going to be very upset,” you confirm. “But hopefully after they win.”
“Oh, they’re definitely going to win now,” Anna says. “Sidney plays angry very well.”
She’s right. The third period is absolute dominance. Sidney is everywhere — backchecking, forechecking, setting up plays, taking shots. He scores a goal seven minutes in, a perfect wrist shot top shelf, and you’re on your feet screaming before you can stop yourself.
The other women laugh, clearly delighted by your enthusiasm.
“First goal you’ve seen in person?” Kelsey asks.
“First game I’ve seen in person,” you admit. “I’ve been watching on TV, but this is different.”
“It is,” Catherine agrees. “Welcome to the family box. Properly, this time.”
The Penguins win 4-1. Sidney gets a goal and two assists and is named first star, and as he takes his lap you’re clapping so hard your hands hurt.
“He’s going to come find you,” Anna warns. “The moment he’s out of the locker room.”
“I know,” you say.
“And he’s going to want names,” Catherine adds.
“I know that too,” you sigh.
Twenty minutes later, Rebecca appears at the box door. “Sidney’s asking for you. He’s in the family waiting area.”
You follow her down, your stomach in knots. The family waiting area is where players meet their families after games, and you’ve never been here before. Several other WAGs are already there, collecting kids and husbands, and then you see him.
Sidney is leaning against the wall, still in his suit from the bus, his hair damp from the shower. The moment he sees you, he’s moving, crossing the space in long strides.
“Hey,” you start, but he’s already pulling you into a hug, tight and almost desperate.
“Are you okay?” He asks into your hair.
“I’m fine,” you assure him. “Really. I’m sorry I worried you.”
He pulls back to look at you, his hands cupping your face. “Tell me what happened. All of it.”
So you do. You tell him about Karen and the security guard, about them not believing your pass was real, about being detained in the security office while he played the first period. His expression gets darker with every sentence.
“They detained you,” he repeats, his voice dangerously quiet. “They thought you were a crazy fan.”
“I mean, I am kind of crazy about you,” you try to joke.
“Not funny,” he says. “This is—who did this? Give me names.”
“Sid-”
“Names,” he repeats, and there’s that captain voice again.
“Karen,” you say reluctantly. “The attendant. And a security guard, I don’t remember his name. But Rebecca and the operations manager already handled it-”
“Not well enough if you’re here telling me about it instead of having watched the whole game like you were supposed to,” he counters. He pulls out his phone. “I’m calling Kyle.”
“Who’s Kyle?”
“Team president and GM,” he says grimly, already dialing.
“Sidney, it’s almost 10 PM-”
“Don’t care.” The call connects. “Kyle, it’s Sidney. Sorry to call so late, but we have a problem.”
You watch, equal parts mortified and touched, as Sidney explains the situation to the team president with barely controlled anger. His free hand stays on your waist the whole time, keeping you close, and you can see other players and their families watching with interest.
“I don’t care about protocols,” Sidney says into the phone. “My girlfriend had a legitimate pass that I personally arranged through Rebecca. She was humiliated and detained and missed part of the game because some attendant decided she didn’t look like she belonged.”
There’s a pause as he listens.
“Yes, I’m aware the team has security concerns. I’m also aware that we give credentials to family members and partners specifically so they can watch games. If those credentials aren’t being honored, what’s the point?”
Another pause.
“I appreciate that, Kyle. Yes. Thank you.” He hangs up and looks at you. “He’s reviewing the security footage and the incident report. The attendant and the guard will both be reprimanded. And he’s implementing new training for all suite-level staff.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.
“Yes, I did,” he counters. “You’re important to me. You’re part of my life. And nobody gets to treat you like that. Nobody.”
“I just feel bad that-”
“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Don’t feel bad. They screwed up, not you. You did everything right. You showed your pass, you tried to explain, you gave them multiple ways to verify your identity. They chose not to believe you.”
“Because I look young,” you say.
“Because they made assumptions,” he corrects. “And those assumptions cost you your first game in the family box. That’s not okay.”
You lean into him, suddenly exhausted. “Can we go home?”
“Yeah,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s go home.”
He keeps his arm around you as you walk out to the parking garage, and you’re almost to his car when someone calls his name.
You turn to see the security guard from earlier, the one who detained you. He looks uncomfortable.
“Mr. Crosby,” he starts. “I wanted to apologize. To both of you. We were following protocol, but-”
“Your protocol needs work,” Sidney says flatly. “My girlfriend showed you a legitimate pass. She gave you her name. She offered multiple ways to verify her identity. What part of your protocol involves ignoring all of that?”
“None of it,” the guard admits. “I should have made more calls. I should have verified harder. I’m sorry.”
He’s looking at you now, genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “You were telling the truth and I didn’t listen.”
“Thank you,” you say quietly, because what else can you say?
The guard nods and walks away, and Sidney opens the car door for you.
“You okay?” He asks once you’re both inside.
“Yeah,” you say. “Just what a night.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching for your hand. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“Not your fault,” you remind him.
“Still sorry.” He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “Next game will be better. I promise.”
“Can’t get much worse,” you point out.
He laughs, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders. “True. But seriously next game, I’m walking you up to the box myself. No attendants. No questions.”
“You can’t do that every game,” you protest.
“Watch me,” he says.
And knowing Sidney, stubborn and protective and absolutely unwilling to let anyone make you feel unwelcome again, you believe him.
The thing about dating Sidney Crosby is that sometimes people don’t believe you’re dating Sidney Crosby.
But Sidney knows it. And he’ll make damn sure everyone else does too.
Summary: the one where Connor Bedard doesn’t care that you have a boyfriend, but he really really should
Series Masterlist
The thing about All-Star Weekend is that it’s equal parts hockey event and social circus.
You’re learning this in real-time, sitting at the bar of The Garden City Hotel on Long Island, watching the lobby fill with NHL players, their families, league officials, and what appears to be every sports journalist on the Eastern Seaboard. It’s barely six PM and the energy is already chaotic — kids running between furniture, wives catching up, rookies looking starstruck, veterans looking tired.
Sidney’s sitting next to you, nursing a beer and texting with Nate about dinner plans. You’re on your second glass of wine, enjoying the people-watching and the rare opportunity to see Sidney in full social mode. He’s been stopped four times in the last ten minutes — twice by fans who somehow got into the hotel, once by a rookie who wanted to introduce himself, and once by a league official confirming details about tomorrow’s skills competition.
“This is insane,” you murmur, watching a group of players you recognize from TV walk past, their kids in tow.
“This is tame,” Sidney says, putting his phone down. “Wait until tomorrow when the events actually start. This’ll look like a library.”
“Promising,” you say dryly.
He grins, reaching over to squeeze your knee under the bar. “You doing okay? I know this is a lot.”
“I’m fine,” you assure him. “It’s actually kind of fun. Very anthropological.”
“Did you just compare All-Star Weekend to a research study?”
“I’m observing the social dynamics of professional athletes in their natural habitat,” you say, completely serious. “It’s fascinating. Like watching a nature documentary.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
“I really do,” he agrees, leaning in to kiss your temple. His phone buzzes again and he checks it. “Marchy says they’re almost down. They’re running late because Brad is trying to wrangle all three kids by himself and it’s apparently not going well.”
You smile at the mental image. You’ve met the Crosby-adjacent players a few times now. They’d welcomed you warmly once Sidney made it clear you were serious, though Geno’s wife Anna had pulled you aside at the last gathering to whisper, “Good luck with this one. Very stubborn,” while gesturing at Sidney.
You’d whispered back, “I’m getting my doctorate. I know how to handle difficult subjects,” and she’d laughed so hard she’d snorted wine.
“I should probably hit the bathroom before everyone gets here,” Sidney says, already standing. He pauses, looking at you with that protective expression you’ve come to recognize. “You’ll be okay for a few minutes?”
You raise your very full wine glass. “I have alcohol and entertainment,” you gesture to the lobby chaos. “I’ll survive.”
“If anyone bothers you-”
“Sid.” You give him a look. “I can handle five minutes alone at a hotel bar. I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman, not a small child.”
“I know, I just-” He stops himself, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Yeah. Five minutes. I’ll be quick.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
He kisses you quickly, then heads toward the bathrooms near the lobby. You watch him go, smiling to yourself. The protectiveness would be annoying if it wasn’t so clearly coming from a place of genuine care rather than control. He knows you can take care of yourself; he just doesn’t like the idea of you having to.
You turn back to your wine, pulling out your phone to check the group chat with your cohort. They’re still losing their minds about the fact that you’re at All-Star Weekend. Hannah has sent approximately forty messages in the last hour, most of them variations on SEND PICTURES and IS MCDAVID THERE.
You’re typing a response when someone slides into the seat Sidney just vacated.
“This seat taken?”
You glance up, ready to politely explain that yes, actually, your boyfriend just stepped away, and-
You stop.
Because sitting next to you, flashing a smile that’s probably devastated its fair share of hearts, is Connor Bedard.
Connor Bedard, the Blackhawks’ newest golden boy. First overall pick. The generational talent everyone won’t shut up about. The kid who’s been on magazine covers since he was sixteen and is somehow living up to every bit of the hype.
He’s also, you realize with mild alarm, definitely flirting with you.
“Uh,” you say eloquently.
“Sorry, that was presumptuous,” he says, and his smile gets wider. He’s got that confident-but-not-cocky thing down, which you imagine works very well for him. “I’m Connor.”
“I know,” you say before you can stop yourself.
His eyebrows go up, pleased. “Hockey fan?”
“Something like that.” You’re trying to figure out how to navigate this. On the one hand, you should probably mention Sidney immediately. On the other hand, there’s something deeply funny about Connor Bedard hitting on Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend and you’re kind of curious how long this will go before he realizes.
You’re a terrible person. You’re going to let this play out for at least a minute.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, nodding at your wine glass.
“I have one, thanks,” you say, lifting it slightly.
“Another one, then. For when you finish that.”
“I’m good, really.”
“Come on,” he says, leaning an elbow on the bar. He’s got that easy athlete confidence, the kind that comes from being told you’re exceptional since you were a kid. “Beautiful girl alone at a bar during All-Star Weekend? I can’t just walk by.”
“I’m not alone,” you point out. “I’m with someone.”
“I don’t see anyone.”
“Bathroom,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “He’ll be back.”
“So I’ve got a few minutes to change your mind about that drink.” He grins. “I’m persistent.”
“I’m noticing.”
The bartender comes over and Connor orders a beer without breaking eye contact with you. It’s a smooth move, you’ll give him that. If you weren’t completely in love with Sidney Crosby, you might even be charmed.
“So what brings you to All-Star Weekend?” He asks. “You don’t look like press.”
“What do I look like?” You ask, curious.
“Like you should be at Fashion Week, not a hockey game,” he says, and okay, that’s actually a pretty good line. “Or maybe studying. You’ve got that smart vibe.”
You nearly choke on your wine. “How did you-”
“Lucky guess?” He looks delighted that he got it right. “What are you in school for?”
“PhD,” you admit. “Sociology.”
“No way. That’s actually cool.” He leans in closer. “So you’re here studying the social dynamics of hockey players?”
You laugh despite yourself. “Not exactly. I’m here with someone.”
“Right, bathroom guy,” Connor says dismissively. “What’s he do?”
This is where you should tell him. This is the perfect opening. You can feel the moment hanging there, ready for you to say, “He’s a hockey player, actually. You might know him.”
Instead you hear yourself say, “He works in sports.”
What is wrong with you? Why are you like this?
“Oh yeah? What sport?”
“Hockey,” you say, taking a long sip of wine.
“Player?”
“Mmhmm.”
Connor doesn’t even pause. “What league?”
“NHL.”
That gets his attention. His eyes sharpen slightly, competitive instinct kicking in. “Yeah? Which team?”
“Penguins,” you say, watching his face carefully.
He doesn’t connect the dots. Why would he? There are twenty-some guys on the Penguins roster. The idea that you’re dating Sidney — that you’re dating the Sidney Crosby, the captain, the face of the franchise, the guy whose jersey Connor probably had on his wall as a kid — doesn’t even cross his mind.
“Cool,” he says. “That’s cool. Long distance must be tough though, right? With you doing your PhD?”
“We manage,” you say. “Actually, we live together.”
“In Pittsburgh?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” He processes this, then appears to dismiss it as not being a significant obstacle. The confidence is truly astounding. “Well, if things ever don’t work out, you should let me know. I’d treat you right.”
You’re saved from having to respond to that by the bartender delivering Connor’s beer. He takes a sip, then tries again.
“So, there’s a dinner thing tonight. Bunch of us getting together at this steakhouse down the road. You should come.”
“I have dinner plans,” you say.
“Cancel them.”
The audacity is actually impressive. “I’m not going to cancel plans with my boyfriend so I can have dinner with you.”
“Your boyfriend who plays for the Penguins,” Connor says, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle.
“That’s the one.”
“Is he here? At the hotel?”
“In the bathroom,” you remind him.
“Right.” Connor takes another drink. “Well, when he gets back, you should tell him you’re going to dinner with me instead.”
“I should tell him that,” you repeat slowly.
“Yeah. I mean, no offense to the guy, but it’s All-Star Weekend. You should be having fun, not sitting at a hotel bar waiting for him to get back from the bathroom.”
“I like hotel bars,” you say weakly. “They’re very … hotel-y.”
He laughs. “You’re funny. Come to dinner.”
“I told you, I have plans-”
“Bring bathroom guy,” Connor offers magnanimously. “If he’s a player, some of my teammates probably know him. It’ll be fun.”
The mental image of Connor Bedard inviting Sidney Crosby to dinner as an afterthought is so absurd you have to press your lips together to keep from laughing.
“That’s very generous of you,” you manage.
“I’m a generous guy,” he agrees, completely serious. “So is that a yes?”
“That’s a ‘my boyfriend and I already have dinner plans with friends.’”
“After dinner then,” he pivots smoothly. “There’s a party in one of the suites. You should come.”
“I don’t think-”
“Or we could skip the party,” he says, and his voice drops slightly, going for smooth and landing somewhere near suggestive. “My room’s actually pretty nice. Great view of the city. We could order room service, have our own party.”
You blink at him. “Did you just invite me to your hotel room?”
“Is it working?”
“No.”
“You sure? Because I’m told I’m pretty charming.”
“You’re very confident,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”
“Confidence is charming,” he counters.
“It can be,” you allow. “It can also be presumptuous.”
“Is that your way of saying I should back off?”
“It’s my way of saying I have a boyfriend who I love very much and who should be back from the bathroom any second now.”
“Right, Penguins guy.” Connor doesn’t look particularly deterred. “Well, when he gets here, I’ll introduce myself. Maybe we know each other.”
“Maybe,” you say, fighting a smile.
“What’s his name?”
And this is it. This is where you should just say it. Where you should put this poor kid out of his misery and tell him exactly who he’s been hitting on for the last five minutes.
“Sidney,” you say instead, because apparently you’re committed to this bit now.
“Sidney,” Connor repeats. “Sidney …”
You watch him think. You can actually see him going through his mental roster, trying to place a Sidney on the Penguins. And you can see the exact moment it clicks. The way his eyes go wide, the way his beer pauses halfway to his mouth.
“Wait,” he says slowly. “Sidney as in-”
“As in,” you confirm.
“Crosby,” he finishes, his voice climbing slightly. “You’re dating Sidney Crosby.”
“I am,” you say pleasantly.
“Sidney Crosby,” he repeats, like saying it again will make it make more sense.
“That’s the one.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“I just-” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I just hit on Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend.”
“You did,” you agree, trying very hard not to laugh. “Quite persistently, actually.”
“Oh my god.” He looks genuinely panicked now. “He’s going to kill me.”
“He’s not going to kill you,” you assure him.
“He’s Sidney Crosby. He could kill me and the league would probably help him hide the body.”
Now you do laugh. “He’s not going to kill you,” you repeat. “He’ll probably think it’s funny, actually.”
“Funny,” Connor says weakly. “Right. Funny.”
“You didn’t know,” you point out. “It’s not like I was wearing a sign.”
“You said your boyfriend plays for the Penguins!”
“I did say that.”
“You didn’t say it was Crosby!”
“You didn’t ask for specifics,” you say reasonably.
He stares at you. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little bit,” you admit.
“You let me keep going.”
“I tried to tell you I had a boyfriend.”
“You didn’t try very hard!”
“You were very persistent,” you remind him. “Something about being told you’re charming?”
He groans, dropping his head into his hands. “I invited you to my hotel room. I invited Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend to my hotel room.”
“You did,” you say, grinning now. “And you offered to buy me multiple drinks. And you asked me to dinner. And you suggested I cancel my plans with my boyfriend — who, again, is Sidney Crosby — to hang out with you instead.”
“Please stop,” he mumbles into his hands.
“This is what you get for hitting on random women at hotel bars,” you tell him, not unkindly. “Lesson learned?”
“Lesson learned,” he agrees miserably. He lifts his head. “Is he actually going to kill me?”
“Probably not,” you say. “But he is standing right behind you.”
Connor goes very, very still. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not joking.”
“How long has he been there?”
“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “But I’d guess at least a minute.”
Connor closes his eyes. “Perfect. Great. This is exactly how I wanted All-Star Weekend to go.”
You’re trying very hard not to laugh as Sidney — who has indeed been standing behind Connor for at least a full minute, watching this entire exchange with barely concealed amusement — finally makes his move.
He reaches out and claps a hand down on Connor’s shoulder.
The effect is immediate. Connor actually jumps, his beer sloshing slightly, and spins on the bar stool to find himself face-to-face with Sidney Crosby, who is looking at him with an expression of polite interest that doesn’t quite hide the laughter in his eyes.
“Hey, Connor,” Sidney says easily. “How’s it going?”
“Sid,” Connor manages, his voice slightly strangled. “Hi. Hey. Good. It’s going good. How are you?”
“I’m good,” Sidney says. He squeezes Connor’s shoulder once before letting go, then slides into the seat on your other side, effectively boxing you in between them. His hand immediately finds your knee under the bar, possessive and warm. “Thanks for keeping my girlfriend company while I was gone.”
“Your girlfriend,” Connor repeats faintly. “Right. Yeah. No problem. Happy to help.”
“I heard,” Sidney says, and now he’s definitely smiling. “Something about dinner? And a party? And …” He pauses, raising his eyebrows. “Your hotel room?”
If it’s possible to die of embarrassment, Connor Bedard is about to be the first documented case.
“I didn’t—I wasn’t-” he stammers. “I didn’t know she was-”
“Dating me?” Sidney supplies helpfully.
“Yes! I didn’t know she was dating you. She didn’t say—well, she did say, but she didn’t say it was you-”
“I told him you play for the Penguins,” you interject, taking pity on him. “He didn’t put it together.”
“To be fair,” Sidney says, “there are a lot of guys on the Penguins. You can’t be expected to know all of our relationship statuses.”
“I should’ve known yours,” Connor says miserably. “Everyone knows—I mean, there were pictures in the press-”
“A few months ago,” Sidney acknowledges. “But you’ve been pretty busy. I’m sure you’ve had other things on your mind besides my love life.”
“Still,” Connor says. “I’m sorry. Really. I wasn’t trying to—I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
Sidney’s expression softens. “Hey, you didn’t know. And you were respectful about it.” He glances at you. “Right? He was respectful?”
“Very,” you confirm. “Persistent, but respectful.”
“I’m persistent,” Connor admits. “My coach says it’s one of my strengths.”
“It is,” Sidney agrees. “On the ice. Maybe less so when hitting on taken women in hotel bars.”
“Noted,” Connor says. “Filed away for future reference. Don’t hit on Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend.”
“Or anyone’s girlfriend,” you suggest.
“Right. Yes. That too.”
There’s a beat of awkward silence, and then Sidney laughs, clapping Connor on the shoulder again. “Relax, kid. I’m not mad. It’s actually kind of funny.”
“Funny,” Connor repeats, looking between you and Sidney. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you?”
“Who would I tell?” Sidney asks innocently.
“The guys. The team. The media. The entire hockey world.”
“I’m not going to tell the entire hockey world that you hit on my girlfriend,” Sidney assures him. He pauses. “I might tell Geno though.”
“Oh god.”
“He’ll think it’s hilarious.”
“Please don’t,” Connor begs.
“I’ll think about it,” Sidney says, grinning now. “Depends on how nice you are to me during the skills competition tomorrow.”
“The nicest,” Connor promises. He looks at you. “I really am sorry. You’re—I mean, obviously you’re with the right guy. Sidney Crosby. Legend. Icon. Much better option than me.”
“Much better,” you agree, leaning into Sidney’s side. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Connor says. “I’m just glad he’s not actually killing me.”
“The night’s still young,” Sidney says mildly.
Connor’s eyes go wide and Sidney laughs, holding up a hand. “Kidding. I’m kidding. You’re fine.”
“You’re enjoying this too,” Connor accuses.
“A little bit,” Sidney admits. His hand squeezes your knee under the bar. “It’s not every day I get to come back from the bathroom to find a player trying to steal my girlfriend.”
“I wasn’t trying to steal-” Connor stops. “Okay, I was maybe trying a little. But I didn’t know she was yours!”
“And now you do,” Sidney says pleasantly.
“Now I do,” Connor agrees fervently. “Loud and clear. Message received. Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend is off limits.”
“Good talk,” Sidney says, raising his beer in a mock toast.
Connor raises his own beer, looking relieved that this interaction is ending without bloodshed. “Good talk.”
They both drink, and you shake your head, finishing your wine. “You’re both ridiculous.”
“You let him keep going,” Sidney points out. “You could’ve mentioned my name at any point.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“I can’t believe you both think this is funny,” Connor mutters.
“It is funny,” you tell him. “You invited me to skip dinner with my boyfriend to have room service with you instead. That’s objectively funny.”
“When you put it that way,” Connor allows. “Yeah, okay. It’s a little funny.”
“A little?” Sidney raises his eyebrows.
“Fine. It’s pretty funny.” Connor takes another drink. “I’m never living this down, am I?”
“Probably not,” you say sympathetically.
“Definitely not,” Sidney corrects. “But hey, could be worse. At least you didn’t know who she was. That would be really embarrassing.”
“How would that be worse?” Connor asks.
“Because then you’d know you were hitting on my girl specifically,” Sidney explains. “This way you just have bad luck. If you’d known, you’d have bad judgment.”
Connor considers this. “That’s a good point.”
“I have those sometimes,” Sidney says.
“So what do I have to do to make sure this stays between us?” Connor asks.
“Buy us dinner,” you suggest.
Connor blinks. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” you confirm. “You offered to buy me dinner multiple times. Expand the invitation to include Sidney and we’ll call it even.”
“Done,” Connor says immediately. “Absolutely. Where do you want to go?”
“We actually do have plans,” Sidney admits. “But you can get the next round of drinks.”
“I can do that,” Connor agrees. He flags down the bartender. “Another beer for me, whatever they’re having, and put it on my tab.”
The bartender nods and Connor turns back to you and Sidney. “So are we good? Like, actually good?”
“We’re good,” Sidney assures him. “Really. No hard feelings.”
“And you’re not going to tell everyone?”
Sidney grins. “I’m not going to tell everyone. Just Geno. And Brad. And probably Nate. Maybe Flower.”
“That’s telling everyone,” Connor protests.
“That’s telling my friends,” Sidney corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Please,” Connor says. “I’m begging you.”
Sidney considers, then looks at you. “What do you think? Should we keep Connor’s secret?”
“I think,” you say slowly, “that depends on how good Connor is in the skills competition tomorrow.”
“I’ll be nice to all the old-timers,” Connor promises.
“Old-timers,” Sidney repeats, looking offended. “I’m thirty-nine, not sixty.”
“Ancient by hockey standards,” you tease, patting his arm. “It’s okay, baby. You’re a very spry thirty-nine.”
Connor is trying very hard not to laugh.
“You’re both terrible,” Sidney declares, but he’s smiling. “And for the record, I could still outskate most of the guys in the skills competition.”
“Sure you could, dear,” you say in that patronizing tone that makes Sidney narrow his eyes at you.
“You’re lucky I love you,” he mutters.
“Very lucky,” you agree, kissing his cheek.
Connor watches this exchange with visible relief. “You guys are actually really cute together.”
“We are,” Sidney says. “Which is why you should probably go find someone else to hit on.”
“Working on it,” Connor assures him. He stands, grabbing his beer. “But for real, thanks for being cool about this. And sorry again. I honestly had no idea.”
“We know,” you say kindly. “Go enjoy your All-Star Weekend.”
“I will.” He starts to walk away, then turns back. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Sidney says.
“How did you guys meet?”
You and Sidney exchange a glance. You’ve told this story before, but it never gets old.
“Charity gala,” Sidney says. “She was there with her dad, I was there for the team. I saw her across the room and-” He pauses, smiling at the memory. “She was arguing with someone about hockey statistics. Very passionately. I was intrigued.”
“I was right, for the record,” you interject. “The guy was wrong about Gretzky’s career plus-minus.”
“She was very right,” Sidney confirms. “And very confident about it. I liked that.”
“So you just went up and talked to her?” Connor asks.
“Eventually,” Sidney says. “After I watched her win three more arguments and drink two glasses of champagne like they were water.”
“I was nervous,” you defend. “Those galas are intimidating.”
“You told the mayor his economic policy was short-sighted,” Sidney reminds you.
“It was!”
Connor’s grinning now. “And then what?”
“Then I introduced myself,” Sidney says. “She knew who I was-”
“I’m not an idiot,” you interrupt.
“-but she didn’t care,” he continues. “Treated me like a normal person. We talked for two hours. I got her number. Asked her to dinner the next week.” He shrugs. “Rest is history.”
“That’s actually really sweet,” Connor says.
“We’re very sweet,” you agree. “Now go away so we can be sweet without an audience.”
He laughs. “Going, going.” He takes a few steps, then calls back, “Hey, for what it’s worth? You guys make sense together.”
“Thanks, Connor,” Sidney says, and he sounds genuinely touched.
Connor disappears into the crowd and Sidney turns to you, shaking his head. “Well, that was entertaining.”
“You’re not mad?” You ask.
“Mad? Why would I be mad?”
“He hit on me pretty aggressively.”
“He did,” Sidney agrees. “But you shut him down. And you didn’t hide the fact that you have a boyfriend. And you let him embarrass himself just enough that it was funny but not cruel.” He leans in, kissing you properly. “I’m not mad. I’m actually kind of flattered.”
“Flattered?”
“Players hit on you all the time and you always come home with me,” he says simply. “That’s pretty flattering.”
“Players do not hit on me all the time,” you protest.
“They would if I let you out of my sight more often,” he counters.
“Possessive.”
“Observant,” he corrects. “You’re beautiful. Smart. Funny. Of course people are going to hit on you.”
“People like Connor Bedard,” you say, still amused by the whole thing.
“People like Connor Bedard,” he confirms. “Who is a very talented hockey player with terrible timing.”
“Should we actually tell Geno?” You ask.
“Oh, absolutely,” Sidney says without hesitation. “This is too good not to share.”
“You’re evil.”
“I’m competitive, there’s a difference.” He grins, standing and offering you his hand. “Come on. Let’s go meet everyone before Marchy decides we’ve abandoned them and eats all the bread at the restaurant.”
You take his hand, letting him pull you up from the bar stool. “You know he’s going to tell literally everyone, right? Once Geno knows, the whole league will know by tomorrow.”
“That’s the plan,” Sidney says cheerfully. “Connor Bedard trying to steal my girlfriend during All-Star Weekend? That’s going in the group chat immediately.”
“Poor Connor.”
“He’ll survive,” Sidney assures you. “And he’ll learn an important lesson about checking whether someone’s taken before trying to get their number.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I really am,” he agrees. He pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist as you walk toward the lobby. “But can you blame me? The kid tried to invite you to his hotel room. His hotel room. Like I wasn’t going to find out.”
“He didn’t know,” you remind him.
“Still funny,” Sidney insists.
You lean into him, smiling. “Still funny,” you agree.
And as you walk through the lobby of The Garden City Hotel, past NHL players and their families, past rookies and veterans and everyone in between, you catch sight of Connor across the room. He’s talking to someone, laughing at something, looking young and confident and completely recovered from his earlier mortification.
He catches your eye and gives a little wave, sheepish but good-natured.
You wave back.
Sidney notices the exchange and squeezes your waist. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “in a few years, when he’s not so young anymore and the embarrassment has faded, this is going to be a great story.”
“For us or for him?”
“Both,” Sidney decides. “But mostly for us.”
“Most things are,” you point out.
“True,” he agrees. “But this one’s particularly good.”
Summary: the one where it’s surprisingly hard to be a “normal” PhD student when your boyfriend is one of the best hockey players of all time with a love language that revolves around thoroughly spoiling you
Series Masterlist
The thing about being in a PhD program is that poverty becomes a bonding experience.
You learn this on your first day of orientation, when the third-year students give you the rundown: which grocery stores have the best discount bins, which campus buildings have free food at events you can crash, how to stretch a stipend that barely covers rent let alone groceries. The unspoken rule is that everyone’s broke, everyone’s tired, and you’re all suffering together.
Which makes it a little awkward when you’re not actually broke at all.
Not that you’re trying to hide it, exactly. You’re just not advertising it. Because how do you casually mention to your cohort — while they’re all commiserating about choosing between heating and eating — that your boyfriend is Sidney Crosby and you’ve never actually looked at a price tag in six months?
You can’t. So you don’t.
It starts small. Innocuous.
“Oh my god, I love your bag,” Hannah says one morning, sliding into the seat next to you in Advanced Statistical Methods. She’s juggling a travel mug that’s seen better days and a backpack held together with duct tape and hope. “Is that new?”
You glance down at the Ferragamo you’re using today — a gift from Sidney after you mentioned in passing that you needed something structured for carrying textbooks. He’d had it delivered the next day in three different colors. Just give them all a try, the note had said. Keep whichever ones you like. Or all of them. You know I don’t care.
You’d kept all of them, obviously. You’re not a monster.
“Yeah, sort of,” you say, aiming for casual. “I found a good deal.”
“Where? I need to upgrade from this disaster.” Hannah gestures at her bag, which is currently shedding a strap thread. “But, like, after I pay rent. And my credit card. And maybe eat something other than ramen for a week.”
You laugh, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. But the laugh feels hollow because you had French toast and fresh berries for breakfast this morning, prepared by Sidney before he left for morning skate, and your biggest financial concern today is whether to get your nails done before or after your afternoon seminar.
“I’ll text you the link,” you lie, because what link? Sidney’s personal shopper?
The professor starts class and you let it drop, pulling out your laptop — the new MacBook Pro that Sidney got you when you mentioned your old one was running slow. “You need the best tools for your research,” he’d said, like dropping three grand on a computer was equivalent to buying coffee.
Hannah leans over. “Jesus, is that the new model?”
“Um. Maybe?”
“That’s like three months of my stipend,” she whispers, but she’s smiling. “You’re living large for a grad student. What’s your secret? Sugar daddy?”
She says it like a joke. You force a laugh and don’t answer, focusing very intently on opening your notes.
If she only knew.
The thing is, you’re not trying to be deceptive. You’re just trying to be normal. Or as normal as you can be when your boyfriend is one of the most famous athletes in the world and you’re trying to navigate academia without anyone treating you differently.
Because they would treat you differently. You know they would.
So you show up to your classes, you do the readings, you contribute to discussions about methodology and theory and epistemology. You form study groups and complain about your dissertation proposal and drink truly terrible coffee from the department lounge. You’re just another PhD student trying to survive the gauntlet of graduate school.
Except you’re not, really.
Except you’re the one wearing Cartier earrings to a 9 AM seminar because Sidney saw them in a window last week and thought they’d look beautiful on you. Except you’re the one with the Burberry trench coat you didn’t think twice about buying because it was raining and Sidney had texted, Get something warm, baby. Don’t want you getting sick. Except you’re the one who casually mentions you spent summer break in the South of France like it’s no big deal, because to you it isn’t anymore.
Your cohort notices. Of course they notice.
“Those are gorgeous,” Carly says one day, pointing at your earrings during a break in your Research Methods seminar. She’s drinking instant coffee from a chipped mug. “They look expensive.”
“Thanks,” you say, instinctively touching one. “They were a gift.”
“From who? A duchess?” Eric jokes from across the table.
“My boyfriend,” you admit, because it’s true and you’re tired of deflecting.
“Damn, girl.” Carly grins. “He’s got good taste. What does he do?”
Your heart rate picks up. This is always where it gets tricky. “He’s in sports.”
“Like, a trainer or something?”
“Sort of. He plays hockey.”
“Oh, cool! Like rec league?”
You make a noncommittal sound and change the subject by asking Carly about her dissertation proposal, and she’s off, complaining about her advisor, and the moment passes.
It keeps passing. Over and over. Close calls that you navigate with careful vagueness.
The problem is, the evidence keeps accumulating.
There’s the day you show up with a different designer bag than usual and Hannah’s eyes go wide. “Okay, that’s the third luxury bag I’ve seen you with this semester. Are you secretly rich?”
“No,” you say, which is technically true. You’re not rich. Sidney is. You just benefit from it.
“Come on. Those bags cost more than my car.”
“I like accessories,” you say weakly.
“Accessories from brands I can’t even afford to look at,” she counters, but she’s laughing. “I’m not judging. I’m just saying if you have a secret side hustle, I want in.”
There’s the day the entire cohort is in the grad student lounge, debating whether they can afford to split a pizza for lunch, and your phone buzzes with a text from Sidney.
I know you’re studying through lunch. Sending food. Should be there in 15.
You barely have time to process before there’s a knock on the door and a delivery person arrives with bags from the nicest Italian place in the city — the kind of place that doesn’t do delivery, except apparently they do when Sidney Crosby calls personally.
“Did someone order food?” Eric asks, looking around confused.
You raise your hand sheepishly. “I did. I figured we could all use a break. My treat.”
The room goes silent as the delivery person unpacks what appears to be enough food for a small wedding: pasta, salads, breadsticks, cheesecake, bottles of San Pellegrino.
“This is from Antonelli’s,” Carly says slowly, reading the labels. “This place is stupid expensive. Are you sure-”
“It’s fine,” you interrupt. “Really. I wanted to do something nice.”
“How much was this?” Hannah asks, pulling out containers.
You have no idea. You didn’t order it. You’re not even sure Sidney knows how much it cost. He probably just told them to send the best they had.
“Don’t worry about it,” you say. “Just eat.”
They do, because they’re graduate students and free food is free food. But they’re looking at you differently now. Curious. Confused.
“Seriously though,” Eric says around a mouthful of pasta. “What do you do? Are you trust fund?”
“No trust fund,” you say. Also technically true. You grew up solidly middle class. The money’s not yours, it’s Sidney’s. “I just … I’m lucky. I have support.”
“From the boyfriend?” Carly asks.
You nod, grateful she’s making it easy for you.
“He must really like you,” she says.
You think about this morning, when Sidney pulled you back into bed even though he had practice, kissing you slow and deep and murmuring about how much he loves you, how proud he is of you, how he can’t wait to read your dissertation even though he’ll probably only understand half of it.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “He really does.”
The questions continue, but they’re gentle. Your cohort is curious, not cruel. They make jokes about you being their rich friend even though you’re not rich, you’re just adjacent to wealth in a way you’re still getting used to.
There’s the day you all go out for drinks at the dive bar near campus — the one with dollar drafts and sticky floors — and you offer to cover the tab without thinking.
“It’s like sixty bucks,” Eric protests. “We can split it.”
“I got it,” you insist, already handing your credit card to the bartender. The black Amex that Sidney added you to “for emergencies and anything else you want” hits the bar with a heavy clink.
Hannah’s eyes go wide. “Is that-”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “Really.”
“That’s an Amex Black Card,” she hisses. “Those are invitation only. You have to spend like a quarter million a year to even qualify.”
“My boyfriend travels a lot for work,” you say, which is perhaps the understatement of the century.
“What does he do again?” Carly asks.
“He plays hockey,” you repeat, praying this doesn’t go further.
“He must be really good,” Eric says.
You take a long sip of your beer. “He’s decent.”
Sidney Crosby, three-time Stanley Cup champion, two-time Olympic gold medalist, widely considered one of the best players in history, is decent.
You’re definitely going to hell for that one.
There’s the day you show up to your morning seminar and everyone’s comparing horror stories about their apartments — the broken heating, the mysterious stains, the landlords who won’t fix anything.
“What about you?” Carly asks. “Any apartment nightmares?”
You think about Sidney’s house — your house now, officially, since you moved in. The heated floors, the Sub-Zero fridge, the bathroom with the rainfall shower and the soaking tub. The guest rooms you’ve never even been in. The wine cellar Sidney’s building because he noticed you like red wine with dinner.
“My place is fine,” you say carefully. “No real complaints.”
“Lucky,” Hannah groans. “I’m pretty sure I have black mold. But it’s cheap, so.”
You make a mental note to ask Sidney if he knows any good landlords, then remember that Sidney owns property and probably actually does know good landlords, then realize you can’t do that without revealing too much.
This is getting complicated.
There’s the day your cohort discovers your Instagram.
You’re sitting in the library, working through statistical models for your dissertation proposal, when Hannah plops down across from you with her laptop open.
“Okay, so I was procrastinating on social media,” she announces, “and I found your Instagram.”
Your stomach drops. You’ve been careful to keep it private, but you did accept follow requests from your cohort because refusing seemed weirder than accepting.
“Cool,” you say, trying to sound casual.
“Cool?” Hannah spins her laptop around. On screen is a photo from this summer — you on a yacht in the Mediterranean, wearing a bikini and oversized sunglasses, the French Riviera sparkling behind you. Sidney had taken the photo right before pulling you into the water, laughing. You’d posted it with a simple heart emoji, nothing else.
“You spent summer break in France,” Hannah says slowly. “On a yacht.”
“I was visiting family,” you try, which is sort of true if you count Sidney as family, which you kind of do now.
“And here,” she scrolls, “you’re in … is that Monaco? And here you’re at what looks like a very expensive restaurant in Paris. And here-” She stops, squinting at the screen. “Are those courtside seats at a basketball game?”
They are. Penguins had played an away game in New York and Sidney had surprised you with Knicks tickets because he knows you love basketball. You’d sat front and center and tried not to freak out when several players waved at you — or more accurately, at the seat next to you where Sidney had been sitting.
“I like sports,” you offer weakly.
“Uh huh.” Hannah’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “And your boyfriend who plays hockey. He must play really well.”
“He’s good at what he does,” you admit.
“Does he play professionally?”
Your pause is too long. “Yes.”
“Like, NHL professionally?”
Another pause. “Yes.”
Hannah’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god. Who is he?”
“I’d rather not say,” you tell her honestly. “I just … I want to keep school and my personal life separate, you know?”
She studies you for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Okay. Yeah, I get that. That’s actually really smart.” She closes her laptop. “But just so you know? That yacht photo is insane. You look like you’re in a magazine.”
You laugh, tension breaking. “Sidney — my boyfriend — he took that picture.”
“Sidney,” she repeats, testing the name. “And he plays in the NHL.”
“Yes.”
“Cool. Can I meet him sometime?”
Your heart clenches. “Maybe. He’s pretty private about his personal life.”
“Because he’s famous,” Hannah says, not a question.
“Because we’re both private,” you correct gently.
She grins. “Secret NHL girlfriend. That’s pretty badass, actually.”
If she only knew the half of it.
The close calls keep coming.
There’s the day you’re working late in the library — it’s past ten, you’re the only one left in the graduate student study room, and you’re trying to make sense of a particularly dense theoretical framework. Your phone buzzes.
Still at school? Sidney’s text reads.
Yeah. Probably another hour at least.
You eat dinner?
You look at the empty coffee cup and granola bar wrapper on your desk. Sort of.
That’s not dinner. I’m sending food.
Sid, it’s fine.
Already done. Should be there in 20.
Twenty minutes later, a delivery person shows up with bags from your favorite sushi place — the expensive one that Sidney knows you love but would never order for yourself because it’s absurdly overpriced.
“Someone ordered this for …” The delivery guy checks his phone. “Just ‘the pretty girl studying in the grad library’?”
You laugh despite yourself. “That’s me.”
“Lucky girl,” he says, handing over the bags. “This order was like two hundred bucks. And the guy on the phone said to make sure you actually eat it, not just pick at it.”
Your heart melts. “Tell him I will.”
“He also said to tell you to come home at a reasonable hour because you need sleep.”
You’re smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. “Tell him I’ll think about it.”
The delivery guy grins. “He said you’d say that. He also said he’s planning to call in an hour to check.”
“He’s insufferable,” you say fondly.
“He seems like he really cares about you.”
“He really does,” you agree.
After he leaves, you open the bags to find not just sushi but miso soup, seaweed salad, edamame, and your favorite mochi for dessert. There’s also a note. Proud of you. Love you. Come home soon so I can prove it.
You take a picture of the spread and send it to him with a heart emoji.
He texts back immediately. Eat all of it.
That’s too much food for one person.
Then bring the leftovers home. Now eat.
You eat, still smiling, thinking about how lucky you are. How impossibly, ridiculously lucky.
The next day, Hannah corners you after seminar.
“Okay, I have a theory,” she announces.
“About the reading? Because I have thoughts-”
“About you,” she interrupts. “I think your boyfriend plays for the Penguins.”
Your heart stops. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you live in Pittsburgh, you’ve mentioned he travels a lot but is home regularly, and I saw you once leaving campus in an Uber heading toward Sewickley.” She pauses. “That’s where a lot of the Penguins live, right?”
You swallow hard. “I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Come on. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“I really can’t talk about this,” you say quietly.
Her expression softens. “Hey, I’m not trying to out you or whatever. I’m just … I’m curious. And I think it’s cool. You’re doing a PhD while dating a professional athlete. That’s impressive.”
“It’s complicated,” you admit.
“I bet. But for what it’s worth? You’re handling it really well. You’re still just you in class. You don’t act like you’re better than us or anything.”
“I’m not better than anyone,” you say firmly. “I’m just a grad student trying to survive like everyone else.”
“A grad student who gets sushi delivered at ten PM and wears Cartier to morning seminars,” Hannah teases. “But yeah, I get what you mean.”
You laugh. “I’m a walking contradiction.”
“You’re interesting,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”
The revelation doesn’t come dramatically. It comes on a random Thursday in December.
You’re in Advanced Qualitative Methods, discussing interview protocols, when your phone buzzes with a text. You ignore it — Professor Feldman has a strict no-phones policy — but it buzzes again. And again.
During the break, you check.
Game got moved to 5pm instead of 7 because of the snowstorm. Can I pick you up after your class? Want to see you before we have to be at the arena.
Class ends at 4:30. I can meet you somewhere?
I’ll pick you up. Just tell me where.
The main humanities building? There’s a circle drive.
Perfect. See you at 4:30. Love you.
Love you too.
You forget about it until class is wrapping up and Professor Feldman is assigning next week’s readings. You’re packing up your laptop when Hannah leans over.
“Some of us are going to the library to work on the group project. You in?”
“I can’t today,” you say. “My boyfriend’s picking me up.”
“Ooh, do we finally get to meet the mysterious Sidney?” Carly asks, overhearing.
Your stomach flips. “Oh, um. Maybe?”
“Come on,” Eric says. “You’ve been talking about this guy for months and we’ve never seen him. I’m starting to think he’s imaginary.”
“He’s not imaginary,” you protest.
“Then let us meet him,” Hannah challenges. “Unless he’s secretly married or something.”
“He’s not married,” you say, maybe too defensively. “He’s just … he’s picking me up. You’ll probably see him.”
“Perfect,” Carly grins. “We’ll walk out with you.”
There’s no polite way to refuse, so you don’t. You just pray that Sidney’s being subtle today. Maybe he’ll be in a regular car instead of one of his nice ones. Maybe he’ll just pull up and you can hop in quickly and-
You walk out of the building with your cohort, and your prayers are immediately not answered.
Because parked in the circle drive, impossible to miss, is Sidney’s Range Rover. The new one. The one that costs more than most of your cohort will make in three years of their stipend.
And leaning against it, wearing dark jeans and a Penguins hoodie, hair still damp from a shower, is Sidney.
Your Sidney.
Who is — because the universe hates you — immediately recognizable to anyone who follows hockey even casually.
“Holy shit,” Eric breathes.
“Is that-” Hannah starts.
“That’s Sidney Crosby,” Carly finishes, her voice climbing an octave.
You’re frozen on the steps, watching as Sidney spots you and his whole face lights up. He’s smiling that private smile, the one that’s just for you, and he’s pushing off the car and starting toward you.
“Please don’t-” you start, but it’s too late because Sidney’s reached you now, and he’s pulling you into a hug, kissing your temple.
“Hey, baby,” he murmurs against your hair. “How was class?”
“Good,” you squeak. “Um. These are my classmates.”
He pulls back, registering for the first time that you’re not alone. His expression shifts to polite-pleasant, the one he uses for fans and media. “Oh, hi. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re Sidney Crosby,” Eric says, apparently the only one capable of speech.
“Yeah,” Sidney says easily. He keeps one arm around your waist, casual and possessive at once. “You guys in the PhD program with her?”
“Yes,” Hannah manages. “We’re in her cohort.”
“That’s great. She talks about you guys all the time.” He’s being so normal, so charming, and you can see your cohort melting in real-time.
“You’re really dating her,” Carly says, pointing at you.
Sidney laughs. “Yeah, I’m really dating her. Lucky me, right?”
“Lucky YOU?” Hannah’s voice cracks. “She’s dating Sidney Crosby!”
“I keep telling her the same thing,” Sidney says warmly, squeezing your waist. “That she’s dating Sidney Crosby and she should be way more impressed with herself.”
“That’s not-” you start.
“But she doesn’t want to hear it,” he continues, grinning now. “So we’re working on that.”
Your cohort is staring at both of you like you’re a particularly fascinating species at the zoo.
“So,” Eric says slowly, “when you said your boyfriend plays hockey …”
“I meant he plays hockey,” you finish weakly.
“You said he was decent,” Carly accuses.
Sidney laughs outright at that. “Decent. That’s generous.”
“You’re literally in the Hall of Fame,” Hannah says.
Sidney’s looking between all of you, amused and slightly confused. “What bags? What yacht?”
“All the designer bags you bought her,” Hannah says. “And apparently she spent summer break on a yacht in France?”
“Oh.” Sidney looks down at you. “You didn’t tell them about France?”
“I was trying to keep a low profile,” you mumble into his chest.
“Baby, you posted pictures on Instagram.”
“I thought I was being subtle!”
He kisses the top of your head. “You’re many things. Subtle isn’t one of them.”
“I hate you,” you mutter.
“No you don’t,” he says confidently, and he’s right, damn him.
Your cohort is watching this exchange with rapt attention.
“So,” Carly ventures, “all those times you said you had support …”
“She meant me,” Sidney confirms. “I know grad school doesn’t pay much. Figured the least I could do was make sure she’s comfortable.”
“Comfortable,” Hannah repeats. “She has enough handbags to make a Real Housewife jealous.”
“She should have whatever she wants,” Sidney says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
And the way he says it — so matter-of-fact, so genuine — makes your heart squeeze.
“Okay,” Eric says. “I need to ask. The food delivery last month. The Italian place.”
“That was me,” Sidney admits. “She texted that she was studying through lunch. I can’t have her not eating.”
“That order was like three hundred dollars,” Eric says weakly.
Sidney shrugs. “She’s working hard. She deserves good food.”
“And the sushi last week?” Hannah asks. “The late-night delivery?”
“Also me. She was at the library until almost midnight.” He looks down at you with mock sternness. “Which we’ve talked about. You need sleep.”
“I was on a deadline,” you defend.
“You’re always on a deadline. That’s how grad school works.”
“You’re very protective,” Carly observes.
“She’s important to me,” Sidney says simply. “Of course I’m protective.”
There’s another silence, this one softer.
“This is so weird,” Hannah finally says. “Like, we’ve been making jokes about you being our rich friend, but you’re dating Sidney Crosby.”
“I’m not rich,” you point out. “He is.”
“You have his credit card,” Eric counters.
“For emergencies,” you say.
“And anything else she wants,” Sidney adds. “That’s literally what I told her when I gave it to her.”
You elbow him. “You’re not helping.”
“Wasn’t trying to,” he says cheerfully. He checks his watch. “We should probably go. I need to be at the arena soon.”
“You have a game tonight,” Carly says, star-struck.
“Against the Flyers,” Sidney confirms. “You guys should come if you want. I can get you tickets.”
“REALLY?” Hannah practically shrieks.
“Really,” he says, laughing. “Just text her how many you need.” He looks at you. “That okay?”
“Of course,” you say, because how can you say no when he’s being so sweet?
“Great. I’ll have them at will-call.” He opens the car door for you. “Ready?”
You turn back to your cohort, who are all staring at you with expressions ranging from shock to delight to disbelief.
“So,” you say awkwardly. “I guess the secret’s out.”
“You think?” Hannah laughs. “Oh my god. Wait until the rest of the department finds out.”
“Please don’t make it a big thing,” you beg.
“Are you kidding? This is the biggest thing to happen to our program in years,” Carly says. “One of us is dating Sidney Crosby!”
“I’m still just me,” you insist. “Still the same person you’ve been studying with all semester.”
“We know,” Eric says, and he sounds sincere. “That’s actually the coolest part. Like, you could be such a snob about this and you’re just … not.”
“Why would I be a snob?”
“Because you’re dating Sidney Crosby,” Hannah repeats, apparently never getting tired of saying it.
Sidney laughs, tucking you against his side. “She keeps me humble. Trust me.”
“I doubt that,” you mutter.
“It’s true. Just this morning she told me my playoff beard was scraggly.”
“It was scraggly,” you defend. “You looked like a lumberjack who gave up halfway through.”
“See what I deal with?” Sidney says to your cohort, but he’s grinning. “No respect for the beard.”
“The beard was a crime against your face,” you tell him.
“I won three Cups with playoff beards,” he counters.
“Correlation is not causation,” you shoot back, and he laughs, pulling you closer.
Your cohort watches this with visible delight.
“You guys are cute,” Carly declares.
“We really need to go,” Sidney says, but he’s still smiling. “But seriously, text her about tickets. I’m happy to host.”
“Thank you,” Hannah says. “This is insane. In the best way.”
“Nice meeting you all,” Sidney says, helping you into the car with a hand on your back.
As he walks around to the driver’s side, you can hear your cohort exploding into conversation.
“OH MY GOD.”
“I can’t believe this is real.”
“She’s dating SIDNEY CROSBY.”
“This explains everything.”
Sidney slides into the driver’s seat, grinning. “I take it you were keeping me a secret?”
“I was trying to be normal,” you groan, buckling your seatbelt.
“Baby, nothing about us is normal.” He leans over to kiss you properly. “But that’s what makes it fun.”
“They’re going to tell everyone,” you say against his lips.
“Probably,” he agrees. “Does that bother you?”
You think about it. About Hannah’s delight, Carly’s excitement, Eric’s genuine kindness. About how they said you were still just you, even knowing who you’re dating.
“No,” you decide. “I don’t think it does.”
“Good.” He puts the car in drive. “Because I’m really proud to be your boyfriend. I like it when people know.”
“Even when I call your playoff beard scraggly?”
“Even then.” He reaches over to lace his fingers with yours. “Especially then, actually. Keeps me grounded.”
You squeeze his hand. “I love you.”
“Love you too.” He pulls out of the circle drive, waving at your cohort who are still standing there, phones out, probably texting the entire department. “So. Flyers tonight. You wearing my jersey?”
“I always wear your jersey,” you say.
“I meant to the game,” he clarifies.
“I know what you meant,” you tease. “I also know what you meant.”
His hand tightens on yours. “Later. After we win.”
“Confident,” you observe.
“Motivated,” he corrects, and the look he gives you makes heat pool in your stomach.
Your phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. And again.
You check it to find the group chat exploding.
Hannah: SIDNEY. CROSBY.
Carly: How are you so CALM about this???
Eric: This is the best day of my grad school career.
Hannah: He’s SO INTO YOU. Like the way he looked at you???
Carly: We’re definitely coming to the game.
Eric: Are all the tickets in the nosebleeds or does he get us good seats?
You laugh, showing Sidney the messages.
“Tell them they’re in my personal box,” he says.
He says you’re in his personal box.
The response is immediate.
Hannah: I’M SORRY WHAT
Carly: HIS BOX???
Eric: This is unreal.
You’re grinning as you put your phone away.
“They’re going to lose their minds,” you tell Sidney.
“Good,” he says. “Your friends should be excited for you. You deserve people who are excited for you.”
“I have you,” you point out.
“You do,” he agrees. “You really, really do.”
And sitting in his Range Rover, your hand in his, heading toward the arena where you’ll watch him do what he does best, surrounded by your friends who now know your secret and are thrilled for you rather than judging you-
You think maybe you can have both worlds after all.
The PhD student and the girlfriend.
The academic and the hockey WAG.
The you that exists in seminars and study groups, and the you that exists in designer bags and luxury boxes.
