Summary: you’re covering your first NHL game when a player defends you from an asshole reporter in front of the entire locker room. Two weeks later, you literally crash into him at the mall and your Victoria’s Secret bag explodes everywhere. He helps you pick up your underwear, buys you lunch, and asks for your number. Now you’re secretly dating him while covering his team. This will definitely end well.
Based on this request
The press box at Ball Arena smells like stale popcorn and desperation — or maybe that’s just you, cramming three years of journalism school into your brain while the Zamboni makes its final pass before puck drop.
“You’ll be fine,” your editor, Jeff, had said over the phone two hours ago, his voice tinged with the kind of false confidence people use when they’re asking you to jump off a cliff. “Just ask some questions, get some quotes, file by midnight. Easy.”
Easy. Right.
You’ve covered high school football. You’ve covered city council meetings where the most exciting thing that happened was a debate about parking meters. You have not covered professional hockey, and you definitely haven’t covered the Colorado Avalanche, who are currently warming up on the ice below you like a pack of very expensive, very fast wolves.
Your phone buzzes. It’s Jeff again.
Remember to be assertive in the scrum. These guys will eat you alive if you’re not.
“Fantastic,” you mutter, shoving your phone into your bag next to your recorder, three pens (always bring backups), and a protein bar you’re too nervous to eat.
The game starts, and you do your best to keep up. You know hockey — grew up watching it with your dad, can explain offsides and icing without breaking a sweat — but knowing the sport and covering it professionally are two wildly different things. The reporters around you type with the casual confidence of people who’ve done this a thousand times, their eyes barely leaving their laptops as they capture every rush, every hit, every save.
You’re handwriting notes like some kind of medieval scribe, your fingers cramping around your pen.
The Avalanche score first. Then Calgary ties it. Then Colorado goes up again, and Calgary ties it again, and suddenly you’re in overtime and your heart is doing things that probably aren’t medically advisable.
That’s when number eighty-eight, Martin Nečas, picks up the puck in the neutral zone.
He’s fast. You knew he was fast from watching highlights, but seeing it in person is different. He blows past one defender, then another, then he’s in alone on the goalie and-
The puck goes high glove side.
The goal horn sounds.
Ball Arena loses its collective mind.
You’re scribbling frantically. Nečas OT winner, 3:47 into extra period, unassisted — check that, maybe assisted? Need to confirm. Your hand is shaking slightly, and you’re not sure if it’s from the adrenaline or the three cups of press box coffee you’ve consumed.
Twenty minutes later, you’re standing outside the Avalanche locker room with approximately thirty other media members, most of whom are men, and most of whom look like they’d rather be literally anywhere else. They’re checking phones, comparing notes, complaining about traffic.
You’re trying not to throw up.
The door opens, and a PR assistant — bright-eyed, clipboard-wielding, probably doesn’t get paid enough — waves everyone in. “Okay, folks, you know the drill. Bednar will be available in five, but players are good to go now.”
The scrum moves like a single organism, flowing into the room and immediately clustering around certain stalls. You can see Cale Makar’s number eight jersey hanging in one corner, surrounded by reporters. Nathan MacKinnon’s number twenty-nine is creating its own gravitational pull.
And Marty’s number eighty-eight? That’s where the real crowd is.
Of course it is. Two goals, including the overtime winner. That’s the story of the night.
You wedge yourself into the back of the pack, your recorder held up like a periscope, trying to catch anything useful. The guy in front of you is approximately six-two and apparently made of concrete. You can see roughly forty percent of Marty’s face and none of your future.
“-yeah, you know, I just tried to get to the net,” Marty is saying, his accent slight but present, the kind that makes certain words sound softer around the edges. “They gave me some space, so I took it.”
“Marty, can you walk us through the overtime winner?” Someone shouts.
“Sure, yeah. Lehki made a good play in our zone, got it out clean. I saw the defenseman cheat a little bit to the middle, so I went wide. After that, it was just me and the goalie, and I just tried to pick a spot.” He pauses. “Got lucky, I guess.”
The reporters scribble. You scribble. Everyone scribbles.
“Do you feel like you’re finding your rhythm? Third game with multiple points-”
“I mean, the team is playing well, you know? When everyone is doing their job, it makes my job easier. It’s not just about me.”
Standard athlete answer. Humble. Team-first. You’re not going to get a story out of that.
But you might get one out of something else.
You’ve been watching the game closely — or as closely as someone covering their first NHL game can watch — and you noticed something in the second period. Marty had changed his positioning on the power play, rotating higher in the zone instead of staying down low. It had opened up passing lanes, created chaos for the Calgary penalty kill. None of the reporters have asked about it yet.
You wait for a gap in the questions, your heart doing that thing again where it tries to escape through your throat.
Nothing.
More questions about the goals, about the team’s playoff positioning, about-
“Marty, your parents are visiting from Czechia this week, right? Did they-”
You’re formulating your question in your head, trying to make it sound smart and professional and like you absolutely belong here, when suddenly there’s a brief pause. Someone’s phone is ringing. Another reporter is checking his notes.
Marty’s eyes scan the crowd, and for just a second, they land on you.
You freeze.
He tilts his head slightly, the ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Yeah?” He says, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you. “You’ve been waiting. What’s your question?”
Oh God. Oh God, everyone is looking at you now.
You clear your throat, raising your voice to be heard over the ambient noise. “I noticed in the second period, on the power play, you started rotating higher in the zone instead of-”
“Hey, Marty,” a voice cuts in from your left — deep, male, impatient. You feel a hand on your shoulder, pushing. Not gently. “Follow-up about the first goal. You said you saw the space, but their defenseman had been playing you tight all night. What changed?”
You stumble slightly to the side, catching yourself on someone’s arm. The reporter — older guy, maybe fifty, with a press badge from some blog you’ve never heard of — has essentially shoved his way into your spot, his recorder thrust toward Marty’s face.
Your question dies in your throat.
The locker room continues on like nothing happened. Someone asks about goaltending. Someone else asks about line combinations.
Your face is burning. You’re angry, but more than that, you’re embarrassed. You finally work up the courage to ask something, and you get physically pushed aside like you’re not even here.
You’re about to give up, about to just take your partial quotes and your wounded pride and get the hell out, when Marty speaks again.
“Actually, hold on.” His voice is quiet but firm, and somehow it cuts through all the noise. “I want to hear her question.”
The locker room doesn’t go silent, there are still conversations happening in other corners, still the ambient sound of a hockey team winding down after a win, but the scrum around Marty’s stall definitely quiets.
Marty is looking directly at the reporter who cut you off. His expression hasn’t changed much — he’s still got that post-game calm, that professional athlete neutrality — but there’s something in his eyes that’s gone very, very flat.
“You pushed her,” Marty says. It’s not a question.
The reporter scoffs. “I didn’t—look, it’s a scrum, everyone’s trying to get questions in-”
“Yeah, and she was asking one.” Marty stands up, and suddenly the dynamic in the room shifts. He’s not a huge guy by hockey standards — six-foot-two, maybe — but he’s still in his gear minus the shoulder pads, and there’s something about the way he moves that makes you think of a coiled spring. “And you interrupted her. And pushed her.”
“It wasn’t-”
“I saw it.” Marty crosses his arms. “Everyone saw it.”
The reporter’s face is reddening now. “Look, kid, I’ve been covering this league since before you were born-”
“Great. Then you should know better.” Marty’s voice hasn’t risen, but it’s taken on an edge that makes you think he sounds like this on the ice right before someone makes a very bad decision. “You want to ask questions? Fine. Wait your turn. Don’t put your hands on people. And definitely don’t cut off-” He glances at your press badge, squinting slightly. “-Colorado Sports Network in the middle of a question.”
“It’s just an intern,” the reporter mutters, but he’s already backing up slightly.
“I don’t care if she’s the mascot,” Marty says, and there’s a ripple of surprised laughter from some of the other reporters. “She was asking something, and you interrupted. That’s rude. We don’t do that here.”
The PR assistant has materialized from nowhere, her expression torn between professional horror and barely suppressed glee. “Okay, gentlemen, let’s keep this professional-”
“I am being professional,” Marty says, not looking away from the reporter. “I’m telling him to be professional too.”
The reporter opens his mouth, closes it, then turns and pushes his way out of the scrum entirely. You catch a few muttered words that are definitely not appropriate for a family establishment.
Marty watches him go, then turns back to you. His expression softens immediately, like someone flipped a switch. “Sorry about that. You were saying? Something about the power play?”
Your brain has officially left the building. You’re running on autopilot now, some deep-seated journalistic instinct that survived three years of college and one Very Bad Breakup.
“I … yeah. I noticed you started rotating higher in the zone on the power play, creating more of an umbrella setup instead of staying down low. It seemed like it opened up passing lanes and gave you guys more flexibility. Was that a tactical adjustment, or something you read off Calgary’s penalty kill?”
Marty’s face lights up — an actual, genuine smile that makes him look about five years younger. “Yes! Okay, yeah, you noticed that. That’s a good question.” He leans forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. “Their PK was collapsing really hard down low, trying to take away the bumper and the net front. So me and Val talked about it on the bench, and we decided I’d rotate higher, pull one of their defenders with me. Creates more room for Nate to work in the middle, and if they don’t follow me up, I’ve got time and space to shoot or make a pass.”
You’re nodding, your recorder capturing every word. “So it was a read you made in-game?”
“Yeah, exactly. Their penalty kill is very aggressive, which is good for them most of the time, but if you can recognize it and adjust, you can take advantage.” He shrugs. “Plus, our coaches are really good about letting us make those changes on the fly. They trust us to see what’s happening and react.”
“That’s great,” you manage, and you mean it. This is actual analysis, actual insight into how the game works at this level. This is a real answer.
“You played hockey?” Marty asks suddenly.
The question catches you off guard. “What? No. I mean, I watched a lot growing up, but I never played.”
“But you know the game.” It’s not a question. “That was a smart thing to notice. Most people, they just see goals and hits. They don’t see the small adjustments.”
“I’m trying to learn,” you say, and it comes out more honest than you intended. “This is actually my first time covering an NHL game.”
His eyebrows rise. “Really? You seem like you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m very good at pretending.”
He laughs — a real laugh, bright and surprised. “Well, you’re doing better than some people who’ve been doing this for twenty years.” He shoots a pointed look in the direction the rude reporter went.
“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it for multiple reasons. “For answering the question. And for, you know. Standing up for me. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did.” He says it simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That guy was being an asshole. Sorry—can I say that? Are you recording?”
You glance at your recorder. “I am, but I won’t use that part.”
“Okay, good, because he was.” Marty grins. “You have any other questions? I’ve got time.”
You do have other questions — about a dozen of them, actually, now that your brain is slowly coming back online. You ask about his chemistry with his linemates, about adjusting to Colorado’s system, about whether he misses playing in Carolina. He answers all of them thoughtfully, with the kind of detail that makes you think he actually enjoys talking about hockey when he’s not being asked the same five questions on repeat.
Other reporters are still hovering, waiting for you to finish, but Marty doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.
“Last question,” you say finally, partly because you’re running out of notebook pages and partly because you can feel the impatient stares of ten other media members. “The overtime winner—you went glove side on a goalie who’s been statistically one of the best in the league at stopping high shots. What made you choose that?”
Marty’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Honestly? Gut feeling. I’d been watching him all game, and he was really good at tracking the puck down low, getting his pad down fast. But a couple times when there were high shots, he was just a little bit slow getting his glove up. So when I came in on that rush, I was already thinking glove side. And then I saw him cheat a little bit to his blocker side — just a tiny bit, maybe he thought I was going there — so I went upstairs glove.” He smiles. “Also, I got lucky. Let’s be honest.”
“Skill and luck,” you say.
“Best combination in hockey.”
You thank him again, clicking off your recorder and stepping back from the scrum. Your legs feel like jelly, and you’re pretty sure you’ve sweat through your shirt under your blazer, but you have quotes. Good quotes. Great quotes, actually.
As you’re turning to leave, Marty calls out, “Hey, Colorado Sports Network?”
You turn back. “Yeah?”
“What’s your name? I didn’t catch it.”
“Oh. Um. It’s Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N.”
He nods, like he’s committing it to memory. “Cool. Good questions, Y/N. I hope you cover more games.”
“Thanks,” you say, and then you flee before you can do something embarrassing like giggle or trip over your own feet.
You make it approximately fifteen feet down the hallway before you have to stop and lean against the wall, your heart pounding so hard you’re pretty sure it’s visible through your shirt.
Your phone buzzes. Jeff.
How’d it go???
You stare at the message for a long moment, then type back. Got the story. Filing in an hour.
What you don’t say: You also got defended by a professional hockey player, had your first real scrum experience, and possibly just developed a crush on someone you’re supposed to be covering objectively.
But that’s fine. That’s totally fine. You’re a professional.
You’re absolutely, completely, definitely fine.
(You’re not fine.)
***
The thing about Park Meadows Mall on a Monday afternoon is that it should be relatively empty. That’s what you’ve been telling yourself for the past hour, wandering from store to store with the kind of determined focus usually reserved for investigative journalism or defusing bombs.
You are not defusing a bomb. You are buying underwear.
“Just go in, get what you need, get out,” you’d muttered to yourself in the parking lot, gripping the steering wheel like it might offer moral support. “You’re an adult. Adults buy lingerie. This is normal.”
Except it doesn’t feel normal when you’re standing in Victoria’s Secret, holding a lacy burgundy bra up to the light and trying to remember what size you’re supposed to be, and whether it even matters because who’s going to see it anyway?
The sales associate — perky, blonde, probably doesn’t lie awake at night worrying about whether she’ll die alone with seventeen cats — had been aggressively helpful.
“That color would look amazing on you,” she’d said, appearing at your elbow like a lingerie-themed ghost. “And we’re doing a promotion: buy two bras, get two panties free.”
Which is how you ended up with a shopping bag containing one burgundy bra, one black bra (practical), two matching thong sets (aspirational), and a crisis about whether buying nice underwear when you’re single is empowering or just sad.
You’re going with empowering. It’s empowering.
The bag swings from your hand as you navigate the mall, trying to look like someone who buys thongs on a Tuesday and feels totally normal about it. You pass the Apple Store, catch a glimpse of your reflection in a window, and make the executive decision that you need a coffee before you can handle the rest of your day.
There’s a Starbucks on the second floor. You head for the escalator, already mentally composing your order (iced latte, oat milk, extra shot because your life is a circus), your mind drifting to the article you need to finish editing tonight.
You’re thinking about transition sentences and whether you used “however” too many times when you step off the escalator directly into what feels like a brick wall.
Except brick walls don’t say “Oof” and stumble backward.
Except brick walls don’t have arms that instinctively reach out to steady you.
And brick walls definitely don’t smell like expensive cologne and fresh laundry.
“Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t-” you’re saying, at the same time the brick wall is saying something in what sounds like Czech, and then you’re both stepping back, and your Victoria’s Secret bag — your very full, very pink Victoria’s Secret bag — chooses this exact moment to give up on life.
The bottom tears.
Everything goes flying.
The burgundy bra lands near a trash can. The black bra drapes itself over someone’s abandoned smoothie cup. And the thongs — Jesus Christ, the thongs — scatter across the floor like the world’s most embarrassing confetti.
“Oh my God,” you say, dropping to your knees immediately, your face already burning hot enough to power a small city. “Oh my God, oh my God-”
“Here, let me help-” the brick wall says, and that’s when you look up and realize the brick wall is Marty.
Martin Nečas. Number eighty-eight. Two-goal scorer. Professional hockey player.
Currently crouching down to help you pick up your underwear.
“No!” You practically shout, reaching out to stop him. “No, it’s fine, I’ve got it, you don’t have to-”
But he’s already picking up the black bra, and now he’s reaching for one of the thongs — the burgundy one with the little lace detail that the sales associate had described as “cheeky” — and you want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You want to spontaneously combust.
Marty’s holding the thong by one tiny string, staring at it like it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. His ears are turning red.
“This is, um.” He looks at you. Looks at the thong. Looks back at you. “This is yours?”
“Yes,” you say, snatching it from his hand and shoving it into what’s left of your shopping bag. “Yes, it’s mine, thank you, I’ve got it, sorry, I’m so sorry-”
“No, no, I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going-” He’s grabbing the other thong now (black, also “cheeky”), and the second bra, and somehow he’s managed to corral most of your escaped lingerie while you’re still frozen in a crouch, wishing for death.
A woman walking by gives you both a curious look. A teenager snickers.
You’re going to have to move to a different state. Maybe a different country.
“I think that’s everything,” Marty says, standing up and offering you the handful of lacy things he’s collected. His face is flushed, and he won’t quite meet your eyes, but he’s also trying very hard not to smile. “Unless, uh, there’s more?”
“No. That’s it. That’s all of it.” You stand up too quickly, nearly lose your balance, and catch yourself on a nearby railing. Smooth. Very smooth. “Thank you. For helping. Even though you didn’t have to. And probably shouldn’t have. I mean—not that I don’t appreciate it, but-”
“It’s okay,” he says, and now he is smiling, just a little bit. “I’ve seen underwear before.”
“That’s … great? That’s great for you.”
He laughs, and it breaks some of the tension. “I’m sorry about your bag. I really wasn’t paying attention. I was looking at my phone and-” He gestures vaguely at the multiple shopping bags hanging from his arm. Apple, Lululemon, some place called Tumi that you’re pretty sure sells luggage that costs more than your rent.
“It’s fine,” you say, even though it’s not fine, nothing is fine, you just had a professional athlete handle your thong collection. “I should’ve been watching where I was going too.”
There’s a pause. You’re clutching your broken bag of lingerie. He’s holding what appears to be half of the Apple Store’s inventory. You’re both just standing there, in the middle of the mall, while the universe laughs.
“So,” Marty says slowly. “This is, uh. This is embarrassing.”
“You think?”
“For both of us.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s more embarrassing for me,” you say. “You’re not the one whose underwear just went on a public tour.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one who picked it up.” He shifts his bags from one hand to the other. “Which, in retrospect, maybe I should’ve just let you handle that yourself.”
“Probably,” you agree. “But you were trying to be helpful. In a mortifying, I’ll-never-recover-from-this kind of way.”
He grins. “You’ll recover. Give it, like, ten or fifteen years.”
“Oh good. So I only have to hide in my apartment until 2040.”
“Could be worse. Could’ve been your grandma walking by instead of me.”
You hadn’t thought of that. “Oh my God, don’t even put that image in my head.”
“Now I’m curious what your grandma would’ve said.”
“She would’ve asked why I was buying thongs when I don’t even have a boyfriend.” You say it without thinking, then immediately want to take it back because why, why did you just volunteer that information?
Marty’s eyebrows rise slightly. “No boyfriend?”
“Nope. No boyfriend. Just me and my extremely fancy underwear that no one will ever see.” You’re babbling now, the words just pouring out like your brain has disconnected from your mouth. “Not that I bought it for anyone to see. I bought it for me. Because women can buy lingerie for themselves. It’s empowering.”
“It is,” he agrees, but he’s definitely trying not to laugh. “Very empowering.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Little bit.”
“Great. Fantastic.” You’re backing toward the escalator now, ready to flee this conversation and possibly this dimension. “Well, this has been humiliating. Thanks again for the help. I’m going to go throw myself into traffic now.”
“Wait.” He takes a step forward. “Don’t throw yourself into traffic.”
“I’m open to alternative suggestions.”
“Let me buy you lunch.”
You stop. “What?”
“Lunch,” he repeats. “As an apology. For, you know, crashing into you. And seeing your underwear. And making this whole thing weird.”
“You want to buy me lunch.”
“Yeah.”
“Right now?”
“I mean, unless you have somewhere else to be. Or unless you really are going to throw yourself into traffic, in which case I should probably try to stop you first.”
You stare at him. He’s serious. Martin Nečas, professional hockey player, the guy you interviewed two weeks ago, the guy who defended you in a locker room full of reporters, is asking you to lunch.
“I can’t have lunch with you,” you say.
“Why not?”
“Because-” Because you’re a journalist and he’s a player and there are probably ethics rules about this, right? Except you’re not really a journalist, you’re an intern, and you’re not even covering the team regularly, and also you’re pretty sure the ethics rules don’t account for chance encounters at the mall involving airborne lingerie. “Because it would be weird.”
“Weirder than what just happened?”
He’s got a point.
“I’m buying,” he adds. “And I promise not to mention your underwear again.”
“You just mentioned it.”
“That was the last time. From now on, we pretend it never happened.”
You look down at your broken Victoria’s Secret bag, then back at Marty, who’s watching you with this hopeful expression that’s honestly unfair because how are you supposed to say no to that?
“Where did you have in mind?” You hear yourself asking.
His face lights up. “You like burgers?”
***
Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting across from Marty in a corner booth at some gourmet burger place on the ground floor, your reconstructed shopping bag (he found a paper one from one of his stores) tucked safely beside you, trying to act like this is a totally normal situation.
It’s not a normal situation.
“So,” Marty says, pulling a pickle off his burger and setting it on the edge of his plate. “You’re still at Colorado Sports Network?”
“Yeah. Still an intern.” You pick up a fry, then put it down again. “That game two weeks ago was actually my first NHL coverage. They’ve had me on high school sports mostly.”
“But you did a good job. Your article was really good.”
You blink. “You read my article?”
“Yeah, of course.” He says it like it’s obvious. “I wanted to see what you wrote. Especially after the whole thing with that asshole reporter.”
“He’s still mad at you, by the way. Someone told me he’s been complaining about you to anyone who’ll listen.”
Marty shrugs, biting into his burger. “Don’t care. He was being rude.”
“You didn’t have to stand up for me like that.”
“Yes, I did.” He sets his burger down, looking at you seriously. “He pushed you. That’s not okay. And even if he hadn’t pushed you, interrupting someone in the middle of a question is just … it’s bad manners. My mom would kill me if I did that.”
“Your mom sounds scary.”
“She’s not scary, she’s just Czech. There’s a difference.” He pauses. “Actually, no, she’s a little bit scary.”
You laugh, and it feels good, some of the tension from the mall incident finally starting to ease. “How long are your parents visiting?”
“They left last week. But they’re coming back for playoffs, hopefully.” He steals one of your fries and grins when you swat at his hand. “If we make it.”
“You’ll make it. You guys are, what, second in the Central?”
“Yeah, but it’s close. And I don’t want to jinx it.”
“Not superstitious at all, huh?”
“I’m a hockey player. We’re all superstitious.” He counts off on his fingers. “I eat the same breakfast before every game. I put my left skate on before my right. I have to tap the glass three times when I go out for warmups. And I never, ever say the word ’shutout’ during a game.”
“What happens if you do?”
“The universe explodes. Or the other team scores. One of those.”
You’re grinning now, relaxing into the conversation. “Do you really believe that?”
“Doesn’t matter if I believe it. It’s just what you do.” He leans back in the booth, his long legs stretching out under the table. “Everyone on the team has their things. Gabe has this pre-game nap schedule that he will not deviate from. Nate listens to the same pump-up playlist. Cale does this specific stick-taping pattern.”
“What happens if someone messes up their routine?”
“Panic. Chaos. General disaster.” He’s smiling. “One time, Nate’s headphones died right before a game. You would’ve thought someone cancelled Christmas.”
“Did you guys lose?”
“No, we won 5-1. But he was stressed the entire time.”
You take a bite of your burger — it’s good, really good, the kind of burger that makes you understand why people wait in hour-long lines — and watch Marty across the table. He’s different like this, away from the arena. More relaxed. Funnier. The media persona falls away, and what’s left is just a guy in his twenties who apparently has strong opinions about pickle placement and breakfast superstitions.
“Can I ask you something?” You say.
“Sure.”
“Why’d you ask me to lunch? Really?”
He’s quiet for a moment, dragging a fry through ketchup. “I don’t know. I thought it would be nice?”
“Nice.”
“Yeah. You seemed cool. At the game, I mean. You asked good questions, and you weren’t just going through the motions like some of the other reporters.” He looks up, meeting your eyes. “And then we literally crashed into each other today, and your underwear went everywhere, and I thought … I don’t know, I thought maybe the universe was telling me something.”
“The universe told you to ask me to lunch via flying lingerie?”
“The universe works in mysterious ways.”
You’re trying not to smile and failing. “That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”
“Maybe. But you said yes, so it worked.”
He’s got you there.
Your phone buzzes on the table. You glance at it — Jeff, asking about a deadline for Friday — then flip it face-down. “Sorry. Work thing.”
“It’s fine. Are you busy? We can eat fast if you need to-”
“No, no, I’m good. I’ve got time.” You steal one of his fries in revenge for earlier. “What about you? Don’t you have practice or training or hockey stuff?”
“Day off. We played last night, so today’s recovery.” He flexes his arm dramatically. “As you can see, I’m recovering very hard. Buying electronics. Eating burgers. Really pushing my body to the limit.”
“The Apple Store bags make sense now.”
“New laptop. My old one died.” He grimaces. “Well, I maybe accidentally dropped it. And then maybe accidentally stepped on it.”
“How do you accidentally step on a laptop?”
“It was on the floor.”
“Why was it on the floor?”
“Because I dropped it.”
You’re laughing now, actually laughing, and Marty’s grinning at you like he’s won something. “You’re a disaster.”
“Little bit,” he agrees. “But I’m a disaster with a new laptop, so it’s fine.”
“What else did you buy? That’s a lot of bags.”
“Some clothes. A duffle bag. We have a road trip coming up and my other one broke. Oh, and I got my mom this fancy tea set thing from that kitchen store. For her birthday next month.”
“You’re mailing your mom a tea set to Czechia?”
“Yeah, why?”
“That’s just … that’s really sweet.”
He shrugs, but his ears go a bit pink. “She likes tea. And she’s always saying the tea here is better than Czech tea, which I think is just her being nice, but whatever. I wanted to get her something good.”
There’s something about the image of this professional hockey player carefully picking out a tea set for his mom that makes your chest feel warm. You take another bite of your burger to cover whatever expression is probably on your face.
“What about you?” Marty asks. “What were you doing at the mall? Besides, you know-”
“We said we weren’t going to mention it.”
“I didn’t mention anything specific. I’m just saying, besides shopping.”
“That was the whole thing. Just shopping.” You don’t mention that you’d been stress-shopping, that buying nice underwear had felt like taking control of something in a life that often feels like it’s happening to you rather than because of you.
“Do you like it? Your job?”
The question catches you off guard. “I … yeah. I do. I mean, it’s an internship, so a lot of it is grunt work. But I’m learning a lot. And I love writing.”
“You’re good at it.”
“You read one article.”
“It was a really good article.” He’s serious now, not joking around. “You made the game sound interesting. Like, you didn’t just report what happened. You explained why it mattered. That’s hard to do.”
“Thanks,” you say, and you mean it. You’ve gotten compliments on your writing before — from professors, from Jeff when he’s in a good mood — but something about hearing it from Marty feels different. “I’m trying to figure out what I want to do after I graduate. Like, do I want to do sports journalism specifically, or general news, or … I don’t know. I love sports, but I also like investigative stuff.”
“You’ve got time to figure it out.”
“Do I? Everyone else in my program already has it figured out. They have internships lined up at major papers, or they’re starting their own podcasts, or they’ve already got job offers. And I’m just-” You stop, realizing you’re oversharing to someone you barely know. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear me have a quarter-life crisis.”
“I don’t mind.” He steals another one of your fries, and this time you let him. “For what it’s worth, I think most people are just pretending they have it figured out. Like, I’m a professional hockey player, which sounds like I’ve got my shit together, but I literally just stepped on my laptop last week.”
“That’s different. You’re already doing what you’re supposed to be doing.”
“Yeah, but what happens when I’m not? Hockey careers don’t last forever. I’ll be, what, forty max when I retire? Then what? I have no idea.” He shrugs. “So maybe we’re both just figuring it out as we go.”
You look at him — really look at him — and realize that he’s being genuine. There’s no bravado, no performance. Just a guy admitting he doesn’t have all the answers.
“How did you end up in Colorado?” You ask. “I know you got traded from Carolina, but-”
“Yeah, last season. It was weird. I liked Carolina, I liked my teammates there. But sometimes things don’t work out, you know? And Colorado needed a winger, and they made the trade, and now I’m here.” He takes a sip of his Coke. “I really like it, though. The team is great. The city is great. The mountains are amazing, they remind me of home.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes. I miss my family. My friends. The food — American food is good, but it’s not the same.” He grins. “But I can go back and visit in the summer. And they come here sometimes. So it’s okay.”
“Does it ever get lonely? Being that far from home?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “But you get used to it. And you make new friends. New routines. After a while, wherever you are becomes home too. Kind of.”
There’s something wistful in his voice, and you want to ask more, but before you can, your phone buzzes again. Then again. Then three more times in rapid succession.
“Sorry,” you mutter, grabbing it. It’s your best friend, Riley, sending a series of increasingly unhinged texts.
WHERE ARE YOU WHY ARENT YOU ANSWERING DID YOU DIE IF YOU DIED CAN I HAVE YOUR BOOTS THE BROWN ONES
You type back quickly. I’m alive. Having lunch. Talk later.
Riley’s response is immediate. WITH WHO
You don’t answer that one.
“Everything okay?” Marty asks.
“Yeah, sorry. My friend is having a crisis about my boots.”
“Your boots?”
“Don’t ask. It’s a whole thing.”
He laughs. “Friends are weird.”
“The weirdest.”
You’re both quiet for a moment, the comfortable kind of quiet that feels rare with someone you don’t know well. The restaurant has gotten busier — it’s lunchtime now, and there are families at nearby tables, business people on their laptops, a couple sharing a milkshake.
“Can I ask you something?” Marty says.
“Sure.”
“That reporter. The one from the game. Has he bothered you since then?”
“No. Why?”
“Just wondering. I heard he was talking shit, and I wanted to make sure he wasn’t giving you a hard time.”
“I haven’t seen him since that night. And honestly, I think after what you said, he’s probably avoiding me.” You pause. “You really didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true. You could’ve just let it go. Answered his question. Moved on.”
“I could have,” Marty agrees. “But that would’ve been letting him think it was okay to treat people like that. And it’s not.”
There’s a conviction in his voice that makes you believe he’d do it again, no matter the circumstances. It’s refreshing … and maybe a little dangerous to your heart.
“Well, thank you,” you say. “Again. For the hundredth time.”
“You’re welcome. For the hundredth time.”
Your phone buzzes again. TELL ME WHO YOURE WITH OR I WILL CALL YOUR MOTHER
“I should probably go,” you say reluctantly, gesturing at your phone. “Before my friend actually calls my mother.”
“Would she really?”
“Yes. She did it once when I didn’t answer for six hours because I was doing laundry. My mom called me crying, thinking I’d been kidnapped.”
Marty’s eyes widen. “That’s intense.”
“That’s Riley.” You gather your things — your purse, your phone, your reconstructed shopping bag with its mortifying contents. “Thank you for lunch. And for the bag repair. And for not running away screaming when my underwear attacked you.”
“It was the least I could do after causing the underwear attack.” He stands when you do, grabbing his shopping bags. “This was fun.”
“It was,” you agree, and you’re surprised to realize you mean it. Despite the mortifying beginning, lunch has been … nice. Really nice.
You walk out together, into the mall’s main corridor where shoppers are rushing past with bags and strollers and grande lattes. It feels surreal, standing here with Marty like you’re just two normal people who happened to have lunch, not a journalist and an athlete who probably shouldn’t be fraternizing.
“I’ll see you around?” Marty says, and it sounds like a question.
“Maybe. If you don’t run me over at the mall again.”
“I’ll try to be more careful.” He shifts his bags, looking like he wants to say something else, then just: “Enjoy your, uh. Your purchases.”
You’d almost forgotten. “Oh God. We’re not mentioning those, remember?”
“Right. Never happened.” But he’s grinning, and you’re fighting a smile, and this is ridiculous.
“Bye, Marty.”
“Bye, Y/N.”
You turn to leave, make it about five steps, then hear him call your name. When you turn back, he’s still standing there, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.
“Hey, um. Can I—would it be weird if I got your number?” He’s talking fast now, words tumbling over each other. “Not weird weird, just like, so we could maybe hang out again? As friends. Or not friends—I mean, as friends is fine too, I just meant-”
“Marty.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re rambling.”
“I know. Sorry. I’m not usually—this is not normally how I-” He stops, takes a breath. “Can I have your number?”
You should say no. You should absolutely say no. This is a terrible idea for approximately seventeen different reasons, most of which involve ethics and professionalism and not getting emotionally involved with people you might have to cover.
You give him your number.
He saves it in his phone, then sends you a text — just a simple “hey” — so you have his too.
“Cool,” he says. “Okay. Cool.”
“You already said cool.”
“I’m aware. I’m leaving now before I say it again.”
He does leave, finally, walking backward for a few steps and nearly colliding with a man carrying a giant teddy bear before course-correcting. You watch him go, then look down at your phone where his text is waiting.
Riley’s going to lose her mind.
You’re probably going to lose your mind.
But as you head toward the parking lot, your ruined Victoria’s Secret bag in hand and Marty’s number in your phone, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret any of it.
Even the thong incident.
Especially the thong incident.
***
The thing about covering your second-ever NHL game is that it should be easier than the first.
Should being the operative word.
You’re back in the press box at Ball Arena, three weeks after your first assignment, because apparently the universe has decided that the regular Avalanche beat reporter is cursed. First he got the flu. Now he’s somehow managed to break his foot while hiking — his actual words were “stepped wrong on a rock” — and is laid up for the next month.
Which means you’re getting more game coverage.
Which should be exciting.
Which is exciting, except for the part where you’ve spent the last three weeks texting Marty, and now you have to see him in a professional capacity and pretend like you don’t know that he sends terrible memes at two in the morning or that his favorite movie is The Princess Bride or that he once got scared by a chipmunk on a run and screamed loud enough that his neighbor called to check if he was okay.
“You’ve got this,” you mutter to yourself, laptop open, fingers poised over the keyboard. “You are a professional. You can be objective. You will not think about the mall incident.”
Except now you’re thinking about the mall incident.
Your phone buzzes. It’s Riley. Stop overthinking. Do your job. Try not to drool on your recorder.
You text back. I hate you.
You love me. Now go be a journalist.
The game starts, and you force yourself to focus. Avalanche versus Vegas — a big game, playoff implications, the kind of matchup that sells tickets and breaks hearts. You’re taking notes, tracking line changes, watching systems and strategies the way you’ve been teaching yourself to do.
Marty’s on a line with Artturi Lehkonen and Nathan MacKinnon tonight, which feels like putting a very fast sports car between two other very fast sports cars and just seeing what happens.
What happens is chaos.
Good chaos.
Marty gets an assist on the first goal — a beautiful feed to MacKinnon that makes the crowd lose its collective mind. Then he sets up Lehkonen in the second period with a pass that somehow threads through three defenders. And then, in the third period with the game tied 3-3, he takes a shot from the circle that goes bar down so fast the goalie doesn’t even move.
Goal and two assists.
The arena erupts.
You’re writing frantically as fans trail out, trying to capture everything, when your phone buzzes again.
It’s Marty. Told you you’re good luck
You stare at the text, then at the ice where Marty was being mobbed by his teammates just a few minutes ago, then back at your phone.
He’s texting you. Right after the game. Minutes after scoring.
You type back. Pretty sure that was skill, not luck.
Why not both?
You’re grinning at your phone like an idiot when the reporter next to you — Ted, who’s been covering the Avs for the Denver Post for approximately a thousand years — leans over. “You okay? You look flushed.”
“I’m fine,” you say quickly, shoving your phone away. “Just warm in here.”
“Press box is always freezing.”
“I run hot.”
He gives you a weird look but goes back to his laptop, and you go back to pretending your heart rate is normal.
The Avalanche won 4-3. Marty gets second star of the game. And you have twenty-five minutes before the locker room opens to figure out how to act like a professional when you’re pretty sure your face is going to betray you the second you see him.
***
The scrum is already forming when you walk into the locker room, reporters clustering around the usual suspects. You can see Makar in one corner, MacKinnon in another, and-
There.
Marty’s at his stall, still in most of his gear, running a towel through his hair. He’s talking to one of the equipment guys, laughing about something, and he hasn’t noticed you yet.
You’re trying to decide where to position yourself — close enough to hear, far enough to maintain plausible deniability about your rapidly developing crush — when Marty looks up.
His eyes scan the crowd, land on you, and his entire face lights up.
Not a small smile. Not a polite acknowledgment.
His face lights up like someone just told him Christmas came early and also he won the lottery.
“Y/N!” He calls out, loud enough that several reporters turn to look. “You’re here!”
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
Every reporter in a ten-foot radius is now staring at you, and you can feel Ted’s confused look boring into your back, and Marty is grinning at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen all day.
“Hi,” you manage, lifting your recorder in a wave that feels deeply awkward. “Good game.”
“You must be my good luck charm,” Marty says, still grinning. “Last time you were here, I got two goals. Tonight, goal and two assists. That’s not a coincidence.”
“That’s—I don’t think that’s how statistics work,” you say, very aware that everyone is listening.
“Sure it is. You show up, I play better. Science.”
A blogger from some Avs fan site is typing rapidly on his phone. Ted looks like he’s trying to solve a complicated math problem. Another reporter — woman from a local TV station — is smiling like she’s just stumbled onto a story.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
“Should we, um, start the scrum?” You suggest weakly.
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Marty settles back against his stall, but he’s still looking at you with this warmth that makes you want to either melt into the floor or possibly run away. “What do you want to know?”
The questions start — other reporters jumping in first because they’re more experienced, more aggressive, or maybe just less flustered. Marty answers everything professionally, talking about the game, the line chemistry, Vegas’s defensive structure.
But his eyes keep drifting back to you.
You’re not imagining it. Ted definitely isn’t imagining it, based on the way he keeps glancing between you and Marty like he’s watching a tennis match.
Finally, there’s a gap, and you clear your throat. “The assist on MacKinnon’s goal in the first period — you made that pass from a pretty tight angle while being pressured. Can you walk us through what you saw?”
Marty nods, leaning forward. “Yeah, so I knew Nate was driving the net, and their defenseman had committed to me because I think he thought I was going to shoot. But there was a small gap—like, really small, maybe this wide-” He holds his hands a few inches apart. “And I thought, if I can just thread it through there, Nate’s going to be in perfect position.”
“You weren’t worried about it getting picked off?” You ask.
“Little bit, yeah. But sometimes you have to trust the small gaps, you know? Like, everyone’s always looking for the big obvious play, but sometimes the small spaces are where the magic happens.” He pauses, and there’s this tiny smirk on his face. “It’s like … it’s like trying to fit through a crowd. Or getting thongs through tight spots. You just have to commit and hope it works out.”
The locker room continues on like normal.
The reporters keep scribbling.
No one reacts.
Because why would they? “Thongs” sounds like “things” with his slight accent, and the context makes perfect sense if you’re not having Vietnam-style flashbacks to a mall incident three weeks ago.
But you know.
You know what he just did.
Your face is on fire. Your ears are burning. You’re pretty sure you’ve achieved a shade of red previously unknown to science.
Marty’s looking at you with this innocent expression that is absolutely not innocent, and you want to kill him. Or kiss him. Or possibly both, in that order.
“That’s-” Your voice comes out strangled. You clear your throat, try again. “That’s a good point. About the small gaps.”
“I thought you’d appreciate that,” Marty says, and the bastard is trying not to smile.
Ted leans over again. “You feeling okay? You look really flushed now.”
“I’m fine,” you hiss. “Totally fine.”
Another reporter jumps in with a question about the third period goal, and you take the opportunity to try to get your face under control. You’re a professional. You can handle this. So what if Marty just made a joke that only you would understand? So what if he’s clearly enjoying your reaction? You are a grown woman with a journalism degree (almost) and a career to think about.
The scrum continues for another ten minutes. You ask two more questions — both perfectly professional, thank you very much — and Marty answers them normally, without any more coded references to your most embarrassing moment.
But he keeps looking at you.
And you keep noticing.
Finally, the PR assistant starts herding reporters toward the door. “Okay, folks, let’s wrap it up. Coach Bednar’s available in the media room if anyone needs him.”
The crowd disperses. You’re packing up your stuff, very focused on zipping your bag and not looking at Marty, when you hear your name.
“Y/N, wait up a sec?”
You turn. Most of the reporters have cleared out, but Ted’s still lingering near the door, and a couple of others are chatting by MacKinnon’s stall. Not private, but not exactly public either.
“Yeah?” You say, hoping you sound casual.
Marty’s standing now, and he’s so much taller than you remembered. Or maybe you’re just hyperaware of everything about him right now. “You doing anything after this?”
“I … what?”
“After this. Are you busy?” He’s got his hands shoved in the pockets of his joggers, and he looks almost nervous. “I thought maybe we could grab dinner or something.”
Your brain short-circuits. “Dinner.”
“Yeah. If you want. No pressure.”
“I have to file my story.”
“Right, yeah, of course. What if I wait? Or we could meet somewhere?”
You’re very aware of Ted still hovering by the door, definitely listening. “Marty-”
“I know it’s weird,” he says quickly, quietly. “The reporter thing. But we’re friends, right? Friends can have dinner.”
“Do you make friends with all the reporters?” You ask, and it comes out more pointed than you intended.
“No.” He holds your gaze. “Just one.”
Your heart does something complicated.
“I really need to file my story,” you say, because your brain has apparently given up on forming coherent arguments.
“Okay. File your story. I’ll text you a place, and you can meet me there if you want. If you don’t want to, that’s okay too. No pressure.”
He says it so earnestly that you almost believe there’s no pressure, except there is, because he’s looking at you like you’re the reason the sun comes up and you’re trying very hard to remember why this is a bad idea.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Okay, yeah. Text me.”
His smile is blinding. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I really do have to file first. Jeff will kill me if I’m late.”
“Right, yes, go file. I’ll text you.” He’s backing toward the showers now, still grinning. “And Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for coming to the game. Good luck charm.”
You flip him off, but you’re smiling, and he laughs as he disappears around the corner.
Ted’s suddenly at your elbow. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That.” He gestures vaguely at where Marty was standing. “The whole … that.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Kid, I’ve been doing this for thirty years. That was not normal post-game interaction.”
“We’re friends,” you say, probably too defensively. “We ran into each other at the mall a few weeks ago. It’s not a big deal.”
Ted looks deeply skeptical. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s not.”
“If you say so.” But he’s smiling, and it’s not unkind. “For what it’s worth, I like the kid. He’s good people. Better than most of the guys in this league.”
“I’m not—we’re not-”
“I know, I know. You’re friends.” He claps you on the shoulder. “Just be careful, okay? This job’s hard enough without adding complications.”
He leaves, and you’re alone in the hallway outside the locker room, your recorder in one hand and your phone already buzzing with a text from Marty.
Angelo’s on 15th Street. 10:30? Or later if you need more time.
You should say no. You should definitely say no.
You text back: 10:30 works.
You file your story in forty-five minutes flat, a personal record. Jeff calls while you’re sitting in your car, psyching yourself up.
“Good work tonight,” he says without preamble. “The stuff about the line chemistry was solid. And that quote from Nečas about the small gaps? Gold.”
If he only knew.
“Thanks,” you manage. “I’m getting better at the post-game scrums.”
“You are. Keep it up.” He pauses. “Also, I heard from Ted that Nečas seemed pretty friendly with you.”
Oh God.
“We’re friends,” you say, and you’re going to wear that phrase out from overuse. “I ran into him a few weeks ago outside of work.”
“Friendly sources are good,” Jeff says carefully. “Just remember the ethics guidelines. No conflicts of interest, no relationships that could compromise your objectivity.”
“I know. I remember.”
“Good. Because I’m thinking about giving you more Avs coverage going forward. You’ve got a good feel for it.”
Your stomach flips. More coverage means more access, more opportunities, more reasons to be professional and objective and definitely not having dinner with players.
“That’s great,” you say. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. It’s a lot of work. But I think you can handle it.” He hangs up, and you’re left staring at your phone, trying to reconcile the excitement of more coverage with the reality of Marty texting you restaurant recommendations.
Your phone buzzes again. Riley. How’d it go??
Fine. Good. He asked me to dinner.
AND????
And I said yes.
OH MY GOD
It’s not a big deal.
IT’S A HUGE DEAL
Riley.
Fine fine fine. What are you wearing? Please tell me you’re not wearing your work clothes.
You look down at your slacks and button-down. “Fuck.”
***
Twenty-five minutes and a panicked stop at your apartment later, you’re walking into Angelo’s wearing jeans and a sweater that Riley once described as “effortlessly hot,” which you think might have been a compliment.
It’s a nice restaurant — not fancy fancy, but nice. Exposed brick, dim lighting, the smell of garlic and fresh bread making your stomach growl. The hostess looks up as you enter.
“Hi, I’m meeting someone? Reservation might be under Nečas?”
Her face lights up with recognition, and you realize she probably knows exactly who Marty is. “Oh yes! Right this way.”
She leads you through the restaurant to a corner booth where Marty’s already waiting, and he stands when he sees you, and this is definitely feeling like more than a friendly dinner.
“You made it,” he says, and he looks relieved, like maybe he thought you’d bail.
“I made it.” You slide into the booth across from him, and your knee bumps his under the table. “Sorry, I—sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He’s smiling. “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.” And you mean it, even though your heart’s doing that thing again where it forgets how to beat normally.
A waiter appears, takes your drink orders — wine for you, water for him (“game night,” he explains) — and disappears again.
“So,” Marty says.
“So.”
“Thongs?”
You groan, dropping your face into your hands. “I cannot believe you did that.”
“I had to. Your face was too perfect.”
“I’m going to murder you.”
“No you’re not. You like me too much.”
He says it teasingly, but there’s a question under it, and when you look up, he’s watching you carefully.
“I do like you,” you admit. “Which is a problem.”
“Why is it a problem?”
“Because I’m covering the team now. Jeff just told me tonight — I’m getting more Avs assignments. Which means I need to be objective and professional, and having dinner with you is probably neither of those things.”
Marty’s quiet for a moment. “Do you want to leave?”
“What? No.”
“But you think you should.”
“I-” You stop, because he’s right. You do think you should leave. You think you should politely excuse yourself, go home, and maintain appropriate professional boundaries. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“But you don’t want to.”
“No.”
“Okay.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “So here’s what I think. I think we’re both adults. I think we like each other. And I think we can figure out how to make this work without compromising your job.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. But we can figure it out.” He pauses. “Unless you don’t want to. If this is just a friend thing for you, that’s okay. I’ll back off. But I’m sort of hoping it’s not just a friend thing.”
Your heart is doing gymnastics. “When you say ’not just a friend thing’-”
“I mean I like you,” he says simply. “Like, like you like you. The way you ask questions. The way you get embarrassed about underwear. The way you text me at midnight complaining about your stories. All of it.”
“I’m going to be covering your games.”
“So you’ll have to be extra objective.”
“Marty.”
“Y/N.” He reaches across the table, and after a moment, you let him take your hand. His palm is warm, calloused. “I’m not asking you to compromise anything. I’m just asking if you want to see where this goes. And if you don’t, that’s okay. But I think you do.”
“This is a terrible idea,” you say.
“Probably.”
“I could lose my job.”
“You won’t. You’re too good at it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. I’ve read everything you’ve written for the past three weeks. You’re really talented.”
You stare at him. “You’ve been reading my articles?”
“Yeah, of course. Did you think I was just saying that to be nice?”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.” His thumb is tracing circles on the back of your hand, and it’s extremely distracting. “So what do you think? Do you want to see where this goes? Or should I take you home and we pretend this conversation never happened?”
The waiter chooses this moment to reappear with bread and drinks, and you both lean back, the moment breaking. But Marty’s question hangs in the air between you.
What do you want?
You want to be smart. Professional. You want to protect your career, your reputation, your carefully planned future.
But you also want this. Him. The way he looks at you like you’re the most interesting person in the room. The way he makes you laugh. The way he stood up for you in a locker room full of reporters and just did it again at dinner.
“I want to see where this goes,” you say finally. “But we have to be careful.”
His smile could power a small city. “We’ll be so careful.”
“I’m serious. No special treatment in scrums. No inside information. Nothing that could compromise my objectivity.”
“Absolutely. You’ll be the most objective reporter in the building.”
“And we can’t tell people. Not yet. Not until we figure out if this is even a thing.”
“It’s a thing,” he says confidently. “But okay. Secret thing. I can do secret.”
“Can you though? You literally announced to an entire locker room that I’m your good luck charm.”
“That’s different. That’s just facts.”
“Marty.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll be more subtle.” He’s grinning now. “But for the record, you are my good luck charm.”
“That’s not how hockey works.”
“Isn’t it? You show up, I play better. Seems pretty clear to me.”
You’re trying not to smile and failing. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
“Unfortunately.”
The waiter returns for your orders, and the conversation shifts to safer topics — the game, the team’s playoff chances, Marty’s upcoming road trip. But there’s an undercurrent now, an awareness that wasn’t there before.
This is a date.
You’re on a date with Martin Nečas.
Riley’s going to lose her entire mind.
“Can I ask you something?” Marty says later, after the food arrives and you’re both working your way through pasta that’s genuinely incredible.
“Sure.”
“Why journalism? Like, what made you want to do this?”
You twirl pasta around your fork, thinking. “I like stories, I guess. I like figuring out what makes people tick. And I like the idea that good journalism can make a difference — that you can shine a light on things that matter, or give people a voice, or just help people understand the world better.”
“That’s a good reason.”
“What about you? Why hockey?”
He shrugs. “It’s all I’ve ever known how to do. I started skating when I was three. By the time I was five, I knew I wanted to play professionally.” He pauses. “I’m lucky, you know? Most people don’t get to do their dream job. I do. Even when it’s hard, even when we lose or I play badly, I’m still doing what I love.”
“Does it ever feel like too much pressure?”
“Sometimes. But that’s part of it, I think. The pressure means it matters.” He looks at you. “Do you feel pressure? With your writing?”
“All the time. Like, what if I mess up a quote? What if I miss the story? What if I’m just not good enough?”
“You’re good enough,” he says firmly. “Better than good enough.”
“You have to say that. You like me.”
“I’d say it even if I didn’t like you. Well, maybe I wouldn’t, because then I wouldn’t have read your articles.” He grins. “But the point stands. You’re talented, Y/N. Don’t doubt that.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tight. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
You eat in comfortable silence for a minute, and it strikes you how easy this is. How natural. You barely know him — three weeks of texting, one mall incident, one lunch, one dinner — but it feels like more than that. It feels like the beginning of something real.
Which is terrifying.
“What are you thinking?” Marty asks.
“That this is scary.”
“Yeah.” He reaches across the table again, and this time you meet him halfway. “But good scary, right?”
You look at him — really look at him. At the way his hair’s still damp from his post-game shower. At the small scar on his chin that you’ve never asked about. At the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Good scary.”
His smile is soft, private, just for you. “Good.”
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of conversation and laughter. He tells you about growing up in Czechia, about learning English from American TV shows, about the time he accidentally insulted his rookie season roommate in Carolina because he mixed up “excited” and “aroused.”
You tell him about your journalism classes, about your professor who once threw a pen at a student for using passive voice, about your disastrous attempt at covering a city council meeting where you accidentally called the mayor by the wrong name for an entire article.
By the time the check comes, you’ve been there for two hours, and you don’t want to leave.
Marty insists on paying, and you don’t fight him too hard on it. Outside, the Denver air is crisp and cool, and you can see your breath in the streetlights.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Marty says.
“You don’t have to-”
“I want to.”
So you let him. The parking lot isn’t far, and you walk slowly, neither of you in a hurry to end the night.
“Thank you for dinner,” you say when you reach your car. “This was … this was really nice.”
“Yeah?” He’s standing close now, and you have to tilt your head back to look at him.
“Yeah.”
“Can I see you again? Not at a game. Like this.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good.” He’s smiling, and then he’s leaning down, and then-
He stops, a breath away. “Is this okay?”
Your heart is thundering. “Yeah.”
He kisses you softly, carefully, like you’re something that might break. It’s sweet and gentle and over too soon, and when he pulls back, you’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to form words.
“I’ll text you,” he says, and his voice is slightly rough.
“Okay.”
“Drive safe.”
“You too.”
He waits until you’re in your car, until you’ve started the engine and given him a small wave, before he heads to his own car across the lot.
You sit there for a moment after he’s gone, your fingers pressed to your lips, your heart doing that complicated thing again.
Your phone buzzes. Riley. WELL????
You text back. I’m in so much trouble.
GOOD TROUBLE???
You think about Marty’s smile. His hand in yours. The way he kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered.
Yeah. Good trouble.
***
Three months into secretly dating a professional hockey player, you learn several important things:
One: Marty cannot cook anything more complex than scrambled eggs, and even those are questionable.
Two: He talks in his sleep, mostly in Czech, and once had an entire argument with someone named Pavel about whose turn it was to take out the trash.
Three: You are completely, irrevocably, terrifyingly in love with him.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Marty mumbles against your shoulder. It’s a rare off-day in April, and you’re tangled together on his couch, some movie playing that neither of you are watching.
“I’m not thinking.”
“You’re always thinking. I can hear the gears turning.” He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair’s a mess, and he’s wearing the Avalanche hoodie you’ve basically stolen at this point. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Y/N.”
You sigh, tracing patterns on his arm. “I’m graduating in three weeks.”
“I know. I’m coming to the ceremony, remember?”
“You can’t come to the ceremony. Someone will see.”
“I’ll wear a disguise.”
“Marty.”
“A very good disguise. Sunglasses. Fake mustache.” He’s grinning now, and you want to kiss him and also possibly throttle him.
“I’m being serious.”
His expression softens. “I know. What’s actually bothering you?”
“Jeff offered me a full-time position.” You’ve been sitting on this for two days, trying to figure out how you feel about it. “Starting in June. Covering the Avalanche primarily, but also other Denver sports.”
Marty’s face lights up. “That’s amazing! That’s … wait. Why don’t you look happy?”
“I am happy. It’s just …”
“The us thing.”
“Yeah. The us thing.” You sit up, and he follows, his hand finding yours automatically. “We can’t keep sneaking around forever. And if I’m covering the team full-time, it’s going to be harder. Someone’s going to notice eventually.”
“So we tell people.”
“And then what? I lose my job? You get fined by the league? We both become a headline?”
Marty’s quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on your wrist. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I love my job. But I also love-” You stop, the word catching in your throat.
“Say it,” he says softly.
“I love you.” It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, and it feels huge, like stepping off a cliff. “I love you, and I don’t want to choose between you and my career, but I might have to, and I don’t know what to do.”
He kisses you, slow and deep and thorough, and when he pulls back, he’s smiling. “I love you too. And we’re going to figure this out.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. But we will.” He tugs you back down against him, your head on his chest where you can hear his heartbeat. “We’re smart people. We’ll think of something.”
***
Two weeks later, you’re sitting in a coffee shop with Riley, who’s looking at you like you’ve just announced you’re joining a cult.
“Let me get this straight,” she says slowly. “You’ve been secretly dating Martin Nečas for three months. You’re in love with him. You just got offered your dream job. And now you’re trying to figure out how to go public without destroying your career or his reputation.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me about any of this until now.”
“I’m telling you now!”
“Three months, Y/N. Three months of lying to your best friend.”
“I wasn’t lying, I was just … strategically omitting information.”
Riley throws a napkin at you. “I’m furious with you.”
“I know.”
“But also, this is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, and I’m living vicariously through you, so I’m also not that mad.”
You slump in your chair. “I don’t know what to do, Ri. I love him. But I also love my job. And I can’t have both, not like this.”
“What if you didn’t cover hockey?”
“What?”
“What if you took the job but asked to cover something else? Like, I don’t know, the Broncos. Or the Nuggets. Or literally any other sport that isn’t hockey.”
You stare at her. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m good at hockey coverage. Because Jeff hired me specifically for that. Because-”
“Because you love it,” Riley finishes. “But do you love it more than you love Marty?”
The question sits between you like a living thing.
“No,” you say finally. “I don’t.”
Riley reaches across the table, squeezing your hand. “Then maybe you have your answer.”
***
The conversation with Jeff happens on a Thursday, in his office that smells like coffee and newsprint and stress.
“You want to switch beats,” he says flatly.
“Yes.”
“You, who I’ve spent three months training on hockey coverage. You, who just wrote the best feature on line chemistry that I’ve read in years. You want to cover football instead.”
“Yes.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you. “This is about Nečas.”
Your heart stops. “What?”
“I’m not an idiot, Y/N. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in scrums. The way you try very hard not to look at him.” He pauses. “Ted told me about the dinner invitation. And the good luck charm comment. And, frankly, your writing about him has gotten suspiciously … detailed.”
“I can explain-”
“Are you dating him?”
There’s no point in lying. “Yes.”
Jeff is quiet for a long moment. “How long?”
“Three months.”
“Jesus Christ.” He runs a hand over his face. “You know this is a massive ethics violation.”
“I know. That’s why I’m asking to switch beats. I’ll cover the Broncos, or the Rockies, or high school field hockey, I don’t care. Just not the Avalanche.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll resign.” The words come out steadier than you feel. “I’m not going to compromise my integrity or the paper’s reputation. But I’m also not going to end my relationship.”
“You’d give up hockey coverage for this guy?”
“I’d give up hockey coverage for the person I love.” You meet his eyes. “And I think I can be just as good covering football. Maybe even better, because I’ll have something to prove.”
Jeff stares at you for what feels like an eternity. “The Broncos beat reporter is retiring in August.”
“What?”
“Jim. He’s sixty-five, been covering the team for thirty years, and his wife wants him to actually be home for dinner occasionally.” Jeff leans forward. “The position’s yours if you want it. But you have to tell people why you’re switching. I’m not going to let rumors start that you couldn’t hack it on the hockey beat.”
“I’ll tell them,” you say quickly. “I’ll be completely transparent.”
“And Nečas? How’s he feel about going public?”
“We haven’t talked about exactly how yet. But he wants to.”
“Of course he does. Kid wears his heart on his sleeve.” Jeff sighs. “For what it’s worth, I like him. He’s good people. And I respect that you came to me before this became a problem.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You’re going to get shit for this. From other reporters, from fans, from people who think you’re throwing away your career for a guy.”
“I know.”
“But if you’re sure-”
“I’m sure.”
He nods slowly. “Okay. Then let’s figure out how to do this right.”
***
Marty’s idea of “doing this right” involves approximately fifteen minutes of pacing around his living room, talking so fast his accent gets thicker.
“-and we could just post it on Instagram, or maybe Twitter, or we could do one of those cute photo things where we’re holding hands, or-”
“Marty.” You catch his arm as he passes. “Breathe.”
He stops, pulling you against him. “Sorry. I’m nervous.”
“You? Nervous? You play in front of eighteen thousand people every night.”
“That’s different. That’s just hockey. This is us.” He cups your face in his hands. “I want to do this right. I want people to know how much you mean to me.”
“They will.”
“But I also don’t want to make things harder for you. If you want to just quietly switch beats and not make a big thing of it-”
“No.” You’ve been thinking about this for days, turning it over in your mind. “I want to tell people. I want to own this decision. And I think I know how.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I’m going to need an interview.”
His eyes light up. “An exclusive?”
“The most exclusive. Think you can handle that?”
He kisses you, deep and slow and thorough. “For you? Anything.”
***
The article posts on a Friday morning in May, right after your graduation ceremony where Marty absolutely did not show up in a fake mustache (he wore a baseball cap and sat in the back, and your mom definitely noticed him but mercifully said nothing).
You’ve read it approximately four thousand times, tweaking sentences, adjusting quotes, making sure every word is perfect. Jeff approved it yesterday with a grin and a “this is either brilliant or career suicide, and I honestly can’t tell which.”
Riley’s response was more succinct. “Holy shit, you’re brave.”
Now it’s live, and your phone is already starting to buzz, and you’re sitting on Marty’s couch with your laptop, watching the view count climb.
“Are you going to read it to me?” Marty asks, appearing from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee.
“You’ve already read it.”
“I want to hear you read it.”
“That’s narcissistic. It’s an article about you.”
“It’s an article by you. That’s different.” He settles next to you, close enough that you can feel his warmth. “Please?”
You pull up the article, take a deep breath, and start reading.
***
EXCLUSIVE: Martin Nečas on Playoffs, Pressure, and What Comes Next By Y/N Y/L/N, Colorado Sports Network
May 16, 2025
DENVER – Martin Nečas is sitting in his downtown apartment on a rare day off, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that’s seen better days, and he’s talking about fear.
Not the kind of fear you might expect from a professional athlete in the middle of a playoff push. Not fear of failure, or injury, or letting down his teammates. Something more fundamental than that.
“I think everyone’s afraid of being known,” he says, his accent softening the edges of his words. “Really known. Not the version you show people, but the actual you. The messy parts. The parts that aren’t perfect.”
It’s an unexpectedly vulnerable answer to what started as a question about playoff pressure, but that’s Nečas in a nutshell. Ask him about hockey, and he’ll give you hockey. But push a little deeper, show genuine curiosity about what makes him tick, and he’ll give you something real.
Over the past three months, I’ve had the privilege of getting to know Nečas beyond the standard post-game scrums and media availabilities. What I’ve learned is this: the 26-year-old Czech forward is exactly the kind of player — and person — that makes you remember why you fell in love with hockey in the first place.
The Hockey Part
Let’s start with what happens on the ice, because that’s the easy part.
Nečas came to Colorado via trade last season, and while the transition from Carolina wasn’t always smooth, he’s found his stride with the Avalanche in a way that’s been exciting to watch. Playing primarily on a line with Nathan MacKinnon and Arrturi Lehkonen, he’s put up career numbers: 32 goals and 61 assists in 79 games, good for 93 points and a career high.
But statistics only tell part of the story. What makes Nečas special isn’t just his production — it’s how he produces. He’s a player who sees the game differently, who finds passing lanes that shouldn’t exist, who makes the difficult look effortless.
“I just try to play fast and make my teammates better,” he says when I ask about his approach. “That’s the job, you know? Find the open guy. Make the smart play. Work hard when you don’t have the puck.”
It’s a humble answer, almost frustratingly so. But his teammates paint a different picture.
“Marty’s special,” MacKinnon told me after a recent practice. “He’s got this ability to slow the game down in his head while his body’s still moving at full speed. That’s rare. That’s something you can’t really teach.”
Head coach Jared Bednar agrees. “Martin’s hockey IQ is elite. He processes the game at a very high level, and he’s willing to do the little things that don’t show up on the scoresheet. That’s what makes him so valuable.”
The Pressure Part
The Avalanche enter the playoffs as one of the favorites to contend for the Stanley Cup, and with that comes enormous pressure. I ask Nečas how he handles it.
“You have to embrace it,” he says. “The pressure means it matters. Means people care. That’s a gift, not a burden.”
But he admits it’s not always easy. “Some nights you can’t sleep. You’re thinking about the game, about what you could have done better, about what’s coming next. Your brain won’t shut off.”
What helps, he says, is perspective.
“Hockey is what I do, but it’s not who I am. I’m also a son, a brother, a friend. I have a life outside of this.” He pauses, considering his next words carefully. “And I have someone who reminds me of that. Someone who sees me as a person first, player second. That matters more than people might think.”
It’s the first hint of something personal, and when I press gently, he smiles.
“I’m not going to say too much, because that’s not my story to tell. But I will say this: having someone in your life who genuinely doesn’t care about your plus-minus or your ice time — that’s grounding. That’s important.”
The Human Part
Away from the rink, Nečas is surprisingly normal. He likes terrible action movies and good coffee. He’s teaching himself to cook with mixed results (“I made chicken last week that I think could have been used as a weapon”). He misses his family in Czechia but FaceTimes them constantly.
“My mom texts me after every game,” he says, laughing. “Doesn’t matter if it’s 2 a.m. her time. She’s watched, and she has notes.”
“Is she tough on you?”
“The toughest. But also my biggest supporter. She believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself.”
It’s clear that family is central to who Nečas is. He lights up when talking about his parents, about his childhood in Czechia, about the sacrifices his family made to support his hockey dreams.
“They gave up a lot,” he says quietly. “Time, money, stability. My dad worked extra jobs so I could play. My mom drove me to practices at 5 a.m. You don’t forget that. You don’t take that for granted.”
That gratitude extends to his adopted city. Nečas has embraced Denver in a way that feels genuine, from hiking in the mountains to exploring local restaurants to supporting other Denver sports teams.
“This city has been really good to me,” he says. “The fans are amazing. My teammates are amazing. I’m really happy here.”
What Comes Next
When I ask Nečas about the future, he’s characteristically diplomatic.
“I want to be here,” he says simply. “This is where I want to win. This is where I want to build something. This is where I’m signed for the next eight years.”
But beyond hockey, there’s a life taking shape. A life that includes the person he mentioned earlier, the one who keeps him grounded.
“I’m figuring out what matters,” he says. “Hockey is my career, my passion. But it’s not everything. At some point, the game ends for everyone. What matters is who you are when it does.”
It’s a mature perspective from someone who could easily get lost in the bubble of professional sports. But Nečas seems determined to stay connected to reality, to remain the kind of person who still gets nervous before games and still calls his mom and still sees hockey as a gift rather than a guarantee.
The Playoff Picture
As the Avalanche enter the postseason, expectations are sky-high. Nečas will be crucial to any deep playoff run, providing secondary scoring and playmaking alongside the team’s established stars.
“We have a special group,” he says. “The pieces are there. Now we just have to go out and do it.”
Does he think they can win the Cup?
He grins. “I think we’d better. Otherwise, I’m going to have a very long summer thinking about what we could have done differently.”
A Personal Note
This will be my final article covering the Colorado Avalanche. After three months of covering the team — first as an intern and now as a full-time reporter — I’m moving to a new beat. Starting in August, I’ll be covering the Denver Broncos for Colorado Sports Network.
This decision is both professional and personal. Over the past few months, I’ve developed a relationship with Martin Nečas that goes beyond journalist and subject. We’ve been dating since February, a fact we’ve kept private out of respect for both of our careers and the ethical standards of sports journalism.
I’m sharing this now because I believe in transparency. I believe readers deserve to know when a reporter’s objectivity might be compromised, even if I’ve worked hard to maintain professional standards in my coverage. I also believe that women in sports journalism shouldn’t have to choose between their careers and their personal lives, but sometimes we do have to make difficult decisions about how to navigate both.
Moving to the Broncos beat allows me to continue doing the work I love while being honest about my relationship. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s the right one for me.
To be clear: my relationship with Martin has not influenced my coverage of the team. Every article I’ve written, every question I’ve asked, every story I’ve pursued has been done with integrity and professionalism. I’m proud of the work I’ve produced, and I stand by every word.
I’m also deeply grateful to the Colorado Avalanche organization, to my colleagues in the hockey media, and to the readers who’ve supported my coverage. Hockey will always have a special place in my heart, and I’ll continue to watch and cheer for this team — just from the stands instead of the press box.
As for Martin, he’s been supportive of this decision even though it means our relationship will be public knowledge. “I just want you to be happy,” he told me. “Whatever that looks like.”
That’s the kind of person he is: thoughtful, kind, supportive. The kind of person who stands up for what’s right even when it’s uncomfortable. The kind of person who makes you believe in good things.
So this is goodbye to hockey coverage, but it’s not goodbye to storytelling. It’s not goodbye to Denver sports. And it’s definitely not goodbye to asking tough questions and demanding honest answers.
It’s just the next chapter.
And I can’t wait to see what comes next.
***
You finish reading, and there’s silence.
Then Marty says, “That’s really good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Really, really good.” He takes the laptop from you, setting it aside, and pulls you into his lap. “I love the part about me being thoughtful and kind.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. My head is huge now. Giant. I might need a bigger helmet.”
You’re laughing, and he’s kissing you, and your phone is still buzzing with notifications but none of that matters because you’re here, with him, and you made the right choice.
“Are you scared?” He asks after a moment.
“Terrified.”
“Me too.”
“Good. We can be terrified together.”
“Look at us, being brave.” He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m really proud of you, you know. That took guts.”
“I learned from the best. You did stand up to that asshole reporter for me.”
“True. I am very brave and noble.”
“And humble.”
“The humblest.” He’s grinning, and you love him so much it physically hurts. “So what happens now?”
“Now?” You check your phone — texts from Riley (seventeen), your mom (three), Jeff (one that just says “good job kid”), and approximately one hundred forty-eight notifications from Twitter. “Now I think we’re about to become a headline.”
“Think they’ll make us sound cool?”
“Definitely not.”
“Worth it anyway.”
“Yeah,” you say, kissing him softly. “Yeah, it really is.”
***
DENVER POST SPORTS: Avalanche’s Nečas Confirms Relationship with Former Hockey Reporter Y/N Y/L/N
MILE HIGH HOCKEY: Breaking: CSN Reporter Switches Beats After Revealing Relationship with Martin Nečas
THE ATHLETIC: On Ethics, Transparency, and Y/N Y/L/N’s Decision to Leave the Hockey Beat
The headlines roll in over the next few hours, and they’re mostly what you expected — some supportive, some skeptical, some downright hostile. But there are also texts from fellow reporters saying they respect your decision. Tweets from fans saying they appreciated your coverage. An email from a young female journalism student saying you inspired her to be honest about her own struggles balancing career and personal life.
Marty reads them all over your shoulder, his chin resting on your head.
“People are being nice,” he observes.
“Some people. Others think I’m throwing away my career for a man.”
“Are you?”
“No. I’m making a choice that lets me have both.” You turn to look at him. “There’s a difference.”
“I know.” He kisses your temple. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re going to be an amazing football reporter.”
“I don’t know anything about football.”
“You didn’t know anything about hockey three months ago, and look how that turned out.”
“Fair point.”
Your phone rings. It’s Jeff.
“The article’s doing really well,” he says without preamble. “Best traffic we’ve had in months. People are eating this up.”
“That’s good?”
“That’s very good. Controversial is better than boring.” He pauses. “Jim’s wife called me. She says Jim’s excited to meet you. Wants to take you to training camp in July, show you the ropes.”
“Really?”
“Really. You’ve got a long career ahead of you, kid. This is just the beginning.”
After you hang up, Marty pulls you back against him, and you sit there together, watching the sun set over Denver through his apartment windows.
“This is really happening,” you say.
“Yep.”
“We’re really doing this. Public relationship. No more sneaking around.”
“Yep.”
“You’re going to get chirped so hard by your teammates.”
“Oh, absolutely. Devon’s already texted me six times. Nate wants to meet you properly. Cale made a joke about good luck charms.” He shows you his phone, and you groan at the group chat messages.
But then there’s one from MacKinnon that makes you smile. Happy for you, man. She seems great. Don’t fuck it up.
“Think you can handle the chirping?” You ask.
“I’ll survive. What about you? Think you can handle dating a professional athlete?”
“I managed three months in secret. I think I can handle it in public.”
“Even when I’m annoying?”
“Especially when you’re annoying.”
He grins, pulling you closer. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Even though I made you change careers?”
“You didn’t make me do anything. I chose this. I chose you.” You twist to face him properly. “And I’d choose you again. Every time.”
He kisses you, soft and sweet and full of promise, and somewhere in the city below, people are reading your article and forming opinions and probably arguing on Twitter about ethics and relationships and whether you made the right choice.
But up here, in this moment, you know you did.
Because sometimes the best stories aren’t the ones you write.
Sometimes they’re the ones you live.
And this one? This one’s just getting started.
***
Three Months Later
“You’re doing it wrong,” Marty says from the doorway of your new house — your shared house, because apparently you’re the kind of person who moves in with her boyfriend after six months.
“I’m not doing it wrong. This is how you hang pictures.”
“That’s crooked.”
“It’s not-” You step back, level in hand, and realize he’s right. “Okay, it’s a little crooked.”
He comes over, taking the hammer from your hand and adjusting the frame — a photo from your graduation, both of you grinning at the camera while your mom took the picture. Next to it is a photo from the Avalanche’s playoff run (they made it to the Western Conference Finals before losing to Edmonton), and next to that is one from your first Broncos game, your press credential hanging around your neck.
“Better?” He asks.
“Better.”
He steps back, admiring the wall. “Our first place.”
“Our first place,” you agree, and it feels huge and terrifying and absolutely right.
Your phone buzzes. It’s Riley. Dinner tomorrow? Want to hear all about the new job.
You text back. Can’t. Broncos have a thing. Next week?
You and your fancy football life. Fine. But I want details.
“Riley wants details about my fancy football life,” you tell Marty.
“You have a very fancy football life now. Very important. Very serious.”
“Says the professional hockey player.”
“I’m not fancy. I’m just a simple Czech boy who happens to be extremely good at skating.”
You throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily, laughing.
The house is still mostly boxes and chaos, but it’s starting to feel like home. Your books mixed with his hockey equipment. Your coffee maker next to his protein powder. Your life and his life becoming just … life.
“Hey,” Marty says, suddenly serious. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For taking a chance on me. On us. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“Best decision I ever made,” you say honestly. “Even better than buying those thongs.”
He groans. “We’re never going to stop joking about that, are we?”
“Never. I’m going to tell our grandchildren about it.”
“Our grandchildren?”
You freeze, realizing what you just said. “I mean—hypothetically if we-”
He’s grinning now, that soft smile that’s just for you. “I like the sound of that. Hypothetically.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He pulls you close, kissing your forehead. “But first, we should probably finish unpacking.”
“Probably.”
You don’t finish unpacking. You end up on the couch instead, watching game film of the Broncos because that’s your life now — watching football with your hockey player boyfriend in your shared home in Denver, trying to learn offensive schemes while he makes increasingly incorrect guesses about what the plays are called.
It’s not what you planned. Not what you imagined when you started journalism school, or when you got that first internship, or even when you walked into the Avalanche locker room for the first time and had your life turned upside down by a two-goal scorer with kind eyes and a tendency to stand up for what’s right.
But it’s better.
It’s real and messy and complicated and perfect.
And when Marty falls asleep halfway through the third quarter, his head on your shoulder and his hand in yours, you think about that first night. About thongs flying through a mall. About good luck charms and small gaps and having the courage to choose what you want instead of what’s expected.
You pull out your phone, opening a new note.
Story idea: What happens when you let yourself be known
You’ll write it someday. Not now — now you’re too busy living it.
oh. my. god. i have no words. one of the best fanfics i have EVER read!!!! my heart was pounding throughout the whole thing!! i feel like i just read a professional novel the writing is so so good!!!
that vid of everyone laughing at trump’s “joke” about having to also “invite the women” or he’d be impeached that the whole group laughed at is just replaying over and over in my head. that women’s hockey team is full of elite athletes who play the same sport as all of them (whilst getting paid practically nothing in comparison), and have won olympic gold twice in the last 3 games. ellen hughes is a former team usa player and a pioneer of women’s international hockey and is on the development staff for that very same women’s team who was just the butt of a joke in a locker room with two of her sons present. and yeah, i know, maybe it shouldn’t be surprising, but it’s still really fucking disappointing.
So I would love something with #8 from your fluff prompts with Kirby Dach.
kirby texts you at almost midnight.
can i come over?
you stare at your phone, heart kicking up a little because—yeah, you’ve been talking, and yeah, it’s been going really well, but this is the first time he’s asked to come over. and after a long-ass game, too. the kind of game that should’ve knocked him out the second he got home, not had him texting you like he couldn’t sleep without seeing you first.
you type back, yeah, of course.
he doesn’t send anything else, and your brain starts whirring. he wants to hook up. that’s gotta be what this is. and it’s not like you’re opposed—kirby’s hot, obviously, and you’ve spent too many late nights on facetime with him, watching him grin sleepily into the camera, hearing his voice all raspy and tired, thinking about what it’d be like to actually be close to him—but still, your stomach flutters.
when he knocks, you open the door, expecting something different than what you get. kirby’s standing there in sweats and a hoodie, hair damp from a shower, looking so warm and good and big in the kind of way that makes you want to tuck yourself right into him.
“hi,” he says, voice soft, and then, “can i hug you?”
your chest pulls, something warm and unexpected blooming inside you. “yeah,” you murmur, and before you can even finish, he’s stepping forward, wrapping his arms around you, folding you up like he’s been waiting for this forever.
it’s—god. it’s good. he’s solid and strong, but he’s holding you so gently, pressing his face into your neck, letting out this deep, tired sigh like he just dropped something he’d been carrying all day.
“missed you,” he mumbles, and your stomach flips because, jesus, you’ve never even touched before tonight.
you pull back a little to look at him. his blue eyes are sleepy, his cheeks flushed like he just got out of the cold. “missed me?” you tease, and his mouth curves into a slow, sheepish smile.
“yeah,” he says simply, like it’s just the truth.
you’re still trying to wrap your head around it when he tugs you gently back toward the couch, plopping down and pulling you with him. you think, oh, this is it, but instead of kissing you or pushing things further, he just—lays back, tucks you into his chest like you belong there, and exhales deeply, like this is exactly what he needed.
“you okay?” you ask, because it’s so sweet it almost makes you nervous, makes your heart do these weird little stutters.
he nods, already half asleep, fingers tracing absentminded shapes into your back. “yeah,” he murmurs, “just really wanted to hold you.”
your chest feels like it might actually cave in. you wrap your arms around him, nuzzling closer, and he makes this low, content sound, pressing his face into your hair.
“you’re warm,” he murmurs, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud.
Arber gets in a fight on the ice and you're the one to patch him up again.
I was listening to the song Makin' Me Look Good Again by Drake White and came up with this idea! Hope y'all enjoy
You feel him before you actually see him.
His warm hands slide around your waist, splayed out across your stomach, the heat pulsing through the thin t-shirt on your body. You feel the rough calluses through the fabric, years of hockey gloves and daily training shown in the uneven lines of his skin. You don’t notice the bruises that color his knuckles until later.
For now, you feel the way his body sinks into yours even from behind. He molds to you, his larger body enveloping you entirely. His forehead comes to rest on your shoulder, his breath escaping and sliding down your back sending shivers through you. Your movements halt as you feel his whole being pressed close to you as if he’s trying to merge the two of you together.
It takes all of your willpower to finally speak, breaking the rare moment of silence that exists in your crazy world.
“Hi bear,” you whisper into the open kitchen air.
“Hi angel,” he murmurs, the words muffled against your shoulder.
The spell was wavering due to your words, your body moving on its own accord. You slowly twist in his arms, your hands sliding up his chest until they gather around the back of his neck, finger twisting the strands of his hair gathered there.
Arber keeps his gaze on the ground, a sight that tugs at your heart. You duck your head, trying to catch his eye even through the sunglasses but when he continues to avoid you, your face morphs into a frown.
One of your hands trails from his neck to his cheek, the stubble there tickling against your palm when you tug lightly trying to get him to look at you. Finally, he does and the sight before you is one you’ve seen plenty before and yet you still can’t help the pain that stings your heart.
As cliche as it was, you hated whenever Arber fought on the ice. You knew his job was physical and at the very least intense, but you never quite enjoyed the violence in it. More so, you hated that the so called fans, investors, league in general made certain players out to be enforcers because of their size or the way they play their game on the ice.
You spot the cut on the side of his cheekbone first, sharp in contrast to his soft features that only became that much more when he looked at you. A pair of sunglasses hide his espresso colored eyes and when you lift them, a newly formed purple bruise highlights the area.
You flinch at the sight of the injury as if you were the one who had gotten into the fight that night. Arber’s expression falls further, a flicker of sadness crosses his features when he sees your reaction. You push through your thoughts, pulling the sunglasses away from Arber's face and placing them on the counter behind you.
“I look like hell don’t I?” Arber asks quietly when you turn back to look at him. You can tell the question was meant to be in a joking manner but it falls flat when he sees the worry in your eyes. He hates that he caused that look to ever grace your perfect features.
Your fingers instinctively reach for him again, this time softly padding across the damaged skin that breaks your heart to look at.
“You’ve seen better days,” you respond in a hushed tone, cautious in your words.
Even though the media, fans, league, and many others make it seem otherwise, Arber didn’t always enjoy fighting. Sure it was an excellent way to get his anger or frustration out, especially during a bad game and it never failed when it came to showing and proving his loyalty to his team. He has always understood that it was a part of the game he loved and did for a living. That didn’t mean he wanted to be an enforcer though.
More than anything, he hated the way you looked at him when he came home battered and bruised from bad decisions on the ice. Deep down he knew you would never look at him as aggressive or god forbid a threat, but there was the lingering insecurity that nagged in the back of his head. He looked at you like you were an angel, how could you possibly be with someone so damaged as he felt?
Arber’s train of thought falls to the wayside for a moment as he feels your hands slide down his chest again until they reach around and land on his back again. You hold him tightly, your body pressed to his in a way that makes him think if the world was ending he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. There you were, consistent and never ending, and the only one who could make him feel good again in seconds. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head and basks in the weight of you against him.
“Come on,” you nudge him backwards until his hips hit the kitchen counter behind him and his hands drop from you.
You pull away, stepping to the side to rummage through the medicine cabinet to pull out the first aid kit that you always kept handy for the two of you. Arber watches your delicate movements as you pull out medical ointment, bandages, antiseptic, and what feels like a million other medical devices in front of you. You look back at him, nodding towards the kitchen table and he makes his way over, falling down onto one of the chairs, his body suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion.
When Arber casts his glance back over to you, his eyes trail over your body, brain overloaded with thoughts of you. His mind wouldn’t let him let go of the comments others have made when it came to yours and his relationship. When he first introduced you to the boys, they were shocked to say the least. They knew Arber and his goofy class clown side, but they were also familiar with the intense guy who barrels down the ice at full speed, pushing down anyone in his way.
You were soft smiles, quiet words, and kind eyes. Arber had watched the boys lean down to hear your melodic voice above the noise, grins plastered on their faces as you spoke to them. He rolled his eyes when the boys glanced at him, confusion in their gaze as they tried to figure out how their loud mouthed, dirty talking, fiery eyes teammate could be dating you.
Arber still sees those glances sometimes, the comments echo around his head in moments of insecurity. They happen when he’s in a room full of people, watching you win over every one you’ve ever spoken to and he’s speechless wondering why you would ever choose him.
Without him realizing, you’re standing in front of him again, medical supplies in hand. He widens his legs, letting you step into them like you’ve done hundreds of times before. He takes the opportunity to rest his hands on your waist, kneading the flesh there with his fingers, avoiding your eyes even as you lift his face to better see the injuries on his face.
You start with the bruise lining his eye, pressing ointment gently to the area and frowning when Arber lets out a hiss of pain. His fingers flex against your waist and you scold yourself when a flurry of butterflies rise in your stomach at his touch. You set the medicine down, reaching next for the rubbing alcohol and pouring some on the cotton pad in your other hand.
“I’m sorry bear,” you say and before he can ask why, you press the pad against his cut, cleaning the area as fast as you can. Arber’s grip on your waist tightens and you know his knuckles are a stark white against the blue bruises from how intense his grip on you is.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you repeat quickly, pulling the cotton pad away and grabbing the opened bandaid. You press the bandage to his skin, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his cheekbone as an extra apology.
“I should be apologizing to you angel,” Arber says and you take a small step back to get a better look at him.
“I’m an idiot, getting into these fights just for me to come home and have you fix me back up again. Make me look good again. It’s not fair. I’m not worth this,” his voice cracks on the last bit and your heart fractures at his words.
You move your hands until you’re cupping his face again, tugging lightly so he finally meets your gaze. You hold that look for a moment, mesmerized as always by the warmth of his eyes when they look at you. No one else has ever looked at you the way Arber does. Like you were the only one in the world mattered. Like he might break without you.
“Arber,” you murmur, using his first name for emphasis. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here, loving you. I’ll patch you up everyday for the rest of my life as long as it means you’re here.”
All Arber can do for a moment is stare in awe. He couldn’t wrap his head around you and your existence. How you say the right things every time and love him deeply and unconditionally even when he feels like he isn’t worth it in the slightest. He wishes he knew how to say all of this to you, wishes he could explain in all the words you deserved to hear but he knew it would all fall short. He would spend his whole life trying anyway, as long as you were here.
“Angel,” he speaks softly, hushed as if he’s worried he’ll scare you off. You wait with baited breath for his next words but they never come. He looks like he could write you a whole book with the words he wants to say but for now nothing happens.
Instead, he wraps his arms around your waist again, lifting you up into his strong hold that makes the whole world disappear for a while. Your head pushes into the crook of his neck, sighing against his warm skin as he holds you like a lifeline. When he sets you down again, you shiver at the loss of contact from him. Your hands slide down his chest once more, finding the edges of his t-shirt and moving it so you can slip your hands underneath.
Arber lets out a quiet groan, a smirk aimed at you and you can’t help the ridiculous smile that appears on your face. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before hoisting you back up into his arms causing you to squeal in surprise.
“Bear!”
“I love you angel,” he tells you and the words warm every bit of your being.
Sweet first kiss with Will please. It’s not perfect cause both are a bit shy, but I’d loooove for him to be a bit giggly afterwards cause he can’t believe she feels the same. And just pulls her into his chest, not wanting to let her go
Thank you for requesting, I hope you enjoy!💖🥰
Almost Perfect WS2
Summary: After months of quiet flirting and unspoken feelings, Y/N and Will Smith finally share a late-night walk by the lake after his game. Their first kiss is shy and a little awkward, but it’s filled with laughter, warmth, and relief as they both realize their feelings are mutual. Giddy and disbelieving, Will can’t stop smiling afterward, pulling her close and not wanting to let her go — the start of something real and perfectly imperfect.
Word Count: 1.8k
Requests: OPEN
Main Masterlist SJS Masterlist
If you’d told me a year ago that I’d spend half my weekends in freezing rinks watching college hockey, I’d have laughed. I’m not exactly the “wake up early, sit on cold bleachers, yell at referees” type.
But then Will Smith smiled at me that first day — the kind of smile that feels like sunlight sneaking through clouds — and suddenly, being cold didn’t seem so bad.
He wasn’t even trying to charm me; that’s the thing. He’s not loud or cocky the way people expect star athletes to be. Will’s just… kind. A little goofy. Shy sometimes. But when he laughs, the whole room seems to tilt toward him.
Somehow, between study sessions, team dinners, and far too many late-night coffee runs, we became inseparable.
Friends, technically.
But there’s this undercurrent — this small, electric something — that hums between us every time our hands brush or his voice dips soft when he says my name. It’s like standing at the edge of a lake on a still day — waiting, knowing, but not quite brave enough to jump in.
Tonight, it’s just the two of us in his car, parked near the lake outside campus. The team had won their game earlier, and the post-win adrenaline has melted into a quiet, easy calm. The moonlight glints off the water, and the air smells like pine and a hint of spring rain.
He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gear shift — close enough that if I just shifted my fingers an inch, I could touch him.
But I don’t.
He’s talking about something — the new workout schedule, I think — but his voice is low and tired. Warm.
“You okay?” I ask, tilting my head.
He looks at me, his lashes catching the faint light from the dashboard. “Yeah. Just tired. Happy, though.”
“Happy?”
He smiles, small but sincere. “Yeah. It’s always a good day when you’re there.”
And there it is again — that fluttery, dizzy feeling that makes it impossible to tell if I’m cold or nervous or both. I force a laugh to break the silence. “You say that to all your fans?”
He shakes his head. “Just you.”
The air between us changes — softer, heavier somehow. I can hear the quiet creak of the car settling, the distant rush of water on the shore, the faint rhythm of his breathing.
His eyes linger on mine a beat too long. Then he looks away quickly, laughing under his breath.
“What?” I ask.
He shrugs, the tips of his ears pink. “Nothing. Just… you make it really hard to think sometimes.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can manage, because my heart has decided to sprint a marathon.
We end up walking down by the lake a few minutes later, because sitting still feels impossible. The air’s cooler now, crisp enough that I pull his hoodie tighter around me. It smells like him — a mix of soap, cologne, and a hint of something sweet, maybe vanilla from that iced latte he’s obsessed with.
Will shoves his hands into his pockets as we walk, the gravel crunching under our shoes. “You warm enough?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “You?”
He laughs softly. “I gave you my hoodie, remember?”
“Your fault for being nice.”
“Or your fault for being cute when you’re cold.”
I glance at him sharply, surprised. He looks horrified with himself the second the words leave his mouth. “I—uh—sorry, that sounded—”
“—like a compliment?” I finish, grinning.
He lets out a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. That’s what I was going for.”
We walk near the dock, where the lake stretches out black and glassy under the stars. It’s quiet — that kind of silence that hums, that feels full of all the things you haven’t said yet.
Will leans against the railing beside me, and for a while, we just watch the moonlight ripple across the water.
“Do you ever think about the future?” he asks suddenly, voice barely above a whisper.
“All the time,” I say. “You?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. But lately, it’s weird. I used to picture it just… hockey, you know? The NHL, travel, all that stuff. But now when I think about the future, it’s—”
He stops.
“It’s what?” I ask softly.
He looks down at me then, really looks, and my breath catches. His voice is quiet but steady. “It’s not just hockey anymore.”
My heart’s in my throat. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” He exhales, a soft laugh escaping him. “You make me nervous, Y/N. No one makes me nervous.”
“Good nervous or bad nervous?”
He grins, shy and a little helpless. “The kind that makes me want to kiss you.”
The words hang there, fragile and certain all at once.
I can feel my pulse everywhere — in my chest, my fingertips, the back of my neck. I want to say something clever or brave, but all that comes out is, “Then why don’t you?”
His eyes widen, and he lets out a breathy, disbelieving laugh — the kind that sounds like relief. “You mean—?”
I nod once, just barely. “Yeah.”
He stares at me for half a second longer, like he’s making absolutely sure he’s not misreading this. Then he takes a small, uncertain step closer.
And then another.
The first kiss isn’t perfect.
It’s soft and a little awkward — his nose bumps mine, and we both almost laugh, which only makes it worse. But then his hand finds my cheek, tentative and warm, and the world just… quiets.
It’s not fireworks or music swelling in the background — it’s better. It’s slow, shy, and so real that it feels like the air might break around us.
When we pull apart, he blinks, stunned, his breath visible in the cool night air. Then he laughs — a real, full, unrestrained laugh that makes his whole face light up.
“Oh my God,” he says, his voice all soft disbelief. “That actually just happened.”
I can’t help laughing too, cheeks hot. “Yeah. I think so.”
He’s still giggling, that nervous, boyish kind of laugh that makes my chest feel too small. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says, still a little breathless.
“Really?” I tease. “You seemed pretty confident.”
“Confident?” He shakes his head, laughing again. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out if you even liked me for months.”
I laugh. “Will, you literally give me your hoodie every other day.”
“Yeah, because I was hoping you’d figure it out!”
We both dissolve into another round of soft laughter, the kind that feels weightless — the kind you don’t want to end.
Then his expression shifts, gentler now. Without thinking, he reaches out, slipping his arms around me and pulling me against his chest.
I can hear the steady rhythm of his heart through his shirt, and his chin rests lightly against the top of my head. It’s not possessive or dramatic — it’s just warm, safe, right.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything.
Then he whispers, almost to himself, “I can’t believe you actually feel the same.”
I smile against his chest. “Believe it.”
He lets out a small, breathy laugh, one hand brushing up and down my back. “I don’t want to let go.”
“Then don’t,” I murmur.
And he doesn’t.
We stay like that for a while, just listening to the lake and the crickets and the distant hum of the highway. Every now and then, he chuckles softly under his breath, like he still can’t believe this is real.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask, half teasing.
He squeezes me a little closer. “Because this doesn’t feel real. You, me — this. I keep waiting to wake up back in the locker room or something.”
“You think I’m a dream?” I tease.
He leans back just enough to meet my eyes, his grin soft and a little lopsided. “The good kind, yeah.”
My cheeks heat, and I try to hide it, but he notices — of course he notices. “You’re blushing,” he says, his tone all proud and amused.
“So are you,” I counter.
He laughs, caught. “Okay, fair.”
Eventually, we sit down on the edge of the dock, feet dangling above the dark water. He takes my hand, fingers intertwining easily now. It feels natural — like we’ve been holding hands forever and just didn’t realize it.
He glances sideways at me, that mischievous sparkle returning to his eyes. “You know, the guys are never gonna let me live this down.”
I smile. “You think you’re gonna tell them?”
“Oh, absolutely not. They’ll find out the second I smile during practice, though.”
“You smile during practice all the time.”
“Not like this,” he says, and my heart does that fluttery thing again.
By the time we drive back to campus, the clock on the dashboard reads 11:47. The ride is quiet but comfortable — his hand resting on my knee, my fingers brushing against his wrist. Every few minutes, he’ll glance at me, grin, and then shake his head, still smiling.
“What?” I finally ask, laughing.
He grins wider. “I’m just… happy.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Just happy.”
When he drops me off outside my dorm, he walks me to the steps, hands shoved in his pockets again. There’s a faint breeze that tugs at his hair, and under the yellow glow of the streetlight, he looks unfairly good — all soft eyes and crooked smiles.
“So…” I say, rocking on my heels.
“So,” he echoes, grinning.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
He nods. “You better.”
I laugh. “Goodnight, Will.”
“Night, Y/N.”
He hesitates for half a second, then steps forward, brushing a quick, shy kiss to my forehead before backing away with that same bashful laugh that’s been haunting me all evening.
And when I turn back toward the door, I swear I can still hear him giggling softly to himself — like he’s still trying to convince himself that this, all of this, actually happened.
And maybe it wasn’t the perfect kiss.
Our noses bumped, and our timing was off, and we laughed halfway through.
But as I crawl into bed that night, still wearing his hoodie and still tasting that moment like sunlight and nerves, I realize — it was perfect.
Perfectly us.
And when my phone buzzes a minute later with a text from him — “Still can’t stop smiling. You’re in trouble.” — I know I’m smiling too.
oh this is SOOOOOOOO cute!!! the detail is amazing i can imagine every last bit!!! and the dialogue is so perfectly playful and it’s so sweet and endearing!!! i’m obsessed
"But if I just showed up at your party, would you have me? Would you want me?" / "Yeah, I showed up at your party. Will you have me? Will you love me?"
I wrote this about two years ago and figured now was a great time to post it. Happy august everyone! May your air be salty and your doors be rusty always <3
It was a month into the new hockey season and Mat Barzal was having the worst slump of his entire career.
At first he wasn’t quite sure why but that thought was quickly erased when the memories of summer, of losing you, zipped through his brain like the worst horror movie he had ever seen.
After a particularly bad game, Mat found himself wanting to burn off stress in any way possible. For some reason that stress turned into an urge to flee and he decided on a late night drive to clear his head.
He drove the clogged roads of Long Island round and round until a particularly familiar neighborhood landed before him and with a sharp stab to his gut he realized he was about to drive right by your house.
He couldn’t even conceive of how he ended up here, thinking his turns were random and miscalculated but muscle memory changed that in a heartbeat. This whole time his body was trying to drag him back to you. Back to where he belonged.
His eyes slide from their focus on the road over to your house as he slows to an easy 10 miles per hour. Your house hasn’t changed a bit, the archway to the garden still kept to perfection and the white paint chipping on one side that you always said you were going to fix but never got around to it.
Mat’s heart had seized in his chest the minute his car entered the street. Passing your house? He couldn’t breathe. It’s like all the air had been sucked out of the vehicle and pushed towards your house like it was being summoned.
The tightness in his chest didn’t even ease when he finally passed by and exited the neighborhood. At best, it only clenched tighter to his veins and zapped him of any other emotion except for raw and unending sadness and regret.
He wanted to erase this past month, this past summer, into nothingness and start again with you but he knew there was no shot of that ever happening.
You had heard the rumors from Inez, someone you had told Mat a million times that you never believed a word she said since most of it was bullshit lies or something she may have heard from someone else’s someone and so on.
This time? The rumors were true. You had to believe Inez when she shoved a phone full of screenshots into your face of Mat’s summer conquest.
So, when Mat came back to New York for the upcoming hockey season and found out you had been transferred over to the Rangers team he started to assume it was because of him. The rest of management and the team assured him it wasn’t but he knew deep down what was true.
As he headed in the direction of his house he couldn’t help but think back to where it all went wrong. He had played every scenario in his head since coming back to New York and all of them began on that fateful night last season.
Anyone who had the pleasure of spending time with the young couple could tell they were disgustingly in love. All doe eyes, soft touches, big smiles, bleeding hearts, and so on. Your gazes never strayed far from the others even when apart.
His eyes scan the room, tuning out the conversation happening around him so he could focus better on finding you.
Mat hadn’t been in the mood to wine and dine the organization members tonight. As he had gotten older, Mat had started to hate crowds. He didn’t like the mass amount of people and all of their unfamiliar faces that seemed to know too much about him when he didn’t know most of those peoples names.
He understood this night meant a lot and so his only consolation was that you would be by his side. He watched you in awe as you floated around the room, greeting others with warm smiles and generous hugs, your listening skills on full display as you nodded and responded to every little thing someone said to you. He loved watching you like this.
Mat had let you know how he was feeling early on in the night and you were trying to help him out as much as possible. You carried most conversations with others and when he snuck off to hangout with friends you tried your best to continue as if it wasn’t annoying you.
An hour or so later and Mat was deep in conversation with friends and blanking on where you were. The beginning notes to your favorite song had started to play and he had perked up, wondering if you were going to find him and drag him to the dance floor.
When the first chorus floats over his ears he spots you. Your hand clutched in another man’s and his tattooed arm wrapped tightly around your waist. His eyes flicker with jealousy and annoyance quickly when he sees a smug looking Zegras staring at you while the two of you danced together.
Mat had always had a bit of an ick with Trevor Zegras, the young star of the Anaheim Ducks and to see him dancing with his girlfriend only made that ick grow bigger. Deep down, his anger was truly just the worst of his insecurities roaring their ugly head in the most pathetic way possible.
Since the day he met you Mat never thought he was good enough for you. You deserved complete and utter perfection and Mat felt he never met any of those standards in his head.
And when you two finally got together? He was consumed with the thought that he had to do everything in his power to never lose you. It terrified him to the point it kept him awake a lot of nights worrying for when he would fuck it up. Not even if he would.
Seeing you dance with a man who could probably give you everything you deserved in more did ridiculous mind tricks on Mat.
Of course, that’s not how the night ended up going. He lashed out and you fought for days until it was resolved but Mat kept that secret fear locked up inside of him for the rest of the time you were dating. He never wanted to admit that losing you was his worst fear. He loved you so incredibly much but was scared that you would see him as a coward.
He credited his stupid actions this summer to that fear time and time again.
He had to admit he liked the attention of Augustine. She was head over heels for him and made him feel like he was truly the king of all kings. In her eyes, Mat could do no wrong. He liked being wanted, being chased, being praised, etc.
Those selfish thoughts and numerous unsaid apologies to you flipped back and forth over and over in Mat’s head ever since he got back to New York.
As the team headed to Madison Square Garden for the game against the Rangers that night he was staring at the passing scenery and imagining all the ways he wanted to say he was sorry.
Flowers? Chocolates? During a game? In an interview? Showing up at your door? None of it seemed right. Would he tell you about his insecurities? Tell you that this was the biggest mistake of his life? That all he knows is that he misses you like a physical piece of his body had been taken away? He wanted to tell you all of it and more if you gave him the chance.
But fear is a bitch and it never sided with what someone truly wants to do.
He enters the arena more distracted than ever before and almost misses your (y/h/c) head bouncing down the halls of the stadium. He watches as you turn, greet a coworker and flash that heart stopping smile of yours.
“Call me when you get there okay?” you said to him as his arms circled your waist, pulling you against him.
“Promise,” Mat whispers, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your lips.
“I miss you already,” he murmurs when he pulls away.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Barzy played the last in person conversation with you on a repeat in his head as he walked down the broken cobblestone path of the small town he was staying in for the summer. It had to be at least midnight and he hadn’t seen a car in at least a half an hour until hers pulled up.
“Mat?” he heard as he continued walking.
He paused in his step and leaned down to be eye level with the driver and spotted Augustine, the girl he had known since childhood but hadn’t seen in years.
“Oh my god. Get in,” she says, laughing lightly like the idea of Mat Barzal being in her hometown was utterly absurd.
“Let’s drive,” Mat responds, climbing into the beat up old car and watching as she steps on the gas.
“How have you been?” She asks, throwing a sideway glance at Mat and he instinctively starts to nod in response.
The two spend time driving around and catching up on all things in life until her gas is almost drained and it’s time to head back home. Without a word, she drives to her house and sneaks in with Mat on her heels.
The two land on her bed, soft smiles and awkward tension building further and further. They continue to talk, catching up and tossing random topics back and forth like a puck on ice between linemates.
“Can I tell you a secret?” She whispers and Mat looks over.
She doesn’t say anything, just moves closer until Mat’s eyes flicker to hers and their lips follow the movements.
Mat’s eyes flutter open the next day with forgetfulness filling his irises until it quickly turns to regret and he tries not to whip his head over to look at Augustine. He slowly turns to see her fast asleep, eyelashes fluttering from her breathing.
Mat knows he fucked up that night. He continued to fuck up for the rest of the summer, days spent on the beach and taking small trips, dinners and movie nights turned into more and Mat found himself waking up every morning in Augustine’s bed with a twinge of regret and anger in his heart.
As if a mind trick, Mat always dreamt of you every single night he spent in bed with Augustine. The dreams varied from beautiful moments and dates together to nightmares where you were gone from his life and unlikely to ever return to him again. Like losing a piece of his soul every single night.
“Dude,” Anders claps a hand on Mat’s shoulder bringing him back to the present. “What is going on with you recently?”
Mat deflates at the words of his captain, unsure of how much or how little he wanted to tell Anders.
“I cheated on (y/n),” he admits, head hanging low as Anders gapes at him. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done, I know.”
“So that's why you’ve been playing like you’ve never touched a hockey stick before?” Anders asks and Mat can’t help the small smile at his Captain’s chirp.
“Yeah man. I fucked up the best thing I’ve ever had and now I don’t know how to apologize or explain.”
“You better do it soon. I don’t need you ruining both our season and her birthday party.”
Mat’s fingers rap incessantly on the steering wheel, glancing nervously around to look at the house he had passed by just months before. He couldn’t help but imagine all the different ways this conversation could go. Would you forgive him? Yell at him? Kick him out? Hit him? Accept him back? Love him again? The possibilities seemed endless in this tiny car and this never ending moment.
In the minutes stretching endlessly ahead, Mat couldn’t help but feel disgusted with himself. He loved the way Augustine had chased him. He loved the feeling of being wanted and knowing that no matter what he did she would still be head over heels for him. He was scared you didn’t think of him like that.
You had always stared at Mat like he hung the moon and stars himself but his insecurities and fears were always clouding the reality of the situation. After everything was said and done, it finally occurred to Mat that no one would ever love him so deeply and purely the way you did. It took him thankfully a less amount of time to realize that he loved you just as much.
With that reminder fresh in his head, Mat uses that strength and pulls himself up and out of the car. He replays the thousands of outcomes in his head in the space between his car and your front door until it is silenced by his knock on the door.
The door swings open in his face and all the breath is stolen from his body as your eyes linger on his and he can’t make out the emotion in them. You step out, cardigan falling off your shoulder and you cross your arms defensively. Mat wanted to reach out and pull those arms around him and make sure he never let you go.
“I miss you,” Mat blurts out before he can think of anything better to say to you.
He knows it deep in his bones and running through his veins. He missed you. Missed the way your hair falls over your eyes when you look up and how your cardigan is always falling off your shoulder no matter how many times you or he pulls it up. He misses your perfume filling the deep space in your car until it’s deep in his lungs and close enough to his heart that everything is okay again.
He missed you. You had always made him feel whole again.
So, standing in front of him all he was filled with was the idea of missing you. And that he desperately needed you to understand that feeling he is struck with.
“And I’m sorry for what I did. I have no excuses. I fucked up bad (y/n/n) and I should have never hurt you like that. You never deserved that.”
You continue to stand there with an angelic halo of light around your head due to the porch light beaming above you. He felt like he was at church begging for forgiveness for his sins and praying it all turns out okay.
“I missed you too,” you murmur and Mats head shoots up to look at you and is greeted with sincerity in your eyes.
You take a step towards him and he holds his breath as you reach up and push a long lock of hair behind his ear. He can’t hold back as he closes the distance between the two of you and his breath is knocked out from him. He never thought he would experience this kind of bliss again and yet here he was, blessed from top to bottom.
“I’m so sorry love,” Mat says again when you two break apart.
“Come back later and we’ll talk, yeah?” you offer and Mat nods instantly.
He can’t help the last peck on your lips and the way his head soars as he walks back to his car.
