note 1: Ah! My first little bonus story for this series. I'm excited to share it with y'all. this first one is supposed to happen between chapters 2 and 3
note 2: I've tagged people who wanted to be on the taglist for this series, let me know if you want me to remove you from the bonus parts!
note 3: Hey y'all! I was hoping to get Chapter 7 of HIA out but unfortunately I ran out of time before going out of town for the weekend. Hopefully this little bonus fic will tide y'all over until the next chapter. This little guy takes place between chapters 6 & 7. I hope you like it. Happy reading!
single dad!Gabe Landeskog x nanny!reader
wc: 2.8k (est. reading time: 11 minutes)
warnings: not beta'd, reader wears a dress and heels, mentions of food and alcohol, a little angst, named date (Parker)
⬅️ previous part | series masterlist | next part ➡️
For once, the house is quiet. For the first time in what feels like…well, forever, you’re not juggling three sets of shoes, three jackets, three opinions on breakfast or lunch or dinner. Gabe finally had a day free and decided to take the kids out for an adventure day—giving you the day off.
You’re standing in front of the mirror, slowly doing your hair in a way you just haven’t had time for lately. You pick out a dress you haven’t worn in ages—no excuse to—not anything super fancy, just something that feels like you and not just practical work clothes.
Pulling on a pair of simple heels, you give yourself a critical once-over and push out a harsh breath.
“Okay,” you mutter, hyping yourself up. “Tonight is just about me. Me and…Parker.”
Grabbing your small clutch, you check your phone one last time before walking out the door. No texts from him. And it’s the first night in a long time where the world feels like it’s yours for a little while.
The restaurant is a cute spot downtown. Soft music, dim lighting, candles on the tables. A place you’ve passed more than a dozen times but never thought you’d have the occasion to go inside.
The waiting area is busy when you open the door. Carefully, you make your way to the host stand and give your friends’ name.
The hostess gets a glint in her eye and plasters a smile on her face as she looks at you. “Welcome. The rest of your party is already here.”
You thank her, and she leads you to a relatively private table near the back of the restaurant. Parker stands up when you arrive at the table and waits until you’re in your seat before sitting down again. He greets you with a warm smile and a soft hello. Settling into your chair, you look around; everything feels…calm. Normal.
When the waiter comes by to take orders, you order something simple. A pasta dish you’re almost certain you’ll like. A glass of wine you know you like. And when the waiter leaves, you let out a breath you hadn’t noticed you were holding, and let your body relax.
Dinner is nice but strange. It’s odd to have a conversation with another adult, male, that isn’t interrupted by onslaughts of questions or stories of their days or sticky hands of a toddler looking to anchor herself to you in any way she can. It makes you notice the little details: the candlelight glinting off the glassware, casting shadows across the table, the wine that smells like summer fields rather than the apple juice that almost always goes with dinner, the ambient music of soft jazz cushioning the conversations rather than babbling and whatever sounds Charlotte discovers she can make that day. You notice the small gestures too: he leans slightly forward, listening to you. Not staring or hovering, just listening.
It’s nice to just enjoy you without worrying about him pulling back, and without the kids—who you love dearly—demanding attention, and without the constant hum of responsibility hanging around you.
After dinner, and the bill is settled, Parker offers to walk you to your car. You accept. The streetlights glow softly above you, just enough to light the way without being blinding. People bustle past you on the sidewalk, obviously in a hurry to get where they’re going. Neither you nor Parker rush, taking slow, measured steps that eventually get you to your car.
When you come to a stop by the car, Parker turns to you with a small smile, “I had a nice time. So…can we do this again?”
You smile. Honestly, you did too. “Maybe. I’ll text you.”
His smile changes, like he’s coming to an understanding of something you haven’t said aloud, and he nods. Then he says goodnight before leaving you at your car.
You don’t feel guilty about tonight. Or anxious. You feel…alive.
By the time you get home, the contrast hits you: the chaos, the family, the almost-too-close-but-pulled-back dynamic you have going on with Gabe—it’s all still there. Waiting for you.
Sure enough, when you step inside, he’s standing in the hallway just off the kitchen, waiting.
“Out late,” he says, simply, tone clipped.
The quiet tension is immediate. And it sharpens as he takes in your outfit, and the way you styled your hair, and your makeup.
You shrug, doing your best impression of casual. “Dinner. It was nice. Had a good time.”
Gabe doesn’t say anything, so you just make your way upstairs to your room to get changed and ready for bed.
The house is quiet, like it was before, but this time it’s a different kind of quiet. It’s fuller, heavier.
You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, heels kicked off, dress folded neatly on the chair, makeup off and hair undone, wrapped up in your favourite pyjamas. The wine you’d had with dinner still lingering faintly in your senses, warm and comforting.
Running a hand over your face, you close your eyes.
Tonight was…different.
It was normal. Simple. Nothing like the chaos of the mornings with the three kids, the living room hockey drill set up, or the constant heavy hovering energy of Gabe’s presence. You laugh to yourself, really laugh. You didn’t spend the evening having to hide feels or second-guess your reactions or tiptoe around that carefully drawn line. For a few hours, you were just…you.
The contrast of the night hits you, and it makes the breath catch in your lungs. Because the difference wasn’t just the date. It was him. Or rather, the absence of him. You’ve spent weeks—maybe months, honestly—hovering in that limbo. All of the almosts. The lingering looks. The soft, gentle brushes of skin that weren’t quite allowed. And every single time it got too close to the line, he pulled back. He always pulled back. You could almost count on it. And in theory, you can understand. You understand the kids. The history. The boundaries. The logistics. The need for stability. But tonight, spending the night with another adult, without him, you realized just how much you’ve been holding back. The way Gabe makes you feel, even when you’re not sure he even realizes—your chest tight with anticipation, your stomach flipping at the lightest brush of his touch—has been building quietly.
But after tonight, you know you can’t just keep waiting.
You can’t keep orbiting around someone who can’t—or won’t—figure out what he wants.
When your phone buzzes on the nightstand to your left, you don’t check it. You’re pretty sure you already know what you’re going to find: Gabe’s name, his concern, maybe a little guilt.
But that’s not what tonight is supposed to be about. It was supposed to be about you. About remembering that your life doesn’t revolve around his hesitations or inability to make a decision. Taking a deep breath, you feel the weight lift just slightly. You remind yourself: you’re allowed to enjoy things. To explore moments that aren’t bound by fear or indecision. To feel your heart expand with someone who’s ready to do the same, without someone constantly testing its limits. And yet…the thought of Gabe still lingers. Still makes your chest tighten in a way that no wine or laughter or quiet evening can fully erase. Because even as you revel in the freedom of the night, you know one thing for certain: the pull toward Gabe is far from gone. And some part of you—the annoyingly stubborn part that you try to tamp down—wants him to figure it out.
But tonight, for the first time for a long while, you don’t need him to.
You’re whole enough on your own.
Stretching out across the bed, you let the quiet sink in. Lying there for a few minutes before sitting up with a start, deciding that tea before bed is an absolute necessity tonight.
Your steps are quiet as you make your way through the house, entirely expecting him to have gone to bed by now. But when you walk into the kitchen, he’s sitting there, at the island in the dark, staring at the mug sitting in front of him on the counter. His jaw is tight, and every time you glance over, it looks like he’s clenching harder.
“So…you went out…” he says, the words come out in a controlled, forced calm.
You pause, turning to look at him as you drop the teabag in.
“Yes,” you reply, tone even. “I did.”
“Dinner?” His tone is calm, but the underlying sharpness is sitting there. The question isn’t really about the logistics; it’s about the weight between the two of you.
“Yes. Dinner.”
He stands abruptly, walking to the kitchen table—you watch the tightness in his shoulders loosen just a fraction before they tighten again—and back over to the kitchen island.
“Alone?”
“No. It was a date.” You meet his eyes, gaze steady.
Gabe’s lips press together in a thin line before his face goes carefully neutral. “Since when are you dating?”
You shrug lightly, “since I decided I’m allowed to.”
“You didn’t…you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t realize this was something I needed to clear with my boss.”
For a moment, the kitchen hums with everything neither of you is saying. The kids are asleep upstairs. The chaos of your life is paused. But the air between you? It’s heavy.
Gabe lets out a short, humourless laugh, the sharp sound cutting through the tension, and drags a hand across the back of his neck.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” You ask.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. For the first time, there isn’t a quick answer waiting for him. The silence stretches.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, “I just—”
“You just what Gabe?”
The muscle in his jaw ticks.
You look away first, focusing on your half-empty mug on the counter. Anything but him. “You don’t get to act surprised that I went out with someone, that’s not really for you to have an option on, is it?”
“I’m not acting surprised.”
“Really? Because you’re staring at me like I just told you I’m gonna up and move to another country.”
His eyes flash, emotions swirling faster than you can decipher them. “You know that’s not even comparable.”
“Explain it to me.”
The challenge hangs between you.
Gabe goes to take a step forward, then stops himself. “You’ve never talked about anyone before.”
“Maybe there’s just not been anyone worth talking about…”
The words are sharper, and land harder than you intend. You can tell the exact moment they sink in for him and he really hears the implication. His expression shifts again, something raw and jagged slipping through the carefully controlled facade he usually has locked down.
“Right,” he says quietly, most of the fight and challenge gone.
You swallow.
Neither of you moves.
The refrigerator hums in the background. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaks as the house settles.
“You don’t get to be upset about this,” you say, voice softer now.
“Who says I’m upset?”
“Gabe.”
He looks at you then—really looks at you—and whatever excuse he was about to make dies on his tongue before it makes it past his lips.
He stares at you, the blues of his eyes changing to a darker shade than you’ve seen before. “So you went out because I…what? I can’t decide? I pull back every time things get close?”
You bite your lip. The truth of the words doesn’t soften their sting.
“Exactly,” you whisper. “I’m not going to wait around for someone who can’t figure out what they want. I’m not going to wait around just for you to hurt me.”
Silence falls between you, and settles for what feels like an eternity.
He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “That’s not fair. You—”
“I’ve been patient Gabe,” you cut in. Voice low, almost weary. “Patient with the ‘I can’t because of he kids.’ Patient with the constant pulling-back and the unspoken jealousy and blurred boundaries. I’m done being the person in limbo.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, conflicted, helpless in a way he doesn’t usually allow himself to be—and definitely doesn’t let anyone see.
“I…I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what?” You challenge, stepping closer to where he’s standing. “Want me? Want this? Or just want to keep me dangling?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
You’re not sure if that’s a good thing.
He doesn’t answer because he can’t. Because the truth is all tangled up in fear, responsibilities, and feelings he’s yet to allow himself to untangle.
You take a step back, voice softer, edged with disappointment. “I care about you, Gabe. I have for a while now. But I’m not just going to sit around waiting. Not like this. Not with the uncertainty and pain that comes every time you pull back.”
He swallows. Hard. You hear it. And you see the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat at the movement.
The weight of your words hangs between you like a fog.
“I—”
You shake your head slightly, lifting a hand and holding his gaze just long enough for him to understand. “Tonight, I went out. I had a good time. And I’m going to keep living my life, with or without you figuring out what you want.”
And with that, you turn toward the stairs, leaving him standing there in the kitchen, frozen, frustrated, and full of thoughts he can’t yet put into words.
The tension remains. Thick. Unresolved. And for the first time, you both know: this isn’t something that’ll be smoothed over with a smile or casual brush of a hand. Not really. Not yet. Not until one of you really makes a decision.
_____________
The next morning starts like any other. Breakfast chaos, spilled juice, arguments over whether Cato or Clara should get the first pancake. But something is…different. You notice it the moment he enters the kitchen. The way he hesitates before pouring his coffee. The way he watches you a fraction longer than usual as you dole out the plates piled with breakfast. The way his hand brushes yours—again—slightly longer than “accidental” would allow. You freeze for half a heartbeat, heart racing. He, of course, looks away immediately, pretending it never happened.
Later, while getting the kids ready for school, the tension curls tighter. He tries to help Cato with a stubborn jacket zipper, and the way he leans down brings him dangerously close to your shoulder.
“Careful,” you mutter softly, though there’s nothing really to be careful about.
He stiffens slightly. “Yeah. Right.”
Throughout your day, little things keep reminding you of the night before. When Clara shows you a drawing she’d made of the family. Gabe leans over your shoulder to admire it, and for a second, your faces are inches apart. You both flinch almost at the same time, but neither of you says a word.
Later that evening, he’s standing at the kitchen counter cutting an apple for Clara’s snack. You slide past him to reach the cupboard. His arm brushes yours. You freeze. He freezes. Neither of you moves. The kitchen is quiet except for the ticking of the clock on the wall and Charlotte slapping Gabe’s leg, demanding another apple slice.
Finally, he mutters, almost to himself, “you really went out, huh?”
You shrug, trying to sound casual. “I did. It was…nice.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. Just watches you. And you feel it—the mix of jealousy and frustration and that pull toward you he absolutely refuses to act on.
That night, long after the kids are asleep, you’re both in the living room. He’s sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone, quiet. You’re in the armchair across from him, wrapped in a blanket. Neither of you speaks for a long time. The air is thick with words unsaid, feelings suppressed, and the weight of that confrontation hovering in the background like a shadow. Then his knee nudges yours—lightly. Almost accidental. But not quite. You look at him. He looks at you. Neither of you moves away. And for a brief charged moment, you both remember everything you’re holding back.
The next few weeks continue in a similar fashion: accidental touches, quiet glances across the room full of unsaid words, small bursts of jealousy, awkward silences that have only increased in awkwardness tenfold in a way that would’ve been impossible a week ago. Every single interaction a reminder of what’s there, what could be, and what you’re both being too stubborn—or scared—to fully act on.
i simply had to paint the wife line and their post walter cup win celebratory hug. can you believe that poulin and stacey invented being actual real life soulmates? can you also believe that this is up on my INPRNT if you desire your very own wife line champions? both true
summary: the canadiens just got eliminated from the playoffs, and your boyfriend is blaming himself. good thing you're here to comfort him
warnings: angsty, habs losing, a bit of self-deprecation, its just pretty sad sorry
a/n: im currently working on a slaf story, but i was too sad about the habs losing to write all that fluffy stuff, so here's a short drabble born out of my sadness and my friend's suggestion lol
5-0.
You shut the TV almost instinctively, abruptly plunging the room into pitch black silence. It was so tempting to keep it that way, to save yourself the heartache of watching the team lose hope, of watching Jakub save shot after shot, knowing none of it would be enough unless his team actually tried scoring.
You turned the TV back on. You had told Jakub you would watch. He hadn’t wanted you to come, and you knew he hadn’t really wanted you to watch either by the look on his face when you’d told him you’d watch. But he wasn’t giving up, so the least you could do was keep the damn TV open and not give up on him either.
It was still 5-0, obviously. Not that you actually believed that closing your TV for half a minute would have somehow made the game disappear or reset. The second period ended a few moments later, and you muted the TV, the quiet immediately soothing your headache as you closed your eyes. The intermission passed much too quickly, and you were back to watching the game with bated breath, your stomach dropping anytime the puck made its way too close to Jakub’s net, your heart rate accelerating whenever the Habs took a shot.
You smiled softly when Caufield scored with just under ten minutes left on the timer, though the goal was like a band-aid to a gaping wound.
When, with around five minutes left in the game, the team pulled Jakub from the ice, only for him to be brought back only moments later after an empty net goal, you could swear your headache grew tenfold.
And when the team got another penalty with but a minute remaining, you could tell Jakub had all but given up. You closed the TV before the timer could hit zero.
It was about one hour later that you heard the faint beep of a keycard being scanned, and the click of the door as it unlocked.
You sat up in bed, turning on a bedside lamp as you watched Jakub walk in, immediately letting his bags thump to the ground in a muffled sound.
“Thought you’d be asleep,” he said simply as he remained standing in the same spot. And god, he looked so tired. He had looked tired on TV as well, but now that you could really see his face, unobstructed by the helmet’s cage, or by the distance of having to watch him through a screen, you could make out details you hadn’t been able to before.
“‘Course not,” you replied, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “Did you already shower?” You asked, and Jakub noddled meekly. You patted the space beside you on the bed. Jakub stood there, motionless for a moment, before making his way toward you. He slumped down onto the bed beside you, his head immediately coming to rest on your shoulder.
“You didn’t need to watch the game, you know?” He said after a moment of silence. Your hand reached up to comb his hair back gently. “I let in five goals. Five,” he added after realizing you weren't going to respond, bitterness dripping from his tone.
“You’re tired,” you replied quietly.
“We’re all tired,” he replied, implying it wasn’t a valid excuse.
“Exaclty. It’s a team sport, baby. Even if you played your best game ever, you can’t win it alone,” you said, continuing to comb through his freshly washed hair. “You can’t lose it alone, either, though. It’s not your fault any more than anyone else on the team.”
“We still scored, though. If I hadn’t let any of those goals in, we would have won,” he replied stubbornly.
“You’re asking too much of yourself, my love. The other guys didn’t have to play the entire sixty minutes every other night for the past month. It’s okay, normal, that you’re tired,” you replied, your heart breaking at the self-deprecation in his voice.
“I’m so tired,” he replied, finally dropping the argumentative tone, which melted into pure exhaustion.
“Well, get in here, then,” you replied, shuffling back to the centre of the bed and pulling the covers up. Jakub tossed his shoes off before shuffling in beside you, leaning over to close the bedside lamp. You held your arms out in the darkness, bringing him into your embrace. You continued playing with his hair, and it didn’t take long for you to hear his breathing even out, before drifting off yourself.
Kip takes Scott to family games night, Scott thinks his competitiveness might be their undoing, he couldn't be more wrong
warnings - slice of life, competitiveness, fluff, confessions, comfort
a/n - this was written a while ago for something I'm no longer participating in, so you guys get it now! i hope you enjoy <3 snippet under the cut
The sun has long set outside, George ducking out to flick the heat on while Scott gets more drinks from the kitchen.
"I've never seen him this happy, you know."
Jake is idling by the door to the kitchen, he looks a little apprehensive, like he wants to say something but isn't sure how.
They've met before, but the kid's only sixteen, the youngest of them all by a few years.
"With me, you mean?" Scott asks gently.
"Yeah, like, he's always been a pretty happy guy, but with you it's like, something more, you know?" Jake says.
"Yeah, yeah I do actually, I feel the same way when I'm with him, like meeting him unlocked a new level of life, sorry that probably sounds really cringey." Scott laughs.
"No, no I know what you mean." Jake paused for a while. Mouth opening and closing, flinching once when Milly yells that they're going to start Pictionary soon.
"I uhm—I wanted to say something to you and Kip said it was fine and not weird but I don't really—I just,"
"Jake, hey bud, just take a breath,"
Jake does, uncrossing his arms and standing up a little straighter.
a/n - this was written a while ago for something i'm no longer participating in, so you guys get it now! also my first heated rivalry fic so please be nice <3 snippet under the cut
"Remind me again why we agreed to this?" he moans from under the blanket's he's draped over his head.
"Because we agreed that our daughter could try everything once, and you let me be the sperm donor so she got all my athletic ability," Scott's grinning to himself from where he's putting his socks on, the blue and yellow stripey ones that Allie got him for his birthday.
Allie Hunter-Grady had all of her dad's athletic ability and all of her daddy's hatred of early mornings. Which is why Scott make Kip get her up, rather than face the rath of their nearly six year old before she's had her morning apple juice.
She gets that from her dad, the love of routines and rituals. Apple juice, boiled egg and toast soldiers every morning for breakfast from the time she was old enough to eat solids.
Kip says he doesn't get it, that variety is the spice of life. Scott sees it though, was the same when he was a kid, is the same now, even if he is nearing retirement age.
to the lovely people in my asks i just thought i’d make one general post about pirates and penguins and the next update rather than replying to you all, currently i’m in the busiest period at work (it’ll be over in a week) and pulling 13 hour shifts most days, i’ve also damaged my wrist in my dominant hand so writing will be a little slow for the foreseeable, but a big thankyou for all the respectful requests for an update, and i’m so so glad you’re enjoying the series 🫶🏻
🫙 . ꒷ ︵ ℓo͟v͟ꫀ jar .ᐟ 𝓯!reader. suggestive content. mdni. connor never wants to stop kissing you ⊹ ׂ ♡
connor couldn’t exactly put into words what it was about seeing the hickeys on his skin that made his pulse stutter. he’s been bruised up more times than he could count, and despite some of the hockey related bruises looking suspiciously similar to the marks currently dotting his neck, none of those bruises ever made his stomach flip the way these did.
maybe it was the way you left them. the sexy, slightly desperate way you licked and sucked at his skin. maybe it was knowing that the marks came from the intention of love, affection and want, not harm. either way connor wasn’t thinking much about the why of it all while you were plopped on his lap, adding to your collection.
“jeez baby.” the words were barely audible, husky and warm as they floated past his swollen lips. his hands tightening on your waist only encouraged you more, adjusting his head further back as you kiss and nibble at the skin below his jaw. “the guys are gonna give me so much shit for this.”
“want me to stop?” your tongue runs along his chain, and you can’t help but grin at the breathy whimper that escapes when you scrape your teeth over his adam’s apple.
“no. don’t ever stop.” he begs, panting against your forehead as you continue your little bites of affection down towards his chest.
“i don’t know about ever, baby. i mean we need to eat and—” he interrupts your rambling with three quick pecks. one, two, three. your hands land on his biceps as he lifts his hips, desperately seeking any friction against his dick that was staining against his grey sweatpants.
“we don’t need to eat.” he whispers feverishly, the little head shake he gives so earnest and genuine it makes you giggle.
“no?” you ask teasingly, trailing a finger down his stomach and grinning at the way it clenches beneath your touch. “you don’t need to eat? you’re not hung—”
he cuts you off with another string of kisses, following each time you try to pull away. “no…” he mumbles against your lips, shaking his head again to reiterate. “just need this—you. please.”
you cup his face, thumb skimming over his bottom lip. it’s still swollen from the kisses, from your teeth, from the way he keeps chasing you. his eyes flick down to your mouth and back up again, pupils blown, lashes a little damp.
“you have me.” you whisper, smiling as you kiss the corner of his jaw. “but you’re not gonna have me much longer if we don’t eat because i’m starving.” as if summoned, your stomach makes a loud growl and connor’s eyes widen, rubbing your stomach as if he could soothe the hunger away.
“as much as i love you mauling me, you do know that i don’t have any nutritional value right?” connor teases, tightening his arms around your waist.
“i don’t knowwww…these biceps could feed families, con.” you squeeze both his arms, giggling when he lowers his head and gives a playful bite to your shoulder.
