Connor Bedard x fem!reader || cute, fluff, mention of injury & surgery, nothing graphic though, a tiny bit of swearing
description: one wrong number. One accidentally sent voice message. One reply that probably never should've happened. What starts as a stranger comforting someone after a spectacularly bad Tinder date slowly turns into months of coffee photos, inside jokes, rehab updates and conversations that become part of their everyday lives. Connor doesn't know the colour of her eyes but he knows how she sees the world. And for some reason, that feels bigger.
I've wanted to write a wrong-number story for what feels like forever now but every version I came up with somehow felt wrong. Then this idea finally clicked. Roughly inspired by Voicemails For Isabelle.
Connor had been half-watching the same Netflix episode for close to twenty minutes. He couldn't have explained the plot if someone had offered him a million dollars. The show wasn't good but that wasn't the point. It filled the silence. Sometimes that was enough.
His shoulder throbbed. Not the sharp, miserable pain from right after surgery. That had faded a few days ago. This was different. A constant dull ache that seemed to have settled in and signed a lease.
Rain drummed softly against the windows of his parents' house in Vancouver when his phone buzzed.
He'd grabbed coffee there once or twice before games. Whoever sent this had to be in Chicago. He read the messages again, then it clicked. Must've been the wrong number.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could tell her. Or... whoever she actually meant to text would probably notice eventually.
He set his phone face down and looked back at the TV, pretending to care about whatever dramatic revelation was happening onscreen.
Two hours later, his phone buzzed again. This time it was not a text but a voice message. One minute and forty-seven seconds.
Connor stared at it for a second and eventually instead of ignoring it, he pressed play. Mostly because recovery had made his world painfully small - his teammates were back in Chicago, the season had started without him and every day had begun to blur into the next. Besides... He was curious.
At first there was nothing but wind. Considering the fact the unknown girl was in Chicago... That tracked. Then footsteps. Quick ones. The sharp click of heels against pavement.
"I swear to God," a woman said between breaths, "if one more guy tells me he's emotionally available and then spends forty-five minutes explaining crypto..."
She let out a frustrated laugh.
"I'm actually driving into the lake."
Connor laughed too. Couldn't help it.
"He asked me what my financial five-year plan was before our coffee even got there."
"I don't even know what I'm eating for breakfast tomorrow."
More footsteps. A car rolled past somewhere nearby.
"It wasn't even just... bad."
"It was..." She sighed. "I don't know."
"Do you ever start wondering if statistically this shouldn't keep happening?"
The humour slipped out of her voice so gradually Connor almost missed it.
"Every date somehow ends up worse than the last." A dry little laugh. "So either Chicago has collected every emotionally unavailable manchild in North America..."
"...or I'm the common denominator."
"I keep thinking maybe if I were funnier."
"Or just... less awkward."
"Maybe dating wouldn't feel so impossible."
Connor's smile disappeared. He didn't know this woman. Didn't know what she looked like or how old she was or why she'd accidentally sent him all this. He just knew she'd started the recording making jokes and now she wasn't joking anymore.
"Anyway." She cleared her throat. "I'm gonna grab fried chicken, disappear into my couch and cry through whatever terrible rom-com Netflix recommends."
"I hope your night went better. Love you."
The recording ended and Connor stared at the screen. It would've been easier to pretend he'd never heard it. Probably smarter, too. She'd meant to send that to someone she trusted. Not some random stranger. Still... He couldn't stop picturing her walking through downtown Chicago, convincing herself that a guy who wouldn't shut up about crypto was somehow evidence that she wasn't enough. That felt... unfair.
So he opened the conversation. Typed. Deleted it. Started over.
Hey.
I think you've got the wrong number.
He looked at the message. That was enough. Well, should've been enough. Instead he kept typing.
Before he could rethink it, he hit send and almost immediately saw
Connor smiled. A full minute passed before she answered.
Thank you, though.
Seriously.
Today really sucked.
Connor looked at the screen for a moment before he typed the first honest thing that came to mind.
Mine wasn't exactly great either.
Her reply came back almost before he'd locked his phone.
Not exactly.
Recovering from surgery.
Can't work for a while.
Turns out having endless free time isn't nearly as relaxing as people say.
The typing bubble appeared again immediately.
Yeah... that actually sounds worse.
Connor shrugged to himself.
No.
I'm pretty sure mine just involved one annoying man.
Yours sounds like your own body betrayed you. That sucks..
He read the message twice.
It wasn't exactly how he'd been thinking about it but somehow... It described the feeling pretty accurately though - there'd been months of rehab schedules, doctor's appointments, strength tests, everyone reminding him to be patient. Patient while his shoulder refused to recover the way he was promised. Patient while his teammates played hockey without him. Patient while he sat on his parents' couch in Vancouver convincing himself he wasn't jealous at all.
"Betrayed" wasn't exactly the word he'd have chosen. Probably because it was too honest.
Yeah... I guess it kind of did.
Well... I'm sorry about that.
Since I accidentally trauma-dumped on a complete stranger...
I feel like I owe you an actual conversation now.
Connor leaned back into the couch. The house was quiet, his parents had gone to bed hours ago, his teammates were halfway across the continent. Most of his friends had lives that didn't revolve around rehab appointments and physical therapy. He also had an early morning tomorrow. He should probably sleep. Instead he smiled.
Deal.
But heads up - if you ask me about my financial five-year plan, I'm ending the conversation.
Her answer popped up before he could even set his phone down.
That's disappointing.
I was just about to convince you to invest everything in crypto.
Connor laughed. Her message caught him completely off guard.
Funny, really. A day that had dragged on forever suddenly didn't feel quite so heavy, all because one person had texted the wrong number. He opened Netflix and spent a minute scrolling until he found the rom-com she'd mentioned in her voice message. Why not? His shoulder still ached, the physio would still be waiting for him in the morning - none of that had magically disappeared but the room didn't feel quite as quiet and lonely anymore. Maybe it was the movie, maybe it was the chat. Or maybe it was the strange thought that, somewhere nearly two thousand miles away in Chicago, a woman he'd never met was probably curled up on her couch with fried chicken, watching the exact same terrible movie as Connor.
The wrong number should've been a one-night mistake. Instead, it quietly became part of his day.
At first it was just a text the next morning.
Hope your shoulder isn't killing you today.
good luck with whatever miserable rehab exercise they're making you do today
Then they started sending random pictures. Connor couldn't remember if that had been an actual decision or if it had simply... happened. Neither of them ever pointed a camera at themselves. It was always something they'd stumbled across during the day. Little moments that would've gone unnoticed if there wasn't someone on the other end worth sending them to.
He sent her Vancouver - a sunset so aggressively orange it looked edited, the paper cup from the coffee shop he'd stopped at after physio or a golden retriever that had insisted on saying hello during one of his afternoon walks.
She sent him Chicago - Lake Michigan looking almost silver before sunrise, the view from outside her apartment when the sky turned an impossible shade of pink or a random photo of a pigeon dragging half a bagel down the sidewalk like it had just won the lottery.
Connor laughed so hard he saved it. He still wasn't sure why that one got him every time - maybe because it was so ridiculous or maybe because he could practically hear her laughing while she took the picture. Maybe both.
Without realising it, checking their conversation became part of his routine. Waiting outside the physio room? He'd glance at his phone to see if she'd replied. Sitting with an ice pack balanced on his shoulder? Somehow he'd end up looking at the bagel pigeon again. After rehab, after workouts, after walks... His thumb found the chat almost automatically.Sometimes there wasn't even a new message. He'd read the last one anyway. Before bed, he'd occasionally scroll all the way back to that first voice message, the one she'd never meant for him to hear.
Somehow it had just become... familiar, like daily checking the weather or locking the front door before going to sleep.
Three weeks passed before Connor noticed something strange - they still hadn't exchanged names. It wasn't even intentional anymore, the conversation had simply wandered around it.
He knew she worked with kids. She knew he was recovering from shoulder surgery. He knew Thursdays always meant coffee from Metric because, according to her, if I survived until Thursday, I've earned a treat.
She knew Vancouver had an unhealthy relationship with rain. He knew she walked almost everywhere because parking in Chicago was "a scam created by the city." He knew mushrooms made her gag on sight, that she owned what she described as "roughly seventeen tote bags and somehow still couldn't find one when she needed it," and that she'd cry over every animal rescue video the internet had to offer.
It was funny how you could know someone's habits, their sense of humour, the way they saw the world and still not know the first thing most people asked.
One afternoon, his phone buzzed.
What do you actually do for work?
He'd known she'd ask eventually. He just hadn't figured out what he was going to say when she did.
Three dots appeared before he'd even locked his phone.
Wow.
What makes you think I'm lying?
I don't know.
You don't seem like an office guy.
He frowned at that. What exactly did an office guy seem like?
She never asked again and somehow that sat worse with him than if she'd kept pushing. Chicago girl trusted him enough to let him keep his secrets and Connor wasn't sure he'd earned that.
By December Connor was back in Chicago. Not completely cleared for games yet, but close. Close enough for practices to feel exciting again instead of frustrating. Close enough that everyone had started talking less about if he'd be back and more about when.
His Chicago apartment finally looked like someone actually lived there again - Lululemon hoodie over the back of a chair, protein shaker in the sink and a pair of sneakers he'd forgotten to put away.
Connor still hadn't told her. Not that he played hockey and not that he'd left Vancouver weeks ago. Every morning he'd decide today was the day. Every night he'd convince himself tomorrow made much more sense.
How were you even supposed to admit something like that?
"Hey... remember when I told you I worked in an office? About that... Funny story." ?!
Yeah, that wasn't exactly a smooth transition.
The text came on a Tuesday afternoon while he was stretching after practice.
Connor picked up his phone before he even realised he'd reached for it. He'd been doing that a lot lately.
A coworker had an extra ticket and dragged me into going to a Blackhawks game tomorrow.
Connor stopped stretching. He read it once. Then again. No chance.
Apparently it's a huge deal.
I've never actually watched hockey before.
Connor bit the inside of his cheek.
You're in for an experience.
I hope so.
Right now all I know is everyone keeps saying, "You HAVE to watch Bedard."
Connor closed his eyes. Oh... No. Before he could think of a reply, another message arrived.
And all I asked was... Is that the curly-haired guy?
A laugh escaped before he could stop it and one of the assistant trainers looked over.
Connor nodded, still staring at his phone.
Honestly, I don't even know why he's famous.
My coworker has the biggest crush on him.
She keeps calling him "the puppy-faced hockey kid."
Connor rubbed a hand over his face. He couldn't decide whether to feel attacked or flattered. Probably a little of both. His phone buzzed again.
She also told me that if I accidentally meet him at the arena, I'm supposed to tell him she loves him and give him her number.
That sounds incredibly embarrassing.
For everyone involved.
Right??
Imagine being that poor guy.
Connor smiled despite himself. If only she knew. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could tell her. Right now. Finally rip the Band-Aid off. Instead, he typed:
Let me know what you think after the game.
I'm curious what hockey looks like through the eyes of someone who's never watched it before.
He hit send and then immediately dropped his head into his hands.
"This is becoming a problem," he muttered.
Because if she liked the game... She was almost definitely going to text him about Connor Bedard. And Connor Bedard was going to have to pretend he was hearing about himself for the very first time. Fuck.
His first game back should've felt different. Instead, it felt almost unsettlingly familiar - same stall in the locker room, same careful way he wrapped the tape around his stick, same order pulling on his gear and same music drifting through the locker-room. Frank was already chirping somebody from the opposite corner before warm-ups had even started and someone else fired back without missing a beat.
It could've been any game from last season and for a second, Connor almost believed it was. Then he rolled his shoulder - there it was, not pain, exactly. Just... awareness, the kind you couldn't ignore once you'd had surgery. Every hit made him check in with himself, every shot came with the same quiet question: "Still good?" It wasn't fear anymore, more like habit at this point, Connor was hoping would fade eventually. Either way, he was learning to skate with it.
When they stepped onto the ice for warm-ups, Connor looked up without really thinking. The United Center stretched out around him, packed wall to wall - thousands of faces. Normally, they blurred together but tonight they didn't. Because somewhere in that crowd tonight... She was here.
He'd known she was coming ever since she'd texted him about the ticket. Still, it hadn't felt completely real until now. His skates slowed for half a second.
Somewhere above him was the girl who'd once sent him fourteen messages in a row because she'd spotted a one-legged duck in Millennium Park and urgently needed to know whether ducks could, in fact, live perfectly happy lives with one leg. The girl who firmly believed different pasta shapes tasted different and who bought herself special coffee every Thursday because, "if she survived until Thursday, she has earned a treat".
Maybe she was wearing a borrowed Blackhawks jersey, maybe she'd already decided hockey made no sense, maybe she'd bought overpriced chicken tenders and was silently judging everyone around her for willingly paying arena prices or maybe she was explaining to her coworker why she still thought the mascot looked vaguely unsettling.
Connor smiled to himself. Then another thought hit him. He had absolutely no idea who she was. Not in a crowd like this. He'd never seen her and never asked for a picture. She'd never asked for one either, to be fair. Blonde? Brunette? Curly hair or straight? Did she wear glasses? Was she taller or shorter than him? Would she be impossible to miss or the kind of person you'd accidentally walk past every day without realising?
Nothing. He had absolutely nothing.
And somehow... He also knew she'd get headaches under fluorescent office lights. He knew she'd walk half an hour before waiting ten minutes for a bus because waiting annoyed her more than walking. He knew she'd order whatever ridiculous seasonal drink Metric invented instead of a regular latte because, according to her, "What's the point of going to a coffee shop if you're just going to be boring?" He knew she'd cry over every old dog she met.
Funny, these were the things that stuck. He didn't know the colour of her eyes but he knew how she saw the world. And for some reason, that felt bigger.
The referee's whistle cut through the arena. Connor shook the thought away. It was time to play hockey.
Chicago won. Connor scored once and picked up an assist late in the third. Nothing spectacular and no highlight-reel goal - just a good, solid first game back. Exactly what he'd hoped for, if he was being completely honest.
Back in the locker room, his phone lit up almost immediately with the congratulations from the family and friends. And buried between them - his Chicago Girl.
Connor opened that conversation first.
He smiled and another message appeared before he could answer.
I still don't understand icing.
The curly-haired guy was actually really good.
Connor rubbed a hand over his face. He supposed there were worse descriptions. Also his hair was not THAT curly.
Another message came through.
Apparently it was his first game back after shoulder surgery?
Connor's thumb stopped moving.
That must've been...
I don't know.
Kind of terrifying?
He stared at the screen and another blue bubble appeared.
Coming back after months away knowing everyone expects you to be exactly the same... Or even better than before?
Connor read it once. Then again. He hadn't told her any of that and yet somehow she'd still landed right on it.
He let out a slow breath. Because... Yeah, he had been. Not of getting hit. More of that first mistake, the first missed pass, the first shot that didn't feel quite right and the first headline asking whether he'd come back too soon or whether his golden era is really over.
Nobody ever says those things out loud, but they're there, constantly lingering somewhere in the back of your head.
He's probably just happy to be back.
I hope somebody told him he didn't have to prove anything tonight.
Connor looked at the message for a long time. His shoulder ached slightly and his body was exhausted. The room around him buzzed with postgame conversations he barely heard. Nobody had really said that. The coaches had talked about play-off chances and managing expectations, reporters had talked about recovery timelines and fans had talked about points. But nobody had looked at him and simply said: You don't have to prove you're still you.
Connor wasn't sure he'd realised he'd needed to hear it until now. His fingers rested on the keyboard, then he started typing. Stopped. Deleted the sentence. Tried again.
That's an incredibly nice thing to say. I'm sure he'd appreciate hearing that.
He hit send before he could overthink it and then he locked his phone. About thirty seconds later, he impatiently unlocked it again, just to see if she'd replied. She hadn't.
Connor laughed quietly to himself. Somewhere between the wrong number, the pigeon wearing a bagel and months of ordinary conversations, checking that chat had become as automatic as untying his skates after a game.
He wasn't quite sure when exactly that had happened or why. He only knew that, after nights like this, her messages were the first thing he looked for.
The next morning Frank walked into the practice facility with two coffees balanced in one hand. Connor barely noticed him because he was staring at his phone. Again.
Frank followed his line of sight, then smirked.
"Who keeps making you smile at your phone?"
Frank took one look at him.
Connor instinctively wiped a hand across his face.
Frank dropped into the chair beside him and handed over one of the coffees.
"So." He waited. "Who's the girl?"
Connor stared at the lid of his cup for a second.
"Literally a wrong number."
Connor expected Frank to laugh but instead, he just looked genuinely confused. Connor sighed and started explaining. Not everything, though. Some things still felt strangely private, even if they totally weren't. But he explained just enough - the accidental text, her voice message about the terrible Tinder date, the photos, the pigeon, yesterday's game and the fact that she'd unknowingly talked about him... to him.
By the time Connor finished, Frank hadn't touched his coffee, he was just staring.
"You've been texting this girl for..." Frank paused, doing the math in his head. "...What? Almost three months now?"
"And she still has absolutely no clue she's talking to Connor Bedard?"
Frank leaned back in his chair and didn't say anything for a few seconds.
"I was kind of hoping it would somehow solve itself."
Frank laughed so hard coffee nearly sloshed over the edge of his cup.
"No." He pointed across the table. "Absolutely not."
Connor couldn't help smiling.
"No, I don't think you do." Frank shook his head. "You've somehow managed to create the world's dumbest lie, my friend."
"It wasn't supposed to become... all this."
"How? I don't even know what she looks like."
"You told me she goes to Metric."
"Every Thursday at least."
"And she orders whatever weird seasonal drink they invent."
"So maybe - and I'm re-e-eally just brainstorming here - you go to Metric this Thursday."
"I don't know." Frank leaned forward. "Maybe buy yourself a fucking fancy coffee, Bedsy?"
Connor had been nervous before - before the draft, before moving to Chicago all on his own, before his first NHL game... Those had all been hockey. He knew hockey. And this? This felt different. This was walking into a coffee shop hoping to recognise someone he'd never actually seen. Objectively... That's textbook definition of insane.
The bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside Metric. The familiar smell of espresso and fresh pastries hit him immediately. For a second, it almost made him laugh. He knew this place because she'd complained about the music once and because she'd declared their peach buns "criminally underrated." Because every Thursday she'd text him some variation of: Thursday coffee check or I'm emotionally prepared to answer emails now.
Connor joined the short line.
Okay. Think. What exactly was the strategy here? Walk up to random women and ask if they'd accidentally sent him a voice message about an awful Tinder date three months ago?
He glanced toward the pickup counter - someone just grabbed an oat milk latte. Not her. A man in a suit picked up a cappuccino. Definitely not her. A college student hurried out carrying three drinks. Nope.
Connor checked his phone without thinking. No new messages. He locked it again only for him to look at it anyway thirty seconds later. Still nothing.
The barista called another order.
"Everything Nice cappuccino with juniper, black pepper, bay leaf... and a rosemary scone!"
Connor's head snapped up. His pulse kicked hard enough that he actually felt it. He knew that order. She'd spent last week ten full minutes trying to convince him it sounded disgusting - "bay leaf belongs in soup not in cappuccino". Then she'd tried it anyway last Thursday and immediately texted:
I hate that it's incredible.
Someone stepped toward the counter to grab the order. Connor couldn't see her face. Not yet. Just an oversized forest-green sweater, a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, over-ear headphones resting around her neck. Brown hair with lighter highlights, loose waves brushing the middle of her back. She thanked the barista with a smile he could only catch from the side before reaching for her coffee.
Connor forgot he was supposed to be ordering - he just stood there for a moment. It was strange. For months, she'd existed as a voice and a stream of messages. He'd built an image of her without ever meaning to. Now she was suddenly... real. Close enough that if she turned around, she'd probably bump into him.
His hands felt unexpectedly cold. He'd imagined this moment more times than he wanted to admit - sometimes in his fantasies she'd recognise him immediately, sometimes she'd laugh, sometimes she'd be annoyed he'd waited so long to tell her. He'd never imagined the possibility that he'd simply freeze. Because now that she was actually here...
Connor realised he had absolutely no idea how you introduced yourself to someone who already knew real you, just not the actual version standing in front of them.
She reached for her coffee at the exact moment Connor stepped out of line. They collided shoulder first, the cup tipped and a wave of cappuccino sloshed over the lid.
Connor caught it before it hit the floor.
"No, that was completely my- "
They both looked up and everything else seemed to pause. She blinked once. Then again.
Connor had spent months imagining this moment but somehow he'd never pictured this.
There it was - recognition.
"You're..." She pointed before immediately dropping her hand. "You play for the Blackhawks."
Connor smiled, suddenly feeling about sixteen years old again.
She laughed, almost to herself.
"Well... fun fact." She lifted her coffee a little. "I watched you play earlier this week."
The words escaped before his brain had a chance to stop them. Connor closed his eyes for half a second. Seriously, dude? Way to sound like a creep.
He pointed vaguely toward the arena somewhere outside, as if it might rescue him.
"Because..." He winced."...you just told me you were there."
A beat. Then she laughed.
"That would've been a little creepy otherwise."
Smooth. Absolutely nailed that.
"I think this belongs to you."
There was a brief silence and her eyes drifted to his shoulder.
Connor looked back at her.
"You played really well."
He wasn't expecting that.
"You coming back after surgery..." She shrugged. "I can't even imagine what that felt like."
Connor smiled, quieter this time.
That was it - no phone held out for a selfie, no autograph, no awkward lie about being a lifelong fan. Just soft... You're welcome. Strangely, that landed harder than any compliment he'd gotten all week.
She adjusted the tote bag slipping off her shoulder.
"Well... I should probably get to work."
He nodded and she smiled once more.
"I hope your shoulder keeps behaving."
Then she turned. One step. Two. Three.
Connor watched her walk toward the door. She pushed it open and crispy December air spilled into the café. Suddenly the whole situation hit him with embarrassing clarity.
If he let her leave now... That was it - she'd go to work. Later tonight she'd probably text the stranger from Vancouver about the weird coincidence of accidentally bumping into Connor Bedard at Metric. He'd answer and pretend not to know exactly how she'd spilled her coffee, pretend they'd never stood five feet apart, pretend he hadn't just watched her walk away.
He couldn't do that. Not anymore.
Connor caught up to her outside. Fulton Street was already busy. People hurried past carrying coffees, headphones in, collars pulled up against the cold.
He had absolutely no plan beyond getting her to stop walking.
The word came out before he'd decided to say it.
She stopped and turned around.
"...This is going to sound really weird."
"I'll admit, that's not usually how people start conversations with me."
Connor rubbed the back of his neck.
Come on, Bedard. You can face NHL arenas, you can say one sentence.
"I'm pretty sure you don't."
"No." He laughed at himself. "You're right."
Fantastic. Excellent start.
Now she looked intrigued.
"I know your coffee order."
A wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows.
"I know Thursdays are your favorite workday because you always stop at Metric."
"I know you hate mushrooms. And I know you once sent fourteen messages because you found a duck with one leg and needed someone to tell you it'd be okay."
"And I know you still insist fusilli tastes better than penne. Which is still not true, by the way."
Suddenly she wasn't smiling anymore. She was trying to figure out where on earth they could possibly know each other from.
"About three months ago..." He glanced down at the sidewalk before looking back at her. "...you accidentally texted the wrong number."
He watched the memory slowly begin to surface.
"You were on your way here."
"Then you sent a voice message after a really terrible Tinder date."
"So bad that you decided fried chicken and a rom-com were the only reasonable way to end the night."
"You said if one more guy spent forty-five minutes talking about crypto you were driving into Lake Michigan."
Her mouth slowly fell open and barely audible oh no slipped out of her lips. Connor nodded.
"I was the wrong number."
For several seconds she just looked at him, as if her brain was refusing to let the pieces fit together.
She laughed once, not because it was funny but because what else do you do when reality suddenly decides to rearrange itself?
"But you are in Vancouver."
"...I was." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I just... left out the part where I actually lived here most of the year."
"Oh my God." A hand flew to her mouth.
"I complained about my entire dating life..." She pointed at him. "...to Connor Bedard?"
"I mean..." A sheepish grin crept onto his face. "Technically."
She stared and then something clicked.
"You told me you worked with a team."
"You said you traveled a lot."
"You somehow forgot to mention the team was the Chicago Blackhawks."
"That one..." He sighed. "...was a pretty significant omission."
"A pretty significant omission?" She folded her arms. "I'd call that a gigantic omission."
"I wasn't trying to lie on purpose."
She gave him a look and Connor corrected himself.
"I was trying very hard not to answer the question."
"That's just lying with extra steps."
She shook her head, laughing too now.
"I cannot believe this. I've been sending Connor Bedard pictures of pigeons."
"And argued with Connor Bedard about pasta."
"I told Connor Bedard about every terrible date I've ever been on."
"They were.... terrible indeed."
She covered her face with both hands.
"I need to leave Chicago."
"I don't think that's necessary."
Her voice came muffled through her fingers.
"I have to think about every message I've ever sent you."
"You know that I've read them all already, right?."
"Oh, that's somehow worse."
"...You really should've told me."
Connor thought about it, bit longer than he expected.
"At first..." He shrugged. "I wanted just one conversation where nobody knew who I was."
"Every day I waited, it felt more awkward." He laughed quietly. "I kept thinking I'd find the perfect moment."
She studied him for a second, then smiled. Softly this time.
For a moment, neither of them said anything and they just stood there. It probably should've felt awkward but instead, it felt... unfamiliar? Connor had spent months building a person out of messages, voice notes, blurry photos of dogs and coffee cups and completely unnecessary debates about pasta. And now she was standing right in front of him - completely real.
He'd wondered about ridiculous things - whether she was tall enough to have to reach for the top shelf, whether her hair was dark or blonde and whether she laughed the same way she did in voice notes. She actually did, only louder. And she talked with her hands exactly as much as he'd imagined. Every sentence came with a gesture, as if the words alone weren't quite enough.
He found himself noticing tiny things he'd never have thought to ask - the way she scrunched her nose right before she laughed, the way she looked away for half a second whenever she was embarrassed or the little pause she took before saying something honest.
Months of knowing someone in fragments... and then watching all those puzzle pieces click into place at once. Reality wasn't what he'd imagined, it was better.
"You know what's kind of weird?" she said eventually.
"I already know what cereal you usually buy."
"And I know you can't sleep if one foot gets too warm."
"I really wish I'd kept some things to myself."
"You voluntarily admitted that you stick one leg out of the blankets if it gets too warm."
"I trusted you with that information."
"And I've protected it." She held up a hand. "I swear I haven't told a soul."
"I appreciate your discretion."
She took another sip of her coffee and then looked down at the cup, turning it slowly between her hands.
"I guess we're technically not wrong numbers anymore."
Another comfortable silence settled between them. She pulled out her phone.
"Okay. Give me your number."
"...But you already have it."
She turned the screen toward him. His contact still read: Random guy from Vancouver
He took her phone and changed the contact to Connor. He hesitated for a second before handing it back. She looked at the screen.
"So... I finally know your name."
"Not officially, guy from Vancouver."
She slipped her phone into her coat pocket and Connor shoved his hands into his own.
There was something he'd been thinking about for weeks. Actually... Maybe longer than that. Definitely long before he knew what she looked like. He cleared his throat.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Whether it's about crypto."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"I never actually got to finish helping you."
"With your terrible dating streak."
Recognition spread across her face.
"Oh." She laughed. "I think that ship sailed about three months ago."
"Maybe." Connor looked down at the sidewalk because suddenly it seemed very interesting. "...Or maybe it just took me three months to realise I wanted to volunteer as the replacement."
That sounded ridiculous. He almost wanted to take it back but instead he looked up again.
"So..." He smiled, a little nervously. "If you're willing... I'd like your next first date to be with me."
She didn't answer right away and just looked at him. Not Connor Bedard. Just Connor, the guy who'd listened to an accidental voice message instead of deleting it, who remembered her coffee order, worried when she got quiet and always sent pictures of dogs because he knew she'd smile.
She'd liked him long before she'd known who he was. Finding out hadn't really changed anything. If anything... It explained why he'd always been so weirdly humble every time she complained about hockey interviews.
A smile slowly spread across her face.
"I was starting to wonder how long this was going to take."
"You were standing outside my favorite coffee shop at eight in the morning."
"...I like good espresso."
"You hate getting up before nine unless someone physically makes you."
"You complain about mornings constantly."
"And then you chased me halfway down Fulton Street."
"I wouldn't say halfway."
"So I figured there were only two possibilities - you were either about to confess something..." She smiled. "...or you were secretly trying to recruit me into spy activities."
"I thought I was being subtle."
"You've hidden your job for three months." She tilted her head. "But subtle? Not your strongest quality."
He couldn't argue with that.
She stepped a little closer, so their sleeves brushed.
"I'd love to go on a date with you."
Connor hadn't realised how tense he'd been until that moment. The breath left him in one long exhale.
"Good. I had absolutely no backup plan if you said no."
She nudged his shoulder gently.
"You could've just asked me over text."
Connor looked at her for a second and answered honestly.
"I spent months wondering what you looked like when you laughed."
"I wondered if your smile sounded the way it did in your voice notes." He smiled to himself. "Turns out it does."
A faint blush crept across her face.
"And..." He shrugged. "I didn't want our first real hello to happen on a screen."
For a second she didn't say anything. Then she reached for his hand, as if she she'd already done it a hundred times. Their fingers slipped together with an ease that surprised them both.
Funny, he thought. Everyone would probably say this was the beginning. It didn't feel like one.
It felt like two people who'd been slowly finding each other for months... finally ending up in the same place.
