Hi! Was wondering if you would write a Nathan Mackinnon x Crosby sister reader?
Maybe it starts as friends bc she spends the summers with Sid in Nova Scotia and then it turns into more and they get caught at the Olympics or something?
Finally Yours
A/N: The way I actually reached flow state spending the last couple hours writing this. BUT OMFG this is my new fav fanfic ive ever made! Thank you anon for this amazing submission!! <33
Nathan Mackinnon x Crosby sister!reader
Word count: 7340 (longest one to date!)
NHL Masterlist
You’re nine the first time Nathan MacKinnon talks to you.
The rink in Cole Harbour is louder than usual because your brother is playing, and when Sidney plays, people show up. Parents crowd the glass. Kids lean forward in their seats. Grown men argue about plays like it’s Game 7 of the Stanley Cup instead of junior hockey.
You’ve grown up in that noise.
To you, it’s normal. The way your brother’s name carries across the stands. The way coaches shake his hand a little longer than necessary. The way strangers already look at him like he belongs somewhere bigger.
You sit cross-legged on the cold metal bleachers, chewing the string of your hoodie, bored out of your mind.
That’s when you notice him.
A boy your age stands near the glass, hands pressed flat against it like he’s trying to absorb the game through sheer will. Blonde hair sticks out from under his helmet, almost white under the rink lights. Blue eyes locked on the ice. He doesn’t blink when Sidney picks up the puck.
And Sidney does pick up the puck. He flies. Cuts through defenders. Shifts left. Snaps it top shelf.
The place erupts.
The boy doesn’t cheer right away. He just stares at the ice like he’s memorizing it. You don’t know why, but you notice him noticing.
After the game, you head toward the hallway that leads to the locker rooms. You’re waiting for Sid so you can steal his Gatorade and tell him Mom said you have to leave soon.
The blonde boy is suddenly there, up close, he looks your age. Maybe a few months older. Maybe not. His cheeks are flushed from the cold air inside the rink.
He looks at your hoodie, then at your face. “You’re Crosby’s sister,” he says. Not asking.
You shrug. “Yeah.”
His eyes widen like that’s unbelievable.
“That was insane,” he says quickly. “That goal in the third period? The one where he cut across the slot and—”
“He does that all the time,” you interrupt.
He blinks. “All the time?”
“In our driveway. He’s broken like three garage lights.”
The boy looks personally offended by your lack of awe.
“He’s really good,” he insists.
“I know.”
There’s a beat.
“I’m Nathan,” he says, sticking his hand out like this is very official.
You look at it, then shake it. “Okay.”
He frowns slightly. “Okay?”
“Nice to meet you.”
Behind you, the locker room door opens and Sidney steps out, hair damp, grin wide.
“There she is,” he says, ruffling your hair.
Nathan watches that interaction like it’s sacred.
You roll your eyes.
“He’s just my brother,” you say.
Nathan looks at you like that’s impossible.
That’s the beginning.
—
The second time you see him, it’s on your street.
You’re outside with a stick that’s too big for you, trying to practice shooting at the garage door before Sidney gets home and takes over the driveway.
A puck rolls toward you.
You look up.
Nathan stands at the end of the driveway, blonde hair messy from the wind, stick resting against his shoulder.
“Want to play?” he asks.
You hesitate for half a second, then you nod.
Street hockey becomes your thing.
You play until the sun dips low and the mosquitoes come out. You argue about imaginary penalties. You take turns pretending to be commentators.
Sometimes he pretends he’s Sidney. You pretend you don’t notice that he never lets you pretend to be anyone else.
“You’re just you,” he says once when you jokingly call yourself “Sidney 2.0.”
He says it like that’s better.
Summers blur together.
Nathan starts coming around more often. Sometimes with his parents. Sometimes alone.
He and Sidney talk hockey endlessly, but Nathan always drifts back toward you.
You sit on the curb with freezies melting down your fingers while the boys argue about drills.
“You don’t even care, do you?” he asks one afternoon.
“About what?”
“Hockey.”
You think about it.
“I care about you caring,” you say honestly.
He doesn’t know what to do with that.
—
When Sidney gets drafted in 2005, you’re ten. The house is chaos. Phones ring nonstop. Neighbors bring casseroles. Cameras flash in your driveway.
You stand in the living room watching the TV as your brother’s name is called.
First overall.
The room explodes.
Your parents cry. Sidney laughs like he can’t believe it. You smile so hard your cheeks hurt.
Later, when the house empties and the adrenaline fades, you slip outside. Nathan is sitting on the curb at the end of your driveway. He stands the second he sees you.
“He did it,” he says, breathless like he played too.
“Yeah.” You sit beside him.
“He’s gonna leave,” you say quietly.
Nathan nods. “Yeah.”
You don’t cry. But your throat feels tight anyway.
“He’ll still come back in the summers,” Nathan says.
You look at him. “You think?”
“Nova Scotia’s home,” he says like it’s a fact.
You don’t know it yet, but so is he.
—
Sidney leaves for the U.S. The house feels quieter. The driveway emptier.
Nathan still comes over. More now.
You’re twelve when you realize he isn’t just “the kid who idolizes your brother.”
He’s your best friend.
You sit on the dock one evening, feet dangling over the water. He’s taller now. Limbs longer. Blonde hair sun-bleached almost white by July.
“You ever think about leaving?” you ask.
“For hockey?” he says immediately.
“Yeah.”
“All the time.”
You swallow.
“And you’d go?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
You nod slowly.
“And you’d come back?”
He studies you for a second.
“Of course.”
He says it like it’s obvious.
Teenage years creep in quietly.
By fourteen, he’s all sharp edges and sunburned shoulders. When he laughs, it’s louder. When he skates, it’s faster. When he looks at you, it lingers.
He still plays in your driveway, but now when you bump into each other, neither of you move away immediately.
Sidney comes home one summer already an NHL name. People follow him around town. Nathan pretends he’s unaffected, but sometimes you catch him watching your brother the same way he did at nine years old. That fire never left.
One night, you’re fifteen, sitting on the beach after a bonfire dies down. Sidney’s heading back to the States soon, the air feels heavy with it.
Nathan sits beside you, shoulders brushing.
“You’re gonna make it,” you say suddenly.
He huffs. “You sound like my coach.”
“No,” you say, turning toward him. “I mean it.”
Moonlight catches in his blonde hair, turning it almost silver against the dark water. He looks older like this. Broader. Less like the boy who used to press his hands against rink glass.
“And when you do,” you continue, “don’t forget this place.”
His eyes soften.
“I won’t.”
The wind shifts.
Your knees touch.
Neither of you move.
“You’ve changed,” he says quietly.
“So have you.”
He studies you differently now.
Not like Sidney’s sister.
Not just like his best friend.
Like something else.
“You still think he’s just your brother?” he asks softly.
You smile.
“Yeah.”
He leans closer.
“And what am I?”
Your breath catches.
You don’t answer.
Because you don’t know yet.
But you’re starting to.
And so is he.
The future feels closer now. Bigger. Brighter.
And somewhere between driveway games and draft nights and dock talks, something has shifted.
Neither of you say it.
But it’s there.
Growing.
—
You are seventeen the summer Nathan gets drafted, and for the first time since you were nine years old, you feel like you are standing at the edge of something you cannot follow him into.
He comes over the night before he leaves for New Jersey, dressed casually but carrying the kind of tension that vibrates under his skin. You’ve known him long enough to recognize the signs. When he’s nervous, he doesn’t pace anymore like he did when he was younger. Now he grows still. Quieter. Focused in a way that feels almost sharpened.
You’re sitting on the back steps of your house in Cole Harbour when he walks around the side yard. The air smells like salt and cut grass. It feels like every other summer evening you’ve ever spent together, except it isn’t.
“You’re coming,” he says, as if it’s already settled.
It takes you a moment to answer. You’ve been rehearsing this in your head for days, ever since he first mentioned it. Ever since his mom texted yours about flights and hotel rooms and how exciting it would be to have everyone there.
“I don’t think I should,” you say carefully.
His expression doesn’t change right away, but you can see the shift in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
You clasp your hands together in your lap. “It’s your draft, Nate. Your moment.”
He steps closer, folding his arms across his chest. “You’ve been there for every other moment.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Because it’s going to be on television. Because your last name will be said. Because reporters will look for connections. Because somehow, even when you try not to, things circle back to your brother.
“There are going to be cameras,” you say instead. “Reporters. They’re already going to talk about Sid. If I’m there, it’s just going to be about that too.”
He studies you, and for a second you think he might argue harder. You expect him to tell you that you matter more than headlines or questions or comparisons. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he nods once. “Okay.”
It’s too controlled. Too measured, and that’s what hurts.
Draft night arrives anyway.
You sit on the living room floor with your parents, your phone clutched in your hand. Sidney is away training but texting constantly, pretending he isn’t as invested as he clearly is. The television volume is too loud, and your heart feels like it’s trying to climb out of your chest.
When his name is called—when Colorado announces they’ve selected Nathan MacKinnon—you’re on your feet before you even realize you’ve stood up. You scream so loudly your mom laughs through her tears.
He looks stunned walking across that stage. Younger than he does on the ice. Human. You don’t wait for interviews. You don’t wait for the broadcast to move on. You call him immediately.
It rings once before he answers.
“Hey,” he starts, but you don’t let him finish.
“You did it!” you shout, your voice cracking. “You’re going to Colorado. Nate, you did it.”
He laughs, breathless and disbelieving. You can hear the noise in the background—family, media, movement—but when he speaks again, it’s softer.
“You’re the first call,” he says.
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. “Good,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
There are a thousand things you don’t say in that moment. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I had been. I’ve never been prouder of anyone in my life. Instead, you ask about the suit he chose and whether he tripped walking up the steps. He laughs again, and it sounds like relief.
Colorado feels impossibly far that first year.
You try to pretend it doesn’t. You text constantly. You FaceTime when schedules align. He sends you photos of the mountains from the team bus and complains about altitude like it personally offended him. You send him videos of the ocean, of waves crashing against the same shore you’ve both known since you were children.
But something about the distance makes you restless. You’ve always followed his life from close range—driveways, docks, bonfires, bleachers. Now you watch it through a screen.
By the middle of his rookie season, you’ve already made up your mind.
You don’t tell him at first.
You apply to a university in Colorado quietly. You research programs. You read course catalogs at night. You start thinking about what you want—not in relation to Sidney, not in relation to Nathan, but for yourself.
Sports medicine catches your attention almost immediately.
You’ve grown up around hockey your entire life. You’ve watched injuries, rehabs, taped ankles, ice packs pressed to shoulders. You’ve listened to conversations about conditioning and recovery and performance like background noise. It’s never intimidated you.
It feels… familiar.
When the acceptance email arrives, you stare at your screen for a long time before it feels real. You call your parents first, then Sidney, you save Nathan for last.
He answers on the third ring.
“What’s up?” he asks, sounding tired in that way he only does after practice.
“I got in,” you say.
“Got in where?”
“To Colorado.”
There’s a pause.
“A visit?” he asks carefully.
“No,” you say, smiling even though he can’t see it. “For school.”
The silence stretches longer this time.
Then, “You’re kidding.”
“I’m majoring in sports medicine,” you continue, nerves creeping in now that it’s out loud. “I want to work with teams. Maybe become an athletic trainer. Or a medic.”
He exhales slowly, and you can hear something in it—surprise, yes. But also something warmer.
“You’re moving here?” he asks.
“If you don’t want me to—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in quickly. “Don’t even start that.”
You smile.
“That’s… that’s incredible,” he says, voice steadier now. “You’re incredible.”
It’s the way he says it that makes your stomach flip.
—
Moving to Colorado doesn’t feel like running toward him. It feels like running toward yourself, but that doesn’t stop the first few weeks from being overwhelming.
The campus is larger than anything you’re used to. The air is thinner. The mountains loom in the distance like something unreal.
Nathan helps you move into your dorm. He carries boxes up the stairs without complaining, even after morning practice. He assembles your desk. He makes a joke about how he could’ve gone into furniture construction if hockey didn’t work out.
When you’re finally alone in your new room, you look at him and feel something unfamiliar settle in your chest. He’s not visiting, he’s not leaving tomorrow, you’re here now.
The first time you go to his apartment is casual.
“Come over,” he says one afternoon. “You can do homework here if you want.”
You hesitate for half a second, then grab your backpack.
His apartment is clean in that deliberate way of someone who doesn’t want to admit they tried. Hockey equipment is neatly stacked in a corner. There’s a faint smell of laundry detergent and something sharper—like the cold air that clings to him after the rink.
You sit at his kitchen table with textbooks spread out, highlighting anatomy diagrams while he gets ready for practice.
“You’re actually into this stuff?” he asks, glancing at your open notes.
“Yes,” you reply without looking up. “Some of us like knowing how bodies work.”
He snorts.
“You’re smarter than me.”
You look at him then. “You calculate angles and speeds in your head at full speed on ice. Don’t do that.”
He shrugs. “Still. You’re impressive.”
The word lands differently than it should. After he leaves for practice, you stay. You finish your assignment. You make yourself tea. You wait.
When he comes home, exhausted and flushed from the cold, he drops his bag near the door and immediately walks into the kitchen.
“You’re still here,” he says.
“Should I not be?”
“No. I just—” He stops, then smiles slightly. “I like it.”
You pretend not to hear the weight in that sentence.
—
The first season you’re in Colorado, you attend more games than you can count.
You sit in the stands with a notebook sometimes, observing how trainers move. How they tape wrists. How they check players after collisions. You ask questions when you can. You introduce yourself carefully, never leading with your last name.
Nathan notices.
“You don’t have to hide who you are,” he tells you once as you walk back to his car after a game.
“I’m not hiding,” you reply. “I just don’t want it to be the first thing people know.”
He nods slowly.
“I get that.”
Your second year feels steadier.
You spend more evenings at his apartment than your dorm. Not because you plan it that way, but because it becomes natural. You spread out on his couch with flashcards while he watches game footage. Sometimes you quiz each other—he tests you on muscle groups; you test him on opposing teams’ line combinations.
There’s an ease to it that scares you sometimes, because it feels like something you could get used to. One night during your third year, you fall asleep at his place.
It’s late. He got back from a road trip that morning, and you came over after class to bring him notes you’d printed about a minor ankle sprain he mentioned.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, explaining ligament recovery timelines, when you notice his eyes drifting closed.
“You’re exhausted,” you say softly.
“So are you,” he counters.
You laugh lightly. “I had a midterm.”
He shifts closer, resting his head against the back cushion. Without thinking, you let your shoulder brush his. The contact is simple. Harmless even, but neither of you move away.
When you wake up later, it’s dark outside, you’re still on the couch, and his hand is resting loosely over yours. Not gripping, not intentional, just there.
You stare at it for a long time before gently sliding your fingers out from under his. He doesn’t wake and you’re grateful, because you don’t know what you would’ve done if he had.
—
Your fourth year arrives faster than you expect. Internships. Clinical hours. Late nights studying. He’s in his prime now—faster, stronger, louder in interviews. There are rumors of playoff pushes and long-term contracts. But in private, he still asks you about exams.
He still lets you tape his wrist when it aches. He still watches you with that quiet focus he’s had since he was nine years old.
One evening, you’re sitting at his kitchen table again, textbooks open, when he walks in after practice and stops in the doorway.
“What?” you ask, noticing the way he’s staring.
“Nothing,” he replies. “Just… you’ve built something.”
You blink. “So have you.”
He steps closer, leaning his hands on the table across from you.
“I mean it,” he says. “You did this on your own.”
The words mean more than you expect. For a moment, neither of you speak, the air feels thick with everything unsaid. You both know. You’ve known for years, but neither of you crosses the line, because crossing it would change everything.
Instead, he straightens and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge.
“You staying for dinner?” he asks casually.
“Yeah,” you answer just as casually.
And the moment passes.
—
By the time you graduate, the four years have blurred into something that feels like an entire lifetime. You’ve grown, so has he. But somehow, the space between you remains suspended—charged but untouched.
One night, sitting on his balcony overlooking the city lights, he looks at you for a long time before speaking.
“You ever wonder what we are?” he asks quietly.
Your heart stutters.
“All the time,” you admit.
He nods, like that’s enough.
Neither of you push further.
The mountains stand tall in the distance and for now, that’s where it stays.
Unspoken.
Uncrossed.
Growing.
---
You don’t expect graduation to feel emotional.
You’ve spent four years building something for yourself—late nights studying anatomy, long clinical rotations, hours shadowing trainers, balancing classes with games and internships. You’ve made your own name in a place that never knew you as Sidney Crosby’s sister.
But when you walk across that stage in Colorado, cap pinned too tightly into your hair, you feel the weight of everything it took to get there.
Your parents fly in. Sidney sends flowers with an over-the-top note about finally being able to say he has a doctor in the family. And Nathan is there, sitting in the crowd in a button-down shirt that fits him a little too well.
When your name is called, you don’t look at your family first. You look at him. He’s already standing, clapping, expression softer than you’ve ever seen it in an arena.
Afterward, when the crowd disperses and everyone spills into the parking lot in a sea of black gowns and camera flashes, your mom pulls you into a tight hug. She cries. Of course she does.
Then she turns to Nathan.
“You two look so cute together,” she says casually, like she’s commenting on the weather.
You freeze.
Nathan laughs politely, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve known each other forever.”
“That’s how it starts,” your mom replies knowingly.
You feel heat rise to your face. “Mom.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “I’m just saying.”
Nathan humors her, smiling in that charming, easy way he’s perfected in front of cameras and reporters. But when your mom walks away, he doesn’t meet your eyes.
He pretends it’s a joke.
You pretend it doesn’t echo.
—
You don’t slow down after graduation.
Medical school applications, interviews, planning the next step toward becoming a team physician—it all comes at once. You’ve already decided you want to stay in Colorado for now. It makes sense professionally. The Avalanche organization has been familiar for years. You’ve built relationships.
Nathan offers to make a call before you even ask.
“I can talk to someone,” he says one evening while you’re sitting at his kitchen table, scrolling through emails.
“You don’t have to,” you reply.
“I want to.” And he does.
It’s not dramatic. Not some grand gesture. Just a quiet word with someone in the organization, vouching for your work ethic, your knowledge, your commitment.
You land a part-time position with the Avalanche training staff while continuing your studies.
The first day you walk into Ball Arena wearing team-issued gear, you feel a strange mixture of pride and nerves.
This is different now, you aren’t in the stands, you’re part of it.
Nathan notices immediately.
He’s stretching near the boards when you step onto the ice level, clipboard in hand. His eyes flicker toward you, and for a split second he forgets whatever drill he’s about to start.
“You look official,” he says later in the hallway.
“You look sweaty,” you reply lightly.
He grins.
But there’s something else in his expression. Something almost… careful.
You tape wrists. You carry water. You assist during minor evaluations. You observe quietly and learn constantly. You keep your professionalism intact, even when he tries to linger near your station longer than necessary.
“You don’t have to hover,” you murmur once when he’s pretending to retie his skate for the third time.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re absolutely hovering.”
He smirks but doesn’t move.
Working around him changes the dynamic in small ways. You see the intensity up close. The discipline. The exhaustion after back-to-back road trips. The way he pushes through soreness without complaint.
Sometimes, after late practices, you end up back at his apartment like you always have, only now you’re both more tired…more grown.
One night, you’re icing his shoulder after a particularly rough game. He sits on the couch, shirt half-off, muscles tight beneath your hands as you secure the pack in place.
“You’re good at this,” he says quietly.
“I should be. It’s my job.”
“I mean… you care.”
You glance up at him.
“So do you.”
His eyes linger on yours for half a second too long before he looks away.
Neither of you comment on it.
—
By early 2020, you’ve fallen into a rhythm.
You’re balancing coursework for medical school, clinical hours, and part-time work with the Avalanche. Nathan is playing some of the best hockey of his career. The team feels strong. The city feels alive.
Then everything stops.
The news shifts gradually at first. Murmurs about a virus. Precautions. Travel restrictions. Then suddenly, the league suspends the season.
You’re at his apartment when the announcement comes.
He’s staring at his phone, scrolling through updates. You’re sitting at the table with lecture notes spread out, half-paying attention until you notice the silence stretch.
“They’re shutting it down,” he says finally.
“For how long?”
“No one knows.”
The uncertainty settles heavy in the room.
Practices are canceled. Facilities close. The city grows quiet in a way that feels unnatural.
You move back to your own apartment at first. It seems practical, but three days into lockdown, he calls you.
“You should come here,” he says.
You hesitate. “Nathan—”
“Not because,” he interrupts quickly. “Not like that.”
You smile slightly at the defensiveness in his tone.
“It just makes sense,” he continues. “We’re both being careful. You’re already around the team. If we’re going to quarantine, we might as well not do it alone.”
There’s logic in it.
But there’s something else too.
“Okay,” you say.
You pack a suitcase that afternoon.
—
Quarantining together is… different.
The world outside shrinks to news headlines and empty streets. Inside his apartment, life becomes small and quiet.
You set up a workspace at his dining table. He turns the living room into a makeshift training zone with resistance bands and weights. You take turns cooking dinner. You argue about whose turn it is to wash dishes.
In the mornings, you sit across from each other with coffee mugs, laptops open, the silence comfortable.
He works out while you attend virtual lectures. You study muscle groups while he watches game film from previous seasons. Sometimes he pauses the footage to ask your opinion about an injury he sustained months ago.
“You think that was the MCL?” he asks once, rewinding a clip.
You lean closer to the screen, shoulder brushing his. “Could’ve been a mild strain.”
He nods thoughtfully. There’s a strange intimacy in it. Not romantic, but close.
One evening, after a long day of online meetings and at-home workouts, you find him standing on the balcony, staring out at the unusually quiet city.
“You okay?” you ask, stepping beside him.
“Feels weird,” he admits. “Not playing.”
You nod. “It won’t be forever.”
He exhales slowly. “I know.”
The air is cool. You stand close enough that your arms touch.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says after a moment.
You swallow.
“Me too.”
Lockdown stretches weeks into months.
You fall into routines you never anticipated. Movie nights on the couch. Late-night card games. Cooking experiments that don’t always succeed. Sharing a blanket during thunderstorms.
One night, you fall asleep mid-movie. When you wake, you’re still on the couch, and he’s carefully draping another blanket over you.
He doesn’t realize you’re awake. For a moment, you just watch him. The way he moves gently, deliberately. The way his expression softens when he thinks no one sees.
He sits back down, leaving a careful space between you. Always that space. The world outside feels uncertain and unstable. But inside the apartment, things feel steady. Too steady.
One afternoon, while you’re reviewing notes for an upcoming exam, he walks into the kitchen and leans against the counter.
“You ever think about how weird this is?” he asks.
“What part?”
“All of it.”
You close your laptop slowly.
“Yeah,” you admit.
He studies you.
“You could’ve quarantined anywhere.”
“So could you.”
He smiles faintly.
“But you’re here.”
There’s something in his voice that makes your chest tighten.
“So are you,” you reply softly.
The moment lingers. Charged. But neither of you cross it, because crossing it would change everything. Instead, he grabs two mugs and starts making tea. You go back to your notes and the space between you remains.
Not empty.
Just waiting.
---
The first official season you begin as the Avalanche’s full-time team physician feels surreal in a way you don’t quite allow yourself to sit with. You worked for this. Years of coursework, clinical hours, residency placements, endless exams, shadowing trainers and surgeons and specialists. You built something independent of Sidney’s name, independent of Nathan’s orbit. When you walk into Ball Arena with your credentials clipped to your jacket and your title listed clearly in staff documentation, you feel grounded in your own life.
It’s ironic, then, that the moment that shifts everything isn’t about you at all.
It’s early in the season when Nathan goes down.
You see it the second it happens. The collision near the boards isn’t especially dramatic, but you know head injuries well enough to recognize the way his balance falters when he tries to stand. The arena noise dims around you as you step onto the ice, your mind switching into clinical precision.
You kneel beside him, steady and professional. You ask orientation questions. You assess pupil response. You note the delayed processing. He answers you, but slower than usual. There’s a slight glassiness in his eyes that no one in the crowd would notice, but you do.
You always do.
The diagnosis is almost immediate: concussion protocol.
He doesn’t argue when you recommend removal from play. That, more than anything, tells you it’s serious.
For the next few weeks, your life becomes structured around his recovery. You monitor symptoms. You adjust lighting in the apartment. You enforce screen limits he grumbles about but ultimately obeys. You wake in the night to check on him during the first stretch of acute symptoms, even when he insists you don’t need to.
“Doctor’s orders,” you say lightly when he catches you watching him too closely.
But it stops feeling clinical very quickly.
There is something quietly intimate about caretaking. The way he trusts you without question. The way his voice softens when he asks for water or admits a headache has spiked. The way his hand sometimes finds your sleeve when he feels disoriented.
One afternoon, he falls asleep on the couch with his head tipped toward you, and you sit there longer than necessary, studying the slow rise and fall of his chest. You tell yourself it’s observational habit. Medical instinct.
But when your chest tightens at the thought of something worse having happened on that ice, you know it isn’t just that.
The realization doesn’t come like lightning. It comes quietly, inconveniently, settling somewhere behind your ribs.
You might actually love him.
You don’t say it. You don’t even let yourself think it clearly for long, but once it’s there, it doesn’t leave.
—
When he’s cleared to return, the apartment feels different.
You and Nathan never formally decided to continue living together after lockdown. It simply… persisted. Your books stayed on the shelves. Your coffee mugs stayed in the cabinet. The spare bedroom quietly became an office instead of a guest room. There was never a conversation about it, which somehow made it feel even more permanent.
By the time winter settles in again, the domestic rhythm feels natural in a way that would alarm either of you if examined too closely and then, one afternoon in early spring, you meet Daniel.
It happens at a grocery store not far from the apartment. You’re reaching for produce when he recognizes you—not as Sidney Crosby’s sister, not as Nathan MacKinnon’s roommate, but as the team physician.
He introduces himself easily. Daniel Brooks. Physical therapist. Works at a clinic that occasionally collaborates with professional athletes in the area.
The conversation is comfortable. Grounded. Refreshingly separate from the complicated web that defines most of your life.
When he asks you out for coffee, you hesitate—but not for the reasons you expect.
You go.
Daniel is kind. Attentive. He asks about your specialization goals, about long-term aspirations in sports medicine. He listens. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t treat your job like a novelty.
It feels… steady.
When you tell Nathan about the date that evening, he reacts in a way that’s almost perfectly controlled.
“That’s good,” he says, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “You deserve that.”
You watch him carefully. His tone is neutral, but there’s something tight in his jaw. Something held.
Over the next few months, Daniel becomes a consistent presence. Not overwhelming. Not dramatic. He meets you for late dinners when your schedule allows. He brings you coffee during long hospital rotations. He remembers details—your favorite tea, the way you prefer your eggs, the fact that you hate being called “Doc” outside of work.
He never pushes about the living situation at first, but eventually he does ask.
“You still live with him?” he says one evening, not accusing, just curious.
“Yes,” you answer.
“And that works?”
You pause. “It’s always worked.”
Daniel nods, but you can see the subtle calculation in his expression. The awareness that he is orbiting something long-established.
Nathan doesn’t comment openly on the relationship, but you feel it in the apartment’s atmosphere. In the way he retreats slightly when Daniel is around. In the way he stays up later than usual on nights you’re out. In the way he asks casual questions that are anything but casual.
“How serious is it?” he asks once, pretending to scroll through his phone.
“I don’t know yet,” you reply honestly.
He nods once.
“Okay.”
The word is clipped.
—
By mid-2023, the relationship with Daniel has settled into something recognizable. He meets your parents. He shakes Sidney’s hand with polite composure. He makes an effort.
Sidney, to your mild surprise, doesn’t immediately warm to him.
“He’s fine,” your brother says over the phone one night. “He’s just… not who I pictured.”
“Who did you picture?” you ask carefully.
There’s a pause.
“You know,” Sidney says.
You do.
The implication hangs there.
You laugh it off. Change the subject.
But the comment lingers.
—
Inside the Avalanche locker room, the shift in Nathan doesn’t go unnoticed. Professional athletes are attuned to subtle changes. Mood. Energy. Focus. He still plays well. Still trains relentlessly. Still shows up.
But he’s quieter.
Shorter in interviews. Slower to laugh at post-practice jokes.
One afternoon, one of his teammates bumps him lightly in the hallway.
“You good?” the teammate asks.
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
Nathan shrugs it off.
But the truth is harder to dismiss.
He doesn’t dislike Daniel because Daniel is unkind. He dislikes him because Daniel fits too well into the kind of future you could have—one that doesn’t include him in the same constant way.
You dated in high school. In college. So did he. There were girlfriends over the years, women who came and went without destabilizing the foundation between you, but this feels different.
Daniel talks about moving in together, about building something stable, about five-year plans.
Nathan overhears parts of those conversations sometimes, even when he pretends not to.
One night in late 2024, you mention it casually while making dinner.
“He asked if I’d consider moving in,” you say.
Nathan’s knife pauses mid-slice against the cutting board.
“Yeah?”
“It would make sense,” you add.
“For you,” he replies, voice even.
You look at him. There’s something restrained there. Something almost brittle.
“You don’t have to,” he says quickly, as if correcting himself.
You don’t answer.
Because you don’t know.
—
By 2025, the strain becomes more visible. Daniel is patient but he’s not blind.
“I feel like I’m competing with something,” he admits one evening.
“You’re not,” you say immediately.
But even as you say it, you know that isn’t entirely true. You aren’t consciously choosing Nathan over him, but you aren’t fully choosing Daniel either.
The breakup happens quietly. No shouting. No accusations. Just an acknowledgment that something essential is missing.
When you return to the apartment that night, Nathan looks up immediately.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod.
“It’s over.”
He exhales slowly, as if he’s been holding something in for months.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
But there’s relief beneath it…and you both feel it.
You sit across from each other at the kitchen table, the same table where you’ve studied, taped wrists, shared meals, navigated lockdown, and built a life that never quite named itself.
The silence between you isn’t empty. It’s full. Full of everything that almost happened, full of everything that still might. neither of you say it, but the distance between almost and inevitable has never felt smaller.
—
When the 2026 Olympic roster for Team Canada is released, you are in your office reviewing imaging scans when your phone starts vibrating uncontrollably on your desk.
You glance at the screen.
Nathan.
Before you even answer, you already know.
“You saw it?” he says the second you pick up.
“I’m guessing I should have,” you reply, leaning back in your chair.
There’s a laugh in his voice—unfiltered, boyish in a way you haven’t heard in years. “We’re going.”
You open the email notification that just arrived from Hockey Canada. The official list loads slowly, almost teasingly, until you see it.
Nathan MacKinnon.
And below the player list, in staff appointments—
Team Physician.
Your name.
For a second, you don’t speak.
“We’re both going,” he says, softer now.
The weight of it settles in your chest. All the years. The rinks. The drafts. The lockdown. The concussion. The almost-relationships. The breakup.
Italy. Together.
“That’s… insane,” you murmur.
“I told you we’d both get here,” he replies, and you can hear the smile.
You think of being nine years old on metal bleachers.
He wasn’t wrong.
—
Italy feels unreal the moment you land.
Snow-dusted mountains frame the Olympic Village. The air is thinner, colder, charged with anticipation. Flags hang from balconies. Athletes from every country move through shared spaces in sweats and team jackets, their faces familiar from broadcasts and headlines.
Nathan looks different here.
Not just like an NHL star. Like something bigger. Something national.
Practice days blur into early mornings and controlled chaos. You move between medical briefings, assessments, equipment checks. You maintain professionalism instinctively. You are Team Canada’s physician.
But that doesn’t stop the quiet current between you.
It’s in the way he glances at you across the ice during drills. In the way he lingers near your station after practice, asking unnecessary questions about hydration protocols. In the way he brushes your shoulder in passing like it’s accidental.
It isn’t.
One afternoon after practice, you find him sitting alone in the stands, helmet beside him, staring out at the empty rink.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” you call lightly as you climb the steps toward him.
He smirks. “Doctor’s orders?”
“Always.”
You sit beside him, the cold metal bench pressing through your jacket. The arena is quiet now, just the hum of distant maintenance equipment.
“You nervous?” you ask.
He exhales slowly. “A little.”
You nod. “Good.”
He turns his head, eyebrow raised.
“It means you care.”
He studies you for a long moment, and there’s something unguarded in his expression.
“You’ve always been good at that,” he says quietly.
“At what?”
“Making things feel steady.”
Your throat tightens slightly, but you keep your voice even. “That’s my job.”
He doesn’t look away.
“I’m not talking about your job.”
—
On an off day between games, you and Sidney decide to explore the city.
It feels strange to walk through narrow Italian streets in Olympic gear, snow lining cobblestones, café tables tucked under striped awnings. Sidney keeps his hood up out of habit, but he’s relaxed in a way he rarely is during tournaments.
You find a small restaurant tucked off the main road. It’s warm inside, the scent of garlic and bread heavy in the air.
Halfway through lunch, Sidney leans back in his chair and studies you.
“So,” he says casually. “How are things?”
“With?”
“You know.”
You hesitate only a second. “Daniel and I broke up.”
Sidney nods slowly, not surprised. “I figured.”
“You did?”
“You weren’t in it the way you thought you were.”
You stare at your glass of water.
“It was good,” you say defensively.
“I’m sure it was,” he replies gently.
There’s a pause.
Then, without thinking, he adds, “Nate will be happy.”
You look up sharply. “What?”
Sidney freezes.
You narrow your eyes. “Why would Nathan be happy?”
He exhales slowly, clearly recalculating.
“Because,” he says carefully, “he’s had a crush on you for about fifteen years.”
Your brain blanks.
“I’m sorry,” you say slowly. “He’s had what?”
Sidney closes his eyes briefly like he wishes he could rewind the sentence.
“It’s obvious,” he mutters.
“To who?” you demand.
“To everyone,” he replies. “Except maybe you two.”
Your heart is pounding so loudly you barely hear the rest of the restaurant.
“Sid,” you say carefully. “What are you talking about?”
He looks at you, really looks at you, the way only an older brother can.
“I’ve watched him since he was a kid,” he says. “The way he looked at you at the rink. The way he never dated anyone seriously. The way he got weird when you started seeing Daniel.”
You swallow.
“He never said anything.”
“Of course he didn’t,” Sidney scoffs. “You think he’s that brave?”
You stare at him.
All the moments. All the almosts. All the tension.
He snorts. “I’ve been okay with it since you were sixteen. I just needed to make sure he wasn’t an idiot.”
“And?”
“He’s not.”
You sit back slowly, mind racing.
Sidney watches you carefully.
“Go to him,” he says gently.
You don’t argue.
—
The walk back to the Olympic Village feels longer than it should. Snow crunches under your boots. The air bites at your cheeks. Your heart refuses to slow down.
When you reach Nathan’s building, you hesitate only briefly before knocking on his door. It opens almost immediately.
He looks surprised. “Everything okay?”
“Can I come in?”
He steps aside without question.
The room is small. Temporary. Olympic standard. But it feels charged in a way nothing has before.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
You don’t sit.
You don’t stall.
“Sid told me something.”
His expression shifts immediately. “Oh God.”
“He said you have a crush on me.”
Silence. Then, slowly, Nathan runs a hand through his hair.
“Did he,” he mutters.
You step closer.
“Is it true?”
He looks at you for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes.
“Yes,” he says finally.
The word is simple. Steady. It steals the air from your lungs.
“For how long?” you whisper.
He huffs a quiet laugh, almost embarrassed. “Since I was nine and you told me you cared about me caring about hockey.”
Your chest aches.
“You never said anything.”
“You were always there,” he replies softly. “I didn’t want to ruin that.”
The honesty in his voice undoes you.
“I thought you didn’t feel that way,” you admit. “I thought maybe I imagined it.”
He steps closer now, close enough that you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow, the one he got years ago during a playoff series.
“I’ve loved you,” he says quietly. “For a long time.”
The word again.
Loved.
Your breath catches.
“I love you too,” you say, before fear can stop you.
The silence that follows is not empty. It’s full.
Full of childhood bleachers. Driveway games. Draft nights. Lockdown dinners. Concussions. Jealousy. Almost.
He reaches for you carefully, like you’re something fragile. When his hands rest at your waist, it feels inevitable. He pauses just long enough to let you step back if you want to. You don’t.
The kiss is not explosive. It’s steady. Soft at first then certain.
Years of restraint unravel slowly, deliberately. His hand slides to your jaw. Yours grips the front of his sweater. The world narrows to warmth and breath and the undeniable truth that this was always where you were headed.
When you finally pull back, both of you are slightly breathless. He rests his forehead against yours.
“So,” he murmurs. “Would you maybe… go on a date with me?”
You laugh softly, tears threatening at the edges of your eyes.
“We’ve lived together for six years.”
“Still,” he insists gently. “Proper date.”
You smile.
“Okay.”
Outside, somewhere beyond the Olympic Village, church bells ring faintly through the cold Italian air. Inside the room, for the first time in nearly two decades, there is no almost. Only chosen, and finally…yours.
hey so this is like the best thing ever and i will be chasing this fanfic high for the rest of my life. also this made me fall more in love with natemack 😭😭🫶
Summary: you’re an ice dancer who’s spent your entire life focused on one thing: winning. Romance? Distractions? Hard pass. Then a hockey player sees you across the Olympic Village and completely malfunctions. Like, stops-walking-gets-shoved-by-teammates-becomes-a-viral-TikTok kind of malfunctions. Your well-meaning coach and his well-meaning captain decide the solution is obvious: lock you both in a room with false promises of puppies and Mario Kart. Turns out, sometimes the best things happen when you stop trying to control everything. Sometimes love is just as terrifying as a triple twizzle. And maybe worth the risk.
Divided into two parts because this is long and tumblr hates me: read part I here ❤️
Mitch calls Morgan Rielly from his room at 9:30 PM, which is 3:30 PM in Toronto, which means Morgan is probably working out or in a meeting or doing literally anything other than waiting for a phone call about Olympic Village romance.
The phone rings four times.
“Marns?” Morgan’s voice is slightly out of breath. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Are you busy?”
“Just finished up at the gym. Why?”
“I need you to do something insane.”
There’s a pause.
“How insane?” Morgan asks cautiously.
“Pretty insane.”
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Solid eight.”
“Okay.” Mitch can hear Morgan moving, probably walking to somewhere more private. “Hit me.”
“I need you to call Tessa.”
“My wife?”
“Do you have another Tessa?”
“I mean, no, but-”
“I need you to call Tessa and ask her to call Scott Moir.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“Why,” Morgan says slowly, “would I ask my wife to call her former ice dance partner?”
“Because he coaches Y/N Y/L/N.”
“The ice dancer who just won gold?”
“That’s the one.”
“Okay. And why do we need Scott?”
“Because Macklin Celebrini is in love with her.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Celebrini. The kid. First overall pick. Plays for the Sharks. He saw Y/N after the game tonight and completely lost his mind. Like, fully stopped functioning as a human being. And Crosby has decided that we all need to intervene.”
“Crosby decided this?”
“He pulled me into a literal closet to discuss it.”
“A closet.”
“A storage closet. There were mops.”
Morgan starts laughing. “Oh my god.”
“It’s not funny!”
“It’s extremely funny. Sidney Crosby, captain of Team Canada, three-time Stanley Cup champion, is playing matchmaker.”
“Technically we’re all playing matchmaker. He just initiated it.”
“And he wants Scott to do what, exactly?”
“Get Y/N and Celebrini in the same room somehow. Create an opportunity. I don’t know, Crosby was vague on the specifics.”
“Because it’s an insane plan.”
“I’m aware!”
“And you want me to pitch this to Tessa.”
“Yes.”
“My wife. Who is an ex-professional athlete with an actual day job and a literal Olympic champion and probably has better things to do.”
“Also yes.”
Morgan is quiet for a moment. Mitch can hear him breathing, thinking.
“Does this kid actually like her?” Morgan asks finally. “Or is this just Crosby being weird?”
“Apparently he stared at her for like a full minute without blinking. Multiple teammates had to physically move him.”
“Okay. That’s-”
“A lot?”
“I was going to say kind of sweet, actually.” Morgan pauses. “Tessa loves this kind of thing. You know that, right?”
“I was hoping.”
“She’s gonna call Scott immediately.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s a yes. I’ll call her now.”
“Thank you.”
“But Marns?”
“Yeah?”
“If this goes sideways, I’m telling everyone it was your idea.”
“That’s fair,” Mitch says, and hangs up.
***
Morgan calls Tessa at 3:45 PM Toronto time.
She picks up on the first ring.
“Hey babe,” she says. “How was your work out?”
“Exhausting. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Okay?” She sounds intrigued now. “What’s up?”
“How would you feel about calling Scott?”
“Scott?” There’s a smile in her voice. “I just talked to him yesterday. He’s losing his mind over Y/N and Tristan winning. Why?”
“Because-” Morgan pauses. “Okay, this is going to sound insane.”
“I’m listening.”
“Apparently Macklin Celebrini, the Sharks kid, saw Y/N at a hockey game and had some kind of emotional crisis. And now Sidney Crosby has decided that the entire Canadian Olympic men’s hockey team needs to play matchmaker.”
Silence.
Then Tessa starts laughing.
“Are you serious?” She asks.
“Completely serious. Mitch just called me. Crosby pulled him into a closet to discuss strategy.”
“A closet?”
“Apparently it was very serious.”
Tessa is fully cackling now. “Oh my god. This is the best thing I’ve heard all week.”
“So you’ll call Scott?”
“Are you kidding? I’m calling him right now. This is amazing.”
“You think he’ll go for it?”
“Morgan.” Tessa’s voice is warm, affectionate. “Scott Moir is one of the most romantic people I know. Of course he’ll go for it. He’ll probably already have a plan before I finish explaining.”
“You’re the best.”
“I know. Love you. I’ll text you after I talk to him.”
“Love you too.”
She hangs up.
Morgan sits there for a second, staring at his phone, wondering how his Friday afternoon turned into coordinating an international matchmaking scheme.
Then he shrugs and heads back to wipe down his equipment.
***
Tessa calls Scott at 4 PM Toronto time, which is 10 PM in Milan.
Scott is in his hotel room, reviewing footage for next weekend’s exhibition gala program, when his phone rings.
“Tess?” He answers. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s great. But I need to tell you something, and you’re going to love it.”
“Okay?”
“Macklin Celebrini is in love with Y/N.”
Scott stares at his laptop screen.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The hockey player. First overall pick. Plays for the Sharks. He saw her at the Canada-Switzerland game and apparently had a complete meltdown. Sidney Crosby is orchestrating a matchmaking operation and he needs your help.”
Scott sits back in his chair.
“Sidney Crosby,” he says slowly, “is matchmaking.”
“I know!”
“For Y/N.”
“Yes!”
“And he called you?”
“He called Mitch Marner, who called Morgan, who called me, who is now calling you. It’s like telephone but for romance.”
Scott starts grinning. “This is incredible.”
“I knew you’d love it.”
“Tell me everything.”
Tessa relays the story as she understands it — the game, the staring, the intervention, the closet conversation. Scott listens, his grin getting wider with every detail.
“This kid has no idea, does he?” He asks when Tessa finishes.
“I don’t think so. Do you think Y/N would go for it?”
“I think-” Scott pauses. “I think Y/N has been so focused on skating for so long that she doesn’t let herself think about anything else. But yeah. If there’s a connection? She’d go for it. She just needs a push.”
“So you’ll help?”
“I’m offended you even have to ask. Of course I’ll help.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know yet. Let me talk to Crosby. Get a sense of what we’re working with.” He pauses. “Is this kid actually good, or is he just some random player who got starstruck?”
“He’s good. Really good. And from what Morgan said, he’s a good person too. Little awkward, maybe. Very earnest.”
“Perfect. Y/N hates cocky.” Scott’s already pulling up his phone, scrolling for Crosby’s contact from 2010. “I’ll call Sidney tonight. We’ll figure something out.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Obviously.”
“And Scott?”
“Yeah?”
“This is very cute. You playing matchmaker.”
“It’s called growth,” Scott says, and Tessa’s laugh is the last thing he hears before they hang up.
***
Scott calls Sidney Crosby at 10:15 PM Milan time.
Sid picks up immediately.
“Scott Moir?” He says, and he sounds almost nervous, which is wild because this is Sidney Crosby.
“That’s me. Tessa called.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” Sid takes a breath. “Thanks for—I know this is weird.”
“It’s not weird. It’s great. I love weird.”
“You do?”
“I was an ice dancer for twenty years. My entire career was weird. This is nothing.”
Sid laughs, and Scott can hear the relief in it. “Okay. Good. So Tessa explained?”
“Kid saw Y/N, lost his mind, you want to engineer a meeting.”
“That’s the gist, yeah.”
“Tell me about him. Celebrini.”
“He’s-” Sid pauses, choosing his words. “He’s a really good kid. Talented, obviously. First overall for a reason. But he’s also got this—he’s earnest, you know? He cares about things. He’s not jaded yet.”
“How old?”
“Nineteen.”
“Same as Y/N.”
“Exactly.”
Scott leans back against his headboard, thinking. “What happened at the game?”
“He saw her in the stands. Completely froze. I’ve never seen anything like it. Jarvis literally had to push him to get him moving again.”
“And he hasn’t talked to her?”
“No. He’s convinced she’s out of his league.”
“Is he right?”
“Maybe. But he’s nineteen and awkward and she’s an Olympic gold medalist who’s basically perfect, so I understand the intimidation.”
Scott grins. “She’s not perfect. She’s neurotic and competitive and she stress-eats Swedish Fish before competitions.”
“She sounds great.”
“She is great. So here’s what we do.” Scott’s already formulating a plan, the same way he used to plan out programs, seeing the pieces fall into place. “You don’t have a game the day after tomorrow, right?”
“We’ve got practice in the morning but we’re free after.”
“Okay. I’ll make sure Y/N is where she needs to be. You make sure Celebrini’s there too. And then-” Scott pauses. “Then we engineer a very natural, very casual meeting.”
“How?”
“Leave that to me. I’ve got an idea.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Probably. But it’ll work.”
Sid is quiet for a moment. “Why are you doing this? You don’t know Macklin.”
“No,” Scott agrees. “But I know Y/N. And I’ve watched her give everything to skating for three years. She deserves something for herself. Even if it’s just a conversation with a cute hockey player who can’t stop staring at her.”
“He really can’t,” Sid says, and there’s a smile in his voice.
“Then let’s give them both a chance.” Scott pauses. “But Crosby?”
“Yeah?”
“If this kid breaks her heart, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
“That’s fair.”
“Glad we understand each other.”
They hang up, and Scott immediately texts Tessa.
Scott: Operation Olympic Matchmaking is a go.
Tessa: I knew you’d love this.
Scott: I’m texting Y/N now. Wish me luck.
Tessa: You don’t need luck. You’re Scott Moir.
Scott: Damn right I am.
***
Scott is beginning to realize that you are dangerously easy to manipulate.
He’s walking through the Olympic Village with you toward a random meeting room in Building C, and you’ve asked exactly zero follow-up questions about why Buzzfeed wants to interview you with puppies in an unmarked room in a residential building instead of, say, a proper studio or literally anywhere else that would make sense.
You’re just walking next to him, humming something under your breath, completely trusting, and Scott is having the uncomfortable realization that if he were a kidnapper instead of your coach, you would already be in an unmarked van.
“So they’re just bringing the puppies here?” you ask, adjusting your Team Canada hoodie.
“Yep,” Scott says.
“To the Olympic Village.”
“That’s what they said.”
“And they specifically requested me?”
“You and Tristan, but he’s stuck doing a segment with TVA Nouvelles, so it’s just you.”
“Huh.” You seem to accept this without question. “What kind of puppies?”
“I don’t know. Puppy puppies.”
“That’s not a breed, Scott.”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not.” You’re smiling now, that genuine excited smile that makes you look about twelve years old. “I love puppies.”
“I know,” Scott says, and he does know, because you’ve mentioned it approximately ninety-eight times since he started coaching you. You follow every dog Instagram account. You stop to pet every dog you see on the street. Last year at Worlds you missed a team meeting because you were playing with a Corgi in the hotel lobby.
You’re obsessed with dogs.
Which is why Scott knew this would work.
Still. The ease of it is concerning.
“We should talk about stranger danger,” he says.
“What?”
“Like, we should have a conversation about how you would absolutely get kidnapped if someone told you there were puppies somewhere.”
You look at him. “Scott, are you kidnapping me?”
“No.”
“Then why are we talking about this?”
“Because you asked zero follow-up questions about this Buzzfeed thing.”
“You’re my coach. I trust you.”
“That’s exactly what a kidnapping victim would say.”
“Are you having a stroke?”
“I’m having a realization about your critical thinking skills.”
You shove his shoulder, laughing. “I’m not going to get kidnapped. I’m an Olympic athlete. I’m very aware of my surroundings.”
“You’re about to walk into an unmarked room because someone said there would be puppies.”
“You said there would be puppies.”
“Exactly.”
You stop walking. “Scott. Is there actually a Buzzfeed interview?”
Scott keeps walking. “Of course there is.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
“Weirder than usual.”
“We’re here,” Scott says, stopping in front of a door marked Conference Room 3B. It’s at the end of a hallway in one of the residential buildings, quiet and out of the way, exactly the kind of place where no one would think to look. Perfect.
You look at the door. Look at Scott. “This is a conference room.”
“Very observant.”
“I thought we were going to a studio?”
“Change of plans. They’re setting up inside.”
“I don’t hear puppies.”
“They’re very quiet puppies.”
“That’s not a thing.”
Scott opens the door. The room is empty. No cameras. No Buzzfeed crew. No puppies. Just a conference table, some chairs, and fluorescent lighting that makes everything look vaguely institutional.
“Scott-” you start.
“Go on in,” Scott says, gesturing. “They’ll be here in a second.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to grab something from my room. I’ll be right back.”
You look skeptical now, which is good, which means your survival instincts are finally kicking in, but Scott is already gently pushing you into the room.
“Scott-”
“Two minutes. I promise.”
He closes the door.
You hear the lock click from the outside.
“Scott?” You try the handle. It doesn’t turn. “SCOTT?”
His footsteps are already disappearing down the hallway.
You stand there, alone, in an empty conference room, and slowly realize what just happened.
“Oh my god,” you say to the empty room. “Maybe I am too trusting.”
***
Macklin is not a suspicious person by nature.
He’s trusting. Optimistic. The kind of guy who assumes the best in people and situations, which has served him well in life and hockey and generally not being a cynical disaster at age nineteen.
Which is why, when Sidney texts him at 2:30 PM and says Mario Kart tournament in Conference Room 3B at 3. Be there, Macklin doesn’t question it.
He loves Mario Kart.
The team has been talking about doing a tournament since they got here.
Conference Room 3B is a weird place to hang out, but whatever. Maybe it’s the only room with a free TV.
He shows up at 2:52 PM, wearing joggers and a Team Canada t-shirt, his hair still damp from the post-practice shower.
Sid is waiting outside the door.
“Hey,” Macklin says. “Am I early?”
“No, perfect timing.” Sid opens the door. “Everyone else is running late. You can go set up.”
Macklin walks in.
The room is empty.
No TV. No Nintendo Switch. No Mario Kart. No teammates.
Just an empty conference room and-
You.
Standing by the window, arms crossed, looking extremely confused and slightly annoyed.
Macklin stops walking.
His brain makes the Windows shutdown noise.
“Uh,” he says.
You turn around.
Your eyes meet his.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Behind Macklin, the door closes.
The lock clicks.
“SID?” Macklin spins around, grabbing the door handle. It doesn’t turn. “SIDNEY?”
“Have fun!” Sid’s voice comes through the door, already moving away.
“WHAT-”
But he’s gone.
Macklin turns back around.
You’re staring at him.
He’s staring at you.
The fluorescent lights hum.
Somewhere in the building, someone’s playing music.
“Hi,” Macklin says, because his brain has apparently decided that single-syllable words are the current maximum capacity.
“Hi,” you say back.
More silence.
“So,” Macklin tries. “Mario Kart?”
“Puppies,” you say.
“What?”
“I was told there would be puppies.”
“I was told there would be Mario Kart.”
You both look at the empty room.
“I don’t see puppies or Mario Kart,” you say.
“No,” Macklin agrees.
“I think-” you start.
“We’ve been set up,” Macklin finishes.
“Yeah.”
You both stand there.
Macklin is trying very hard not to stare at you, which is difficult because you’re right there, five feet away, in a Team Canada hoodie and leggings and no makeup and you’re somehow even more beautiful than you were at the hockey game. Your hair is in a ponytail. You’ve got a scrunchie on your wrist. You look tired and annoyed and perfect.
“I’m Macklin,” he says, because apparently his brain has rebooted and decided that introductions are the logical next step.
“I know,” you say.
His heart does something complicated.
“You do?”
“You’re kind of hard to miss. First overall pick. Game last night.” You pause. “Nice goal, by the way.”
“Thanks. You-” He stops. Starts again. “You won gold. Ice dance. The Hadestown program.”
“You watched it?”
“Like six times.”
The words are out before he can stop them, and Macklin wants to die. He wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He wants to go back in time and not say that.
But you’re smiling.
“Six times?” you ask.
“I—yeah. It was-” Macklin runs a hand through his hair, which is definitely doing something stupid right now. “It was really beautiful. The program. You were—both of you were incredible.”
“Thank you.” You’re still smiling, and it’s doing something to his cardiovascular system. “Tristan’s my partner. We’ve been skating together since we were nine.”
“That’s—wow. That’s a long time.”
“Yeah. He’s basically my brother at this point.” You lean against the conference table. “So. Your team set this up?”
“I think so? Sid said there was Mario Kart.”
“My coach said there were puppies.”
“That’s-” Macklin can’t help it. He laughs. “That’s actually kind of genius. If someone told me there were puppies, I’d probably follow them too.”
“Right? I was literally thinking about being kidnapped on the way here.”
“Please tell me your coach talked to you about stranger danger.”
“He did! Extensively! While walking me directly into this trap!”
You’re both laughing now, and it’s easier suddenly, the tension breaking, the absurdity of the situation overriding the awkwardness.
“Okay,” you say, wiping your eyes. “Okay. So they locked us in here.”
“Seems like it.”
“For what? To force us to talk?”
“I think that was the plan, yeah.”
“That’s-” You shake your head. “That’s so stupid.”
“Is it though?” Macklin asks before he can stop himself.
You look at him.
He looks back.
“I mean,” he continues, committing now because there’s no going back, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you since I saw you for the first time last week. But I was too scared to just walk up and introduce myself like a normal person. So maybe this is—I don’t know. Maybe this isn’t the worst thing.”
You’re quiet for a moment.
“You wanted to talk to me?” You ask.
“Yeah.” Macklin’s face is definitely red. He can feel it. “Is that weird?”
“No. I just-” You pause. “You stared at me after the game.”
Oh god.
“You saw that,” Macklin says.
“Everyone saw that. It’s on TikTok.”
“Of course it is.” Macklin sits down in one of the conference chairs because his legs have decided they’re done holding him upright. “I’m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to be creepy.”
“You weren’t creepy.” You sit down too, one chair away from him. “You were just … intense.”
“I didn’t mean to be intense either.”
“Why were you staring?”
Macklin looks at you.
You’re watching him, your expression open, genuinely curious, and Macklin makes a decision.
“Because,” he says, “you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
Your eyes widen.
“And,” he continues, because apparently he’s decided to just go for it, “I watched your program about six times like I said, and it made me cry. Actually cry. I’m a hockey player. We don’t cry. But I watched you skate and I-” He stops. “You tell stories on the ice. That’s what it felt like. Like you were telling me something true.”
You’re not saying anything.
Macklin panics.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “That was too much. I’m not good at this. I’ve been awake for like three days and I’m exhausted and I just—I should stop talking.”
“No,” you say quietly.
“No?”
“Don’t stop talking.” You’re smiling now, soft, genuine. “That was—that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about my skating in a long time.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Macklin lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” you echo.
You both sit there for a moment, the silence comfortable now instead of awkward.
“So,” you say finally. “We’re locked in here.”
“Seems like it.”
“Should we try to get out?”
“Probably.”
Neither of you moves.
“Or,” Macklin says, “we could just talk? Since we’re here? Since they went to all this trouble?”
“You want to talk to me?”
“I’ve wanted to talk to you for like eight days.”
You laugh, and it’s the best sound Macklin’s ever heard.
“Okay,” you say. “Let’s talk.”
***
Outside the door, Scott and Sidney are standing guard.
Well. “Standing guard” is generous. They’re leaning against the wall, talking quietly, occasionally checking their phones.
“How long do we leave them?” Sid asks.
“At least an hour,” Scott says.
“An hour?”
“They need time. You can’t rush these things.”
“What if they hate each other?”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know?”
Scott gives him a look. “I’ve coached Y/N for three years. I know when she’s interested in someone. And based on what you told me about Celebrini, he’s already halfway in love with her.”
“So we give them time. We let them figure it out.”
Down the hall, Tom Wilson appears, followed by Seth Jarvis and Brad Marchand.
“Status report?” Tom asks.
“They’re talking,” Scott says.
“How do you know?”
“I can hear them through the door.”
All four hockey players immediately press their ears to the door.
There’s laughter coming from inside.
“Oh my god,” Seth whispers. “It’s working.”
“Of course it’s working,” Scott says. “I’m a professional.”
“You’re something,” Sid says, but he’s smiling.
Inside the room, you and Macklin are still talking, completely unaware of the conspiracy happening directly outside, and for the moment, that’s exactly how it should be.
***
You’ve been talking to Macklin for twenty minutes, and you’re starting to understand why the universe conspired to lock you in a room together.
He’s funny.
Not in a trying-too-hard way, but in a genuine, slightly self-deprecating way that makes you laugh without meaning to. He tells you about getting drafted, about moving to San Jose, about his mom crying during his first NHL game and his dad trying not to cry and failing.
“They were in the stands,” he says, “and I looked up during warmups and my mom was already sobbing, and I was like, ‘Mom, the game hasn’t even started,’ and she just-” He makes a gesture. “She just kept crying.”
“That’s sweet.”
“It was humiliating. But also sweet, yeah.”
You tell him about growing up in London, Ontario, about starting skating at four, about the first time you and Tristan did a lift and you fell and gave him a black eye.
“We were nine,” you say. “And he didn’t even cry. He just held ice on it and said, ‘We’ll get it next time.’“
“That’s actually adorable.”
“It is, right? He’s the best.”
“Are you guys-” Macklin stops. “Sorry, that’s—never mind.”
“Are we what?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Macklin.”
He looks embarrassed. “Are you and Tristan … you know. Together?”
You stare at him.
Then you start laughing.
“Oh my god,” you say. “No. No, we’re—Tristan is very gay.”
“Oh.” Macklin’s face does something complicated. “Oh. Okay.”
“Did you think-”
“I didn’t know! Everyone kept saying he was, based on vibes, but I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to assume-”
“The vibes are correct.” You’re still grinning. “Tristan is extremely gay. We actually have the same taste in men, which is a problem when we’re both single and going to the same events.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“It’s mostly just funny.” You pause. “Why did you want to know?”
Macklin looks at you.
You look back.
“Because,” he says carefully, “I wanted to know if I had a chance.”
Your heart does something stupid.
“A chance at what?” You ask, even though you know.
“At taking you to dinner. Or coffee. Or … I don’t know. Whatever people do when they want to get to know each other better.”
“You want to get to know me better?”
“I—yeah. Yes. Very much yes.”
You smile.
“Okay,” you say.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Let’s have coffee. Or dinner. Or whatever.”
Macklin grins, and it’s bright and genuine and makes him look even younger.
“Really?”
“Really. But-” You hold up a hand. “Not until after your next game. You need to focus on hockey.”
“I can focus on hockey and have coffee with you.”
“Can you though? Because you literally stopped functioning when you saw me after your last game.”
“I’m never going to live that down.”
“Probably not.”
He’s still smiling.
You’re still smiling.
Outside, there’s a knock on the door.
“Time’s up!” Scott’s voice calls through.
The lock clicks.
The door opens.
Scott, Sid, and approximately six other people are standing in the hallway, all of them grinning like idiots.
“So,” Scott says. “How’d it go?”
You look at Macklin.
Macklin looks at you.
“Good,” you say.
“Really good,” Macklin adds.
Tom Wilson actually whoops.
“I told you it would work!” Seth says, high-fiving Brad.
Sid just looks satisfied.
Scott crosses his arms. “You can thank me later.”
“I’m going to kill you later,” you tell him.
“That’s fair.”
You and Macklin stand up, walking toward the door, and as you pass Scott, you lean in close.
“There were no puppies,” you whisper.
“There was something better,” Scott whispers back.
And looking at Macklin, who’s currently being chirped by his entire team about his “date” with the ice dancer, you think Scott might actually be right.
***
The Olympic Village dining hall is not romantic.
It’s a massive cafeteria-style space with industrial lighting, hundreds of tables, and approximately seventeen different food stations serving cuisine from around the world. There’s a constant hum of conversation in a dozen languages, the clatter of trays, the occasional sound of someone dropping a plate. It smells like a combination of pasta, disinfectant, and the particular chaos of feeding several thousand elite athletes at once.
It is, objectively, the worst place to have a first date.
Which is why, when Macklin suggested meeting here for dinner, you said yes immediately.
Because calling it a “date” in the Olympic Village dining hall feels safer somehow. Lower stakes. If it goes badly, you can just grab your food and leave. If it goes well … well, you’ll figure that out when you get there.
You show up at 7 PM, which is when you agreed to meet, wearing jeans and a Team Canada t-shirt because this is casual, this is just dinner, this is not a big deal.
(You changed outfits three times. Tristan watched you have a crisis and offered zero helpful input beyond “they’re all fine” and “you’re spiraling.”)
Macklin is already there, waiting by the entrance, wearing joggers and a hoodie and looking just as nervous as you feel, which is oddly comforting.
“Hey,” he says when he sees you.
“Hey,” you say back.
There’s a pause.
“So,” Macklin says. “Dinner?”
“Dinner,” you confirm.
“Cool. Great. Let’s-” He gestures vaguely toward the food stations.
You both grab trays.
The dining hall has everything. There’s a pasta station, a salad bar, a grill, a sushi counter, a dessert section that’s genuinely overwhelming. Every country’s athletes have different dietary needs and preferences, so the IOC basically just said “fuck it, we’ll make everything.”
You head to the pasta station because carbs are always the right choice.
Macklin follows you.
“I’ve been eating so much pasta since we got here,” he says, watching the chef prepare his bowl. “Like, an alarming amount.”
“Same. I think I’ve had pasta for dinner every night this week.”
“No regrets though.”
“Zero regrets.”
The chef hands you your bowl, and you notice immediately that the pasta is shaped like the Olympic rings.
“Oh my god,” you say, holding it up. “Look at this.”
Macklin peers at your bowl. “Is that-”
“Olympic ring pasta.”
“That’s incredible.”
“That’s the most Olympic thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m getting that too,” Macklin tells the chef, who looks very pleased with himself.
You move through the stations, both of you grabbing bread, some vegetables that you’ll probably not eat, and then, because you’re in Italy even if it’s the contained Italy of an Olympic Village, tiramisu from the dessert section.
“I’m getting two,” Macklin announces, putting two slices on his tray.
“That’s ambitious.”
“I’m an athlete. I need fuel.”
“You need therapy, but okay.”
He laughs, and you feel stupidly proud of yourself for making that happen.
You find a table in the corner, slightly away from the main crowd, and sit down across from each other.
For a moment, you both just look at your Olympic ring pasta.
“This feels very official,” you say.
“Should we take a photo?”
“Absolutely.”
Macklin pulls out his phone, and you both angle your bowls so the Olympic rings are visible. He takes the photo, looks at it, grins.
“I’m posting this,” he says.
“Don’t you dare.”
“Why not?”
“Because then everyone will know we’re having dinner.”
“Everyone already knows we’re having dinner.”
He has a point.
You look around the dining hall. At a table about fifteen feet away, you can see Tristan sitting with two other Canadian figure skaters, very obviously watching you. When you make eye contact, he waves enthusiastically and gives you a thumbs up.
You flip him off.
He blows you a kiss.
“Is that your partner?” Macklin asks.
“Unfortunately.”
“He seems supportive.”
“He’s a menace.” You twirl some pasta around your fork. “Your team’s here too, you know.”
“What?”
You nod toward a table on the other side of the dining hall, where approximately eight members of Team Canada hockey are sitting. They’re not even pretending not to stare. Seth Jarvis is actually pointing at you. Tom Wilson is holding his phone up like he’s filming.
Macklin puts his head in his hands.
“I’m going to kill them,” he says.
“Get in line. I called dibs on Tristan.”
“Maybe we should just accept that we have no privacy.”
“Maybe we should start charging admission.”
Macklin looks up, smiling. “That’s actually not a bad idea. We could make a fortune.”
“Olympic Village dinner theater. Coming to a cafeteria near you.”
“Starring two people who were forcibly locked in a room by their well-meaning but unhinged mentors.”
You’re both laughing now, and it’s easy, easier than you thought it would be. The anxiety that’s been sitting in your chest since you agreed to this starts to loosen.
“Okay,” you say, taking a bite of pasta. “So. We’re doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Getting to know each other. That’s what you said, right? In the room?”
“Right. Yeah.” Macklin eats some of his own pasta, and you watch him process the Olympic ring shape with the delight of a child. “This is so cool.”
“Focus, Celebrini.”
“Sorry. Yes. Getting to know each other.” He sets down his fork. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Normal stuff?”
“What’s normal stuff?”
“Like-” You think. “Okay. What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“What kind of blue?”
“Is there more than one kind?”
“There are like fifty kinds of blue.”
“Okay, um-” He looks around, then points at the San Jose Sharks case on his iPhone. “That blue. The one on the flag.”
“That’s teal, but I’ll accept it.”
“What about you?”
“Also blue. But like-” You look out the windows. “That blue. A clear winter sky.”
“We both like blue.”
“This is a very promising start.”
Macklin grins. “Okay, my turn. What’s your-” He pauses. “Actually, I already know a lot about you.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I watched a lot of interviews after your program went viral.” He looks slightly embarrassed. “You’re from London. You started skating when you were four. Your favorite movie is Pride and Prejudice. You’re scared of heights but not falling. You have a cat named Poutine.”
You stare at him.
“That was creepy,” he says quickly. “That was absolutely creepy. I’m sorry. I just—I wanted to know more about you and I kind of fell down a rabbit hole and-”
“I don’t have a cat.”
“What?”
“I don’t have a cat. Poutine is Tristan’s cat. He was in the background of one of my Instagram stories and everyone assumed he was mine.”
“Oh.” Macklin looks relieved. “So I didn’t completely nail the research.”
“You did pretty well though. Little stalker-y, but thorough.”
“I prefer … enthusiastically interested.”
“That’s literally just a nice way to say stalker.”
“Yeah, okay, fair.”
You’re smiling though, and he’s smiling back, and across the dining hall someone’s phone flashlight goes off like they’re trying to get a better photo.
“This is insane,” you say.
“Want to leave?”
“No.” You surprise yourself with how quickly you say it. “No, I—I’m having fun.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You take another bite of pasta. “Okay, my turn. Tell me something I can’t find in an interview.”
Macklin thinks about this, chewing slowly.
“Okay,” he says finally. “When I found out I went first overall, I cried.”
“That’s not—people probably know that.”
“No, I mean—I went home after the draft, after all the media stuff, and I got in my childhood bed and I just cried. Because I was so happy and so terrified and I didn’t know if I was good enough.”
His voice has gone quiet, genuine.
“I still don’t know sometimes,” he continues. “If I’m good enough. If I deserve it. It’s a lot. People expect things. And I want to be that guy, the one who lives up to it, but I’m also just—I’m nineteen. I’m still figuring it out.”
You don’t say anything for a moment.
“I get that,” you say finally. “The expectations thing. Everyone wants us to be Tessa and Scott. Everyone wants the next great Canadian ice dance team. And I want that too, but also—sometimes I just want to skate because I love it. Not because I’m trying to be someone else.”
“Exactly.”
“And the scared thing. I’m scared all the time. Before every competition. During every competition. That I’m going to fall or mess up or prove everyone right who said I wasn’t good enough.”
“But you won gold.”
“And I’m still scared.” You look at him. “I think that’s just part of it, maybe. Being good at something doesn’t mean you’re not terrified of losing it.”
Macklin nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.”
You eat in comfortable silence for a moment.
Then, from somewhere across the dining hall, music starts playing.
You both look up.
When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s amore …
You and Macklin make eye contact.
You both start laughing immediately.
“Are you kissing me right now?” Macklin calls out, looking toward his teammates’ table.
Tom Wilson stands up and bows.
The entire hockey table is losing it, laughing and filming and thoroughly enjoying themselves.
“WHEN THE WORLD SEEMS TO SHINE,” Tom sings, badly, “LIKE YOU’VE HAD TOO MUCH WINE-”
“THAT’S AMORE!” The rest of the table joins in.
Other diners are starting to notice. Some are laughing. Some are filming. A group of Italian athletes at a nearby table actually start clapping along.
“I’m going to switch citizenships,” Macklin says, but he’s laughing too hard to sound serious.
“At least they’re committed to the bit,” you offer.
“They’re committed to ruining my life.”
At your table, Tristan has stood up on his chair.
“WHEN THE STARS MAKE YOU DROOL,” he sings, gesturing dramatically at you and Macklin, “JUST LIKE PASTA FAZOOL-”
“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!” You yell.
“THAT’S AMORE!” Tristan sings back.
The entire dining hall is watching now. Someone near the pasta station starts slow-clapping. A group of curlers joins in on the chorus.
You look at Macklin.
Macklin looks at you.
“This is the most embarrassing first date in history,” he says.
“This is incredible,” you counter.
“Really?”
“Are you kidding? This is-” You gesture at the chaos around you, the singing, the laughter, the sheer absurdity of it. “This is perfect.”
Macklin’s expression softens.
“Yeah?” He asks.
“Yeah.”
The song reaches its crescendo, and approximately half the dining hall is singing along now, and someone — you think it’s Sidney Crosby but you can’t be sure — has started conducting like it’s a symphony.
When it finally ends, the applause is deafening.
Macklin is bright red.
You’re pretty sure you are too.
“So,” Macklin says, once the noise dies down. “Still having fun?”
“The most fun,” you confirm.
“Want to get out of here?”
“Desperately.”
“There’s a courtyard. It’s quiet.”
“Lead the way.”
You both grab your trays, bus them, and head for the exit.
As you walk past Tristan’s table, he grabs your arm.
“How’s it going?” He whispers.
“I hate you,” you whisper back.
“You love me.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Is he nice?”
You glance at Macklin, who’s waiting by the door, looking back to make sure you’re following.
“Yeah,” you say. “He’s really nice.”
Tristan grins. “Good. Go. Have fun. Use protection.”
“TRISTAN.”
“Emotional protection! I meant emotional protection!”
“I’m leaving.”
“Text me later!”
You catch up to Macklin at the door.
“Your partner’s intense,” he observes.
“You have no idea.”
***
The courtyard is quieter.
There are still people around — athletes walking, talking, enjoying the evening — but it’s manageable. The sun is setting, turning everything gold and pink, and there are string lights hung between the buildings that haven’t been turned on yet but probably will be soon.
You and Macklin find a bench away from the main paths and sit down.
“That was-” Macklin starts.
“A lot?”
“Memorable.”
“That’s a nice way to put it.”
“Your tiramisu survived,” he points out, nodding at the container you’re holding.
“So did yours. Both of them.”
“I told you I needed fuel.”
You open your container and take a bite. It’s good — really good, the kind of good that makes you close your eyes and appreciate it.
When you open them, Macklin is watching you.
“What?” You ask.
“You look like you’re having a religious experience.”
“I take my tiramisu very seriously.”
“I’m learning that about you.”
You take another bite, just to prove your point.
Macklin opens his first container and tries it. His reaction is similar to yours — eyes closed, full appreciation.
“Okay,” he says. “I get it now.”
“Right?”
“This is incredible.”
“We’re in Italy. Even the Olympic Village has good tiramisu.”
“I’m going to miss this when we leave.”
“When do you leave?”
“Depends on how far we make it. Medal rounds are next weekend. You?”
“My part is done other than the exhibition gala. But I’m staying through the closing ceremony. Tristan wants to ‘soak it all in.’” You make air quotes. “His words.”
“That’s nice though. Getting to watch everyone else.”
“Yeah. I’m excited to watch more hockey.”
“Yeah?”
“I mean-” You pause. “I’ll be cheering for Canada either way. But also, specifically, maybe cheering for you.”
Macklin’s face does something that makes your chest feel warm.
“I’d like that,” he says.
“You would?”
“Having you there? Yeah. That would be—yeah.”
You’re both smiling now, and the courtyard is getting darker, and the string lights flicker on, and it’s almost aggressively romantic in the way that only accidentally romantic situations can be.
“Can I ask you something?” Macklin says.
“Sure.”
“Why did you say yes?”
“To dinner?”
“Yeah. You could have said no. After the whole locked-room thing. You could have just gone back to your life. But you said yes.”
You think about this.
“I think-” you start. “I think because you were honest. In the room. About being scared and wanting to talk to me and all of it. You didn’t try to be cool or play it off. You just—you were real.”
“I’m not sure I know how to be anything else.”
“Good. Don’t learn.”
Macklin looks at you for a long moment.
“Can I be honest about something else?” He asks.
“Always.”
“I really want to kiss you right now.”
Your heart stops.
Restarts.
Does a full gymnastics routine.
“But,” Macklin continues quickly, “I know it’s the first date, and we’re in public, and people are probably watching-”
“They’re definitely watching.”
“-and I don’t want to be the guy who moves too fast or makes you uncomfortable or-”
You lean over and kiss him.
It’s quick. Soft. Over before your brain fully catches up to what your body just did.
When you pull back, Macklin is staring at you.
“Sorry,” you say. “You were spiraling.”
“I was—yeah. Okay.”
“Was that okay?”
“That was-” He blinks. “Can I do it again?”
“Yes.”
This time, he kisses you.
It’s longer. Sweeter. His hand comes up to cup your face, and yours finds his shoulder, and somewhere in the background you can hear people cheering but you genuinely don’t care because Macklin Celebrini is kissing you in the Olympic Village courtyard under string lights and it turns out every romantic comedy you’ve ever watched was right about everything.
When you finally break apart, you’re both grinning like idiots.
“So,” Macklin says.
“So,” you echo.
“That was-”
“Really good?”
“Extremely good. Top tier. Gold medal worthy.”
You laugh. “Did you just make an Olympics joke?”
“I’m multifaceted.”
“You’re a dork.”
“Can a dork kiss you again?”
“Absolutely yes.”
So he does.
And across the courtyard, hidden behind a pillar, Tristan and Seth high-five.
“OPERATION OLYMPIC ROMANCE IS A SUCCESS,” Seth announces, too loudly.
“SHUT UP,” you yell, not breaking away from Macklin.
“NEVER!” Tristan yells back.
Macklin starts laughing against your mouth, and you start laughing too, and the kiss dissolves into just joy. Pure, uncomplicated, first-date joy.
“Our friends are insane,” Macklin says.
“The absolute worst,” you agree.
“Want to stay out here anyway?”
“Definitely.”
So you do.
You sit on the bench, Macklin’s arm around your shoulders, your head on his chest, and you eat your tiramisu and talk about nothing and everything until the courtyard gets too cold and you both have to admit that you should probably head back.
“Can I see you tomorrow?” Macklin asks as you’re walking back toward your buildings.
“You have practice.”
“After practice.”
“You need to focus on hockey.”
“I can focus on hockey and see you.”
“That didn’t work out great at the last game.”
“That was before I actually knew you. Now that I know you’re real and not a hallucination, I’ll be fine.”
“A hallucination?”
“Long story.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Is that a yes?”
You stop walking. Look at him. He’s got tiramisu on the corner of his mouth, and his hair is doing something stupid, and he’s looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.
“Yes,” you say. “Tomorrow.”
“Great. Perfect. Amazing.”
“Now wipe your face. You have dessert on it.”
He does, badly.
You reach up and do it properly, and he catches your hand and kisses your palm, and it’s so smooth that you’re genuinely surprised.
“Where did that come from?” You ask.
“I have no idea. It just happened.”
“Do it again.”
He does.
And somewhere in the distance, “That’s Amore” starts playing again, and you both dissolve into laughter, and this — this ridiculous, chaotic, perfect first date — is exactly what you needed.
***
Long distance is hard.
That’s what everyone tells you when you and Macklin decide to make this work after the Olympics. Your friends, your family, random people on the internet who have Opinions about your relationship based on three Instagram photos and a TikTok of you at a Sharks game.
Long distance is hard. Long distance never works. You’re both too busy. You’re too young. It’s going to fall apart.
And yeah, okay, it is hard.
Hard when Macklin’s on a road trip and you’re halfway through a post-Olympic tour around Canada and the clashing schedules means you’re ships passing in the night, communicating through voice memos and texts sent at 2 AM.
Hard when you have a bad practice and all you want is to curl up next to him on the couch, but he’s in Dallas and you’re in Montreal and the best you can do is FaceTime while he sits in his hotel room eating room service.
Hard when the Sharks play the Maple Leafs and you’re in the stands at Scotiabank Arena and Macklin looks up at you between shifts and you can see how much he wants to come up there, and you want him to, but there are 19,000 people and a sheet of ice and an entire hockey game between you.
But it’s also good.
It’s really, really good.
Because Macklin comes to Montreal whenever the Sharks play the Canadiens, and he stays an extra day if he can, and you cook him dinner in your apartment and he pretends it’s great and orders pizza after you fall asleep.
Because you fly to California for endorsement meetings and media appearances, and you add an extra day to the trip so you can stay with him in San Jose, and his teammates chirp him mercilessly but also clearly love you because you brought homemade cookies from your mom and all-dressed chips, which apparently are “way better than American potato chips” according to Tyler Toffoli.
Because you FaceTime every day. Sometimes for five minutes, sometimes for two hours. Sometimes you don’t talk at all, just leave the call running while you do your own things — him playing video games, you foam rolling and watching reality TV.
Because when you won your first Grand Prix assignment in October, Macklin sent flowers to the rink. Red roses with a note that said told you that program was gold medal worthy. Now go prove it again.
Because when the Sharks won their first game of the 2026-27 season, you posted a photo of you in his jersey with the caption that’s my boyfriend!!! and Macklin called you crying-laughing because “you can’t just post things like that when you’re in a different country.”
(You did not care. You did it again.)
So yeah. Long distance is hard.
But Macklin is worth it.
Which is why you’re here, in San Jose, sitting in the SAP Center in the Friends and Family suite, wearing Macklin’s jersey and trying not to have a full emotional crisis about the fact that this is your first time watching him play here.
At home.
In teal.
In the arena where 17,000 people are screaming his name.
“You good?” Asks the woman next to you. She’s in her forties, also wearing a Sharks jersey, and she’s been very nice about explaining various Sharks traditions that you, a lifelong Leafs fan, don’t know.
“Yeah,” you say. “It’s just a lot.”
“First game at the Tank?”
“First game watching him play here, yeah.”
She smiles. “It never stops being overwhelming. I’m Will Smith’s mom. I’ve been coming to these games for years and I still get nervous.”
“That makes me feel better.”
“He’s going to be great. He always is.”
You nod, because she’s right. Macklin is great. You’ve watched him play a dozen times now — in person, on TV, on grainy streams when the game isn’t broadcast in Canada. You’ve watched him score goals and make assists and skate with the kind of confidence that makes you forget he’s twenty.
You’ve also watched him get hit.
A lot.
Which is the part you’re not great with.
The puck drops.
The game starts.
Macklin is on the first line, centering between Smith and Sherwood, and he looks good. Fast. Focused. He wins the opening faceoff and the Sharks maintain possession for the first forty-five seconds before Colorado gets it back.
It’s a fast game. Chippy. Both teams are fighting for playoff positioning even though it’s early in the season, and you can feel the tension from your seat.
Midway through the first period, Macklin gets an assist on a Smith goal, and the Tank erupts, and you’re on your feet screaming before you even realize you’ve stood up.
“THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND!” You yell, which is becoming your signature move apparently.
Will’s mom laughs. “You’re good for morale.”
“I’m very enthusiastic.”
“We love enthusiastic.”
The first period ends 1-1. The second period is more of the same — fast, physical, lots of hits. Macklin takes a hard check into the boards in the defensive zone and you physically flinch, but he pops back up, shakes it off, keeps playing.
“He’s tough,” Will’s mom observes.
“I know. I hate it.”
“You get used to it.”
“Do you?”
“No. But you get better at pretending.”
The Sharks score again early in the second. Then Colorado ties it. Then the Sharks score. Then Colorado ties it again.
By the time the third period starts, it’s 3-3 and you’re stressed.
You’re also loving it, which is confusing, but you’ve learned that hockey does that to you. Makes you feel seventeen emotions simultaneously.
Five minutes into the third, Macklin is in the corner battling for the puck with one of Colorado’s defensemen — you don’t catch the name, but he’s big and physical and playing aggressively.
They’re shoving each other. Nothing unusual. This is hockey. This is how it works.
And then the Colorado player says something.
You can’t hear it from your seat. You can’t even see his mouth move. But you see Macklin’s reaction.
He stops.
Completely freezes for half a second.
And then he drops his gloves.
“Oh shit,” you say.
The Colorado player looks surprised, but he drops his gloves too, and then they’re fighting — actually fighting, fists swinging, jerseys grabbed, the kind of hockey fight that happens maybe once every few games if you’re lucky.
The crowd is going insane.
You’re standing. You don’t remember standing, but you’re on your feet, hands pressed to your mouth, watching Macklin throw punches like he’s done this a thousand times even though you’re pretty sure he hasn’t.
“GO CELEBRINI!” Someone behind you screams.
The refs break it up after about twenty seconds. Both players are sent to the penalty box — five minutes each for fighting.
Macklin skates off the ice, his jersey half-pulled over his head, his hair a mess, and he looks up at the section where you’re sitting.
Your eyes meet.
He grins.
You shake your head, but you’re smiling too.
“What was that?” Will’s mom asks.
“I have no idea,” you say honestly.
But you’re about to find out.
***
The Sharks win 5-4 in overtime.
Macklin gets the game-winning goal, which is objectively incredible and also means the post-game media availability is going to be entirely focused on him.
You wait in the family area, which is a room near the locker room where players’ families and partners wait after games. There are couches, a TV playing the post-game coverage, snacks that you’re stress-eating because that fight is still replaying in your head.
Will’s mom gives you a hug before she leaves. “Welcome to the Sharks family,” she says. “You’re going to fit right in.”
You’re watching the post-game press conference on the TV when you see it happen.
Macklin is at his stall, still in his gear minus the pads, his hair sticking to his forehead. He’s answering questions about the winning goal, about the team’s performance, the usual stuff.
And then a reporter asks what everyone’s been waiting for, “Macklin, you dropped the gloves in the third period, which isn’t something we see from you often. What sparked that fight?”
There’s a pause.
Macklin leans into the microphone.
“He said my girlfriend’s Hadestown program was overrated,” Macklin says, completely serious. “Said it shouldn’t have won gold.”
The room goes silent.
Then erupts.
Reporters are talking over each other, trying to ask follow-ups, but Macklin just keeps going.
“And I just—I snapped,” he continues. “That program was a masterpiece. It was technically flawless, artistically brilliant, and emotionally devastating. She and Tristan on it for months. They deserved that gold medal. And this guy-” Macklin shakes his head. “This guy wouldn’t know art and technicality if it slapped him in the face.”
Someone in the press room laughs.
“So yeah,” Macklin finishes. “That’s why I dropped the gloves. No regrets.”
The reporter tries to ask another question but Macklin is already standing up, done with media, and the feed cuts to the studio analysts, who are all grinning.
In the family room, you’re standing in front of the TV with your hand over your mouth.
“Did he just-” you start.
“He absolutely did,” says one of the other WAGs in the room, laughing. “Oh my god. That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“He fought someone over ice dance.”
“He fought someone over you.”
Your phone is already blowing up.
Tristan has sent approximately fifteen texts, all in caps, all variations of OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE THAT.
Your mom has sent a heart emoji and that boy is a keeper.
The Sharks official Twitter account has posted a clip with the caption Macklin Celebrini: Elite centerman. Art enjoyer. Devoted boyfriend.
It has 40,000 likes in three minutes.
You’re going to kill him.
You’re going to kiss him.
You’re going to do both, in that order.
***
Macklin emerges from the locker room twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in regular clothes, looking slightly sheepish.
“Hey,” he says when he sees you.
“Hey,” you say back.
There’s a pause.
“So,” he starts. “About the fight-”
You grab his collar, pull him down, and kiss him.
Hard.
He makes a surprised noise against your mouth but recovers quickly, his hands coming up to cup your face, kissing you back with the kind of enthusiasm that suggests he’s been thinking about this for the last hour.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless.
“What was that for?” He asks.
“For defending my honor.”
“I mean, he was wrong. Your program was incredible.”
“Mack.”
“What?”
“You fought someone because they said my ice dance program was overrated.”
“He was objectively wrong!”
“You don’t fight! You’ve had like one fight in your entire career!”
“It’s two now.”
“Oh my god.”
“Are you mad?” He looks genuinely uncertain.
“Mad? I’m-” You stop. “I’m the opposite of mad. That was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“Really?”
“You dropped the gloves over ice dance, Macklin. You defended my artistic merit. You called it a masterpiece on national television.”
“It is a masterpiece.”
“I’m going to kiss you again.”
“Please do.”
So you do.
And then again.
And a few more times for good measure.
“Okay,” Macklin says when you finally let him breathe. “So you’re not mad.”
“I’m extremely not mad. I’m actually kind of turned on, which is confusing because violence is bad.”
“Hockey violence is different.”
“Is it?”
“It’s—look, I don’t make the rules.”
You laugh, leaning into him, and he wraps his arms around you.
“You know it’s going to be everywhere, right?” You say. “The fight. The press conference. All of it.”
“I know.”
“People are going to make edits.”
“Probably.”
“There’s going to be a TikTok trend.”
“Almost definitely.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
He pulls back to look at you. “Y/N, I just told an entire press room that your ice dance program was technically flawless and artistically brilliant. I’m pretty sure everyone already knows how I feel about you.”
“And how do you feel about me?”
“I’m in love with you,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Your heart stops.
“You—what?”
“I’m in love with you,” he repeats. “I’ve been in love with you since that first dinner in the Olympic Village when you ate tiramisu like it was a religious experience. Maybe even before that. Maybe since I saw you in the courtyard. I don’t know. But I know I’m in love with you now.”
You’re crying.
You’re actually crying, tears running down your face, and Macklin’s expression immediately shifts to panic.
“Oh no. Oh shit. Was that too fast? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”
“I love you too,” you interrupt.
“-said it so soon, I just wasn’t thinking—wait, what?”
“I love you too, you idiot.”
His face transforms. “Really?”
“Really. I’ve been in love with you since you told me I was the most beautiful person you’d ever seen. In that conference room. When we were locked in together.”
“That was eight months ago.”
“I know.”
“We’ve been in love with each other for eight months and neither of us said anything?”
“Apparently.”
“We’re so bad at this.”
“The worst,” you agree, and then you’re both laughing and crying and kissing, and somewhere in the hallway Tyler Toffoli walks by and yells “GET A ROOM” but neither of you care.
***
You’re at Macklin’s apartment, curled up on his couch, watching the replay of the game on his laptop.
“I can’t believe you did that,” you say for the fifteenth time.
“Which part?” Macklin asks. He’s got his arm around you, playing with your hair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“All of it. The fight. The press conference. The-” You gesture at the screen, where the clip of him defending your program is playing again. “‘Wouldn’t know art and technicality if it slapped him in the face.’ Someone’s going to put that on a t-shirt.”
“I’ll buy one.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love me.”
“I really do.”
Your phone buzzes. It’s a text from Scott.
Scott: Just watched the press conference. That kid really loves you.
You: I know.
Scott: Don’t fuck it up.
You: I won’t.
Scott: Good. Also, tell him I said nice hit. Very protective. I respect it.
You show the text to Macklin.
“Scott Moir respects my fighting,” he says, reading. “That’s cool.”
“He’s the one who locked us in a room together.”
“We should send him a thank you card.”
“We absolutely should.”
You settle back against his chest, watching the game replay. The Sharks are skating, Macklin is celebrating his goal, and somewhere in the stands, there’s a shot of you in his jersey, hands over your mouth, pure joy on your face.
“Look,” Macklin says, pointing. “That’s you.”
“I look insane.”
“You look beautiful.”
“I’m literally screaming.”
“Beautifully.”
You elbow him gently. “You’re such a sap.”
“You love it.”
“I really do.”
The game ends on the screen. The Sharks celebrate. The camera catches Macklin looking up at the stands, finding you, smiling.
“Can I tell you something?” Macklin asks.
“Always.”
“I was so scared. At the Olympics. When we met. I was terrified you wouldn’t like me.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. You were — you are — this incredible, accomplished, beautiful person who just won Olympic gold, and I was just some hockey player who couldn’t stop staring at you.”
“You’re not just some hockey player.”
“I felt like it. In comparison to you.”
You turn to face him properly. “Macklin. You were drafted first overall. You’re living your dream. You score game-winning goals and fight people who insult ice dance. You’re-” You pause. “You’re the best person I know. And I’m so lucky I got locked in that room with you.”
“Me too.”
“Even though there were no puppies?”
“Even though there were no puppies.” He kisses your forehead. “Though for the record, I would get you a puppy if you wanted one.”
“You would?”
“I would get you anything you wanted.”
“All I want is you.”
“That’s very convenient, because you already have me.”
You kiss him, soft and sweet, and outside the window San Jose is alive with light, and somewhere in Montreal Tristan is probably texting you again, and somewhere in the world the video of Macklin defending your program is going viral, and none of it matters because you’re here.
With him.
With the boy who saw you across an Olympic courtyard and decided you were worth fighting for.
Literally.
“Hey,” Macklin says against your lips.
“Hey,” you say back.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Good.” He grins. “Because I’m planning to keep you for a really long time.”
“How long?”
“Like … forever? Is forever weird? That might be too much-”
“Forever sounds perfect,” you interrupt.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And eight months after meeting in an Olympic Village, three hours after Macklin dropped the gloves to defend your artistic integrity, and exactly fifteen seconds since you realized this was what you wanted all along, you kiss him again and think about how sometimes the best stories start with a conspiracy, a locked door, and two people who were brave enough to take the chance.
Even if that chance involves fake puppies, Mario Kart lies, and a singing rendition of “That’s Amore” in an Olympic dining hall.
I don’t even now where to start. I loved that (maybe unintentional) Little Women reference in the first part - “When did you become so wise?” “I always was”
The whole team all playing into the matchmaker thing, SPECIFICALLY SID, was actually soooo perfect. The cafeteria part was incredibly fun to read 😭
This was one of THE best reads I’ve had in a while 🥹
mack and y/n meet at the olympics where they both compete for a medal.
includes: snowboarder!reader. no warnings really! except the fact that the plot kinda got lost in here. it’s more just a crosby!daughter story than a real evolution of a relationship. also mack and reader go from meeting to potentially dating real quick, if that’s something that bothers you.
author’s note: i don’t love this but i spent way too much time on it not to post it so i hope you guys find some enjoyment in it <33
sidthekidskid: she signed a board for his sister? that’s so sweet🥲
⤷ user79: i swear she’s sid’s little clone in every aspect.
⤷ user82: whenever i read stuff like this about her i lowkey get choked up cause you can just tell she was raised by sidney crosby. i love good humans making more good humans.
⤷ user71: feels like yesterday the internet was losing their minds over those pictures of y/n sitting in the staley cup as a little baby and now they’re losing their minds over what could very well be the next sid wanting to meet her. just how fast the night changes or whatever they say.
user62: the crosby’s are fr canada’s royal family. never heard anyone say a bad word about any of them.
⤷ user12: it’s helped me cope with sid’s looming retirement so much better knowing we’ll still have a crosby repping canada
⤷ user13: same and at least we’ll see snippets of him on her social media. i hope🥲
⤷ user12: yeah idk. she’s not as private as him but she’s still very private lol😖 but we can hope.
user87: marchy clocking his shit instantly is sending me😭
⤷ user16: you know he’s telling this story to anyone who will listen
⤷ user34: the funny thing is marchy 100% encouraged them to ask just to make fun of them for it💀
user97: asking about her at summer skate?? with her dad and all her honorary uncles?? crazy work.
⤷ user63: no cuz everyone’s acting like he should be worried about sid but sid’s the most polite guy ever and would probably set up a meeting for him if he asked for it.
⤷ user29: nate on the other hand? i would pay a lot of money to have seen the look on his face when she was mentioned.
user47: i just know he was offended on both sid and y/n's part
user65: i love how we're all in agreement that nate is the one people should worry about, and not sid.
user48: nate does not play about sid and mini sid and that's honestly my favourite thing about him.
user32: like do you guys not remember the media frenzy when nate begged sid to let y/n skip school so that she could go to colorado to watch the stanley cup finals? that's always been his little bestie.
user55: i will always stand by the fact that what sid is to nate, nate is to y/n.
user76: not getting into the celebrini of it all but i would like to add that y/n still gets the little handwritten heart by sid and the handwritten smiley face by nate on every snowboard she competes with.
user76: will hyping him up like "just ask bro it's fine" while natemac is staring into his soul.
user44: the only time they want to lose LMAO
user98: stop. them playing sting pong and whoever chickens out first has to ask.
user56: nate would say nothing the entire time and then at the end go "so what are your intentions"
user92: i can't believe will was there for this too.
user67: i can hear the polite canadian "sorry? pardon me?" through the screen.
user92: LMAO he is never going out of his way to invite young guys to skate with him ever again.
user56: summer skate list getting shorter and shorter. before you know it, it'll just be open to nova scotians.
user76: the moment he knew his retirement is closer than ever.
user04: crying cause you're so right. the moment some young kid mentions y/n to him on the ice he knows it's time to go.
user11: it's crazy to me that he sat on this info for five months and then decided to drop it right before they're all about to be in the same place. he's so messy.
user46: marchy doing the most to play mind games even against his teammates. even against the children. what a little rat (affectionate).
user54: the funny thing about the marchy egging them on theory is that marchy would also know where y/n is so he could just tell him but chose not to.
user87: i know no one in marchy's life sees a minute of peace with his instigating ass.
user22: what??? i don't know the lore. someone please fill me in.
user53: connor’s childhood best friend, alex, is also a snowboarder for team canada and him and y/n are really good friends so they know each other through him.
user10: alex is also dating one of y/n’s best friends so their friend groups are very intertwined. go to any of their instagram pages and you’ll find a lot of pics of the group hanging out during the summer.
user41: this is so funny. mack really could’ve gone about 500 other routes to get in touch with y/n and he chose the hardest one.
yncrosby posted on their story . 15m
♪ ┆ so easy (to fall in love) by olivia dean
[ caption: a little village dinner before action tomorrow🍝 ]
view all comments
user76: the song choice? she’s so insane for that.
user98: why is he looking at her like that. why is he leaning in. why am i unwell.
user83: she knows EXACTLY what she’s doing. don’t play with me.
alexblanchard: go easy on the guy. he’s a good one.
⤷ connorbedard: seconded.
⤷ user87: bedsy getting involved? what is going on.
⤷ user12: alex please💀 do you even know macklin?
⤷ user42: i’m pretty sure he doesn’t😭 just out here vouching for people he doesn’t know.
⤷ alexblanchard: just met him at dinner. nicest guy.
user34: if this is her being subtle i’m terrified for when she’s not.
⤷ user23: they’re both insane. i fear they match each other’s freak real good😭
✉️ ┆ c.bedard replied to your story !
[ connor bedard ] be nice to mack. seriously.
[ connor bedard ] he’s been wanting to meet you a while.
[ you ] why does everyone know that and i don’t??
[ connor bedard ] i’ve been busy and you never have signal when i call you for some reason😕
[ you ] miss you. you should be here🥲
[ connor bedard ] next time. i’m gonna enjoy my time on the beach for now tho
[ you ] remember sunscreen ❕
[ connor bedard ] yes mother 🙄 bring home some hardware
[ you ] i’ll do my best <3
✉️ ┆ m.celebrini replied to your story !
[ macklin celebrini ] omg
[ macklin celebrini ] can i have one shred of dignity left pls
[ you ] i think it’s cute that you were eager to meet me🙂
[ macklin celebrini ] ???
[ you ] i always love meeting my fans.
[ macklin celebrini ] okay first of all. fan is diabolical.
[ you ] so … you weren’t eager to meet me :/
[ macklin celebrini ] i didn’t say that
[ you ] “eager is crazy” will you write that on my board tomorrow?
[ macklin celebrini ] sure. crosby’s are superstitious tho right? so when you win with it does that mean we get dinner together every night while we’re here?👀
[ you ] when i win? very confident in my abilities i see
[ macklin celebrini ] not stupid enough to bet against a crosby wearing the maple leaf.
[ you ] unfortunately the other crosby has seniority and will probably have other dinner plans for you☹️ buttt you’ll probably see me again before we all leave. i hope <3
[ macklin celebrini ] who’s eager now?😌 i’ll hold you to it.
user72: can someone explain the significance of this please? i’m a bit lost…
user13: nate draws the smiley and sid draws the heart on every board she’s had since her first world junior championships i wanna say? maybe even longer. don’t know about the new phrase but it is VERY interesting that she added something, especially this close to a competition👀
user93: sid wearing a new neck guard and y/n having new stuff drawn on her board — the crosby’s are implementing change. what anomaly is this? someone hold my hand.
user82: did she write it or did sid or nate? do we know who wrote it?
user23: definitely not her, sid or nate. doesn’t look like any of their handwriting.
user90: and if i say it’s mack’s handwriting?😌
user99: it is definitely a mack reference. if she wins with that written on her board they’re getting married idc idc.
tsn
liked by c.bedard, tatemcrae, willsmith2 and others.
tsn: y/n crosby claims her second gold medal of the 2026 olympic games, with supporters from both the men’s and women’s canadian hockey teams in attendance. she joins an elite list of snowboarders to capture gold in both the big air and halfpipe at the same olympics. canada’s only two gold medals so far? both belong to crosby.
view all comments
c.bedard: 🐐🐐🐐
⤷ user91: should’ve been there with her😔
⤷ user72: my fav duo. need you two reunited soon
⤷ alexblanchard: we’re a throuple actually
⤷ yourusername: do you mean a TRIO alex???
⤷ alexblanchard: omg a trio not a throuple BAHAHAH
⤷ user72: ALEX PLS💀
bmarchand: i taught her everything she knows. #prouduncle
⤷ user11: sir?? she snowboards😭
⤷ user45: did you teach her how to chirp too? be honest. i know between you and nate she can throw a few mean insults.
⤷ user02: PROUD UNCLE??? i need sid to get instagram and join the shenanigans rn.
⤷ yourusername: it’s true he did😌 he taught me short people can have big dreams.
⤷ bmarchand: i told you in the summer if you make one more short joke, drinks are on you for the foreseeable future.
⤷ yourusername: drinks will be on you until you’re on your deathbed and it’s your fault for deeming yourself my favorite uncle when i was eight so🤷🏻♀️
⤷ bmarchand: touché kid. proud of you❤️
nathanmackinnon: one of one.
⤷ user62: their relationship means everything to me actually.
⤷ user12: same.
⤷ user85: trying to be the biggest crosby fan but nathan mackinnon is your opp. good luck with that.
user84: first two gold medals for canada and hopefully a good sign that we’ll pick up a couple more
⤷ user47: would be so cool if both her and sid could win one in the same year. especially if this is his last one🥲
user26: how many does she have now? all time not just here.
⤷ user58: 🥇x3 , 🥈x1
⤷ user79: and she’s 19!!! that’s so crazy to me. i’ve always mourned the fact that she chose to do snowboarding over hockey but it’s obvious that she’s built for this.
user76: two types of stress | avoidance vs. hyperfixation
user95: this just encapsulates sid and nate so well
user39: sid’s coping mechanism is superstition and nate’s coping mechanism is staring the danger down.
user63: dad sid is so precious to me. he’s papa bear to the maxxxx
user57: thinking about that article where sid talked about how he had a hard time when y/n was little and she wanted to play goalie because he said he didn’t love the idea of her being the one everyone shoots at☹️
user42: i remember that! he joked about it but you could tell it wasn’t really a joke😕
user92: and then she went and did something even more dangerous
user72: i’m actually unwell thinking about him sitting there, hands clasped, staring at the floor, waiting for the noise.
user77: was mack there too? i didn’t see him on the broadcast too much
user86: yes! he was there. a clip of their hug is going viral on tiktok and she confirmed in an interview after that he wrote the ‘eager beaver’ on her board so you can imagine how people are reacting to that LMAO
user87: i also wouldn’t be able to look at her competing if this is all i saw when i looked at her😭
user63: that’s sid’s shayla fr
user92: the little red helmet and maple leaf suit. she’s always been canada down y’all.
user28: she popped out the womb patriotic i’m crying. what else is expected from sid’s kid tho.
user73: the tears in his eyes while watching her on the podium??? how many more times am i gonna see sid cry this year? it’s too much for me🥲 someone hug that man.
user86: marchy hugged him! but he was crying more than sid so it was more like sid comforting him LMAO
user64: i love how whenever sid shares any personal information with us it’s always about y/n because he just can’t help but talk about how proud he is of her and how much he loves her.
user63: not sid throwing playful shade😭
user94: i’m taking this as confirmation that they’re dating and that sid approves.
user71: i can’t get over the fact that he went with them to watch her compete + saw her win a gold medal + shared a hug in public that’s more intimate than anything i’ve experienced in my entire life.
user11: she’s definitely watching their games right?? i would think, since she’s done competing now.
user75: she confirmed she’s gonna be at all of canada’s remaining games!
yncrosby
♪ ┆ let it all work out by lil wayne
liked by nathanmackinnon, macklincelebrini, and others.
yncrosby: magic in milan. i love you canada ❤️🇨🇦
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user07: that side profile shot needs to be in a museum.
⤷ user72: the prettiest to ever do it.
user83: we love you back queen🫶🏼🇨🇦
⤷ user62: canada’s favorite daughter idc idc.
macklincelebrini: 🥇🥇🥇
⤷ user28: he really said “in case anyone forgot”
⤷ yncrosby: you owe me a beavertail
⤷ user63: not the beavertail😭
⤷ user21: what is with them and beavers?💀
nathanmackinnon: so fucking proud ❤️
⤷ bmarchand: i love how you only swear on social media because you know sid won’t see it.
⤷ user90: marchy acting like someone hasn’t already sent sid screenshots.
user22: that picture of the mack hug?? i’m so ill.
⤷ user76: the way she’s smiling and he looks overwhelmed?? inject it into my veins.
⤷ user11: the grip? sir no one is taking her from you.
⤷ user26: i wouldn’t be so sure. i think nate is still debating pushing him off that mountain actually😭
user63: her being sandwiched between charlie and rj😭 i just know they argued over who got to sit next to her until she decided to sit in the middle.
user72: charlie hiding in her shoulder and rj clinging to her hand for dear life during mack’s penalty shot. they’re so cute stop.
user11: thinking about that video where mack said charlie is a huge y/n fan and now she’s sitting next to her☹️
user22: i need y/n to be mic’d up at these games.
user96: this is so crazy to me. how does she look like a part of the family and she’s probably only known them a couple days
user76: mind you she’s only known mack like two weeks😭
user32: no same. i lost it when her and rick high fived. my brain cannot comprehend rick’s kid and sid’s kid doing whatever it is that they’re doing. that feels illegal.
macklincelebrini
♪ ┆ i love life, thank you by mac miller
liked by willsmith2, cbedard, bmarchand, and others.
macklincelebrini: 😁
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user22: the 😁 is taking me OUT like he’s trying to act casual.
⤷ user73: it’s better than no caption i guess?😭
user64: we love life too when you post king😌
⤷ user83: will love life a whole lot more when he’s back in teal.
⤷ user90: no same i’m done sharing mack with canada he needs to come back right neow.
⤷ user23: is @/user90 will’s burner account?
⤷ user26: LMAO💀
nathanmackinnon: wonderkid.
⤷ user10: huge for everyone who thinks nate wants to kill mack for breathing near y/n.
⤷ user72: nah he still wants to. he’s playing the long game.
⤷ user58: biding his time. gaining trust. waiting for the perfect moment to strike. etc etc.
⤷ user87: natemac fans are just as crazy as he is holy shit.
⤷ user53: i know nate was reading these comments and having himself a little laugh.
user12: the second last pic is so cute are you kidding me??
cmcdavid97: 🇨🇦❤️
⤷ user59: mack is literally his son now.
⤷ user62: the oilers need to get davo a rookie asap. he looks so happy when he can play mother hen.
⤷ user17: things i never thought i’d see.
cattoffoli: cuties🫶🏼
user81: y/n having her mouth open or her tongue out in all these pics is sending me.
⤷ user14: she has exactly two modes: yelling or laughing.
⤷ user63: no because why is she mid-scream in half of them 😭
⤷ yncrosby: he loves posting my bad angles🙄
⤷ macklincelebrini: you don’t have any bad angles😌
⤷ willsmith2: EWWWWW
charliecelebrini: my faves ❤️
⤷ yncrosby: adore you charls <33
⤷ aidencelebrini: this is already a dangerous duo @/macklincelebrini
⤷ macklincelebrini: should’ve seen them at dinner. rj and i could’ve used some backup. we miss you!
user82: we’re gonna see y/n at sharks games now right?
user91: does this count as the hard launch of the century?
Summary: His girlfriend scares easily so Luke has taken to making his presence known any time he is around to try and avoid scaring her
Authors note: Luke is a total rage baiter in this
Word count: 1.2k
Luke truly didn't mean to scare y/n so often.
But after a few too many times of y/n slapping at him for scaring the hell out of her, he started making a point to announce his presence when he thinks she might not expect him. Which seems to have provoked annoyance more often than not.
"Baby! I'm back! I'm walking through the door-I'm walking down the hallway. I'm looking for you so I can give you a hug." Luke exclaims before y/n appears in his line of sight and he grins at her while she deadpans a look at him. "Are you not happy to see me? And this time without peeing your pants?"
"You're so annoying. It's not funny." Y/n huffs while Luke moves over and scoops her up into a hug.
"I just have to make sure my skittish girlfriend isn't getting scared every time I walk through the door." Luke laughs before managing to press a kiss on her lips. "When did you wake up?"
"About an hour ago." Y/n smiles before she leans over and kisses him softly. "Where's Jack?"
"Out somewhere. I don't know." Luke shrugs earning a hum as he scoops her legs up. "Now you know it's me who is back...how about we make use of having the place to ourselves?"
"Sounds good to me."
-
When y/n gets it in her head that she needs to clean, she immerses herself in the task and always has a specific playlist playing through the apartment.
Which is fine, until Luke has to try and make sure he doesn't scare the hell out of her.
So he makes his entrance as loud as possible slamming the doors and thudding his footsteps which makes y/n appear from under the sofa with a frown.
"I'm home! Y/n, I'm walking through the apartment. It's me, your boyfriend Luke." Luke yells while y/n deadpans her expression. "Do you not appreciate the effort I put into not making you jump and have a heart attack."
"We have neighbours, Luke."
"And I have a girlfriend who yells at me when I scare her so I have to make myself known when I enter to avoid scaring." Luke smiles then looking around. "Why were you underneath the sofa?"
"It's filthy under there." Y/n grimaces while Luke hums. "The whole apartment is gross."
"You can't blame me and Jack for that. We're hardly here." Luke states earning a glare since the insinuation is that she is the cause for the "gross" element of the apartment. "Maybe I should announce that I'm leaving again."
Y/n rolls her eyes since he does the exact opposite and steps forward with a laugh, scooping y/n up into a kiss.
"For the record, it might annoy you but so far my louder announcements of my arrival home works out pretty well to not scare you." Luke states brightly earning a grumble.
"You're just so annoying instead."
"I didn't say it was nicer to witness." Luke shrugs then reaching one hand down to squeeze her ass. "You could always try not being so easy to scare."
"I could always be single too."
"Ouch. Baby, that hurts." Luke pouts playfully since he knows she's not really going to dump him.
-
Luke smirks as he wakes up to hear the sound of the shower running. Lifting his from the pillows.
An opportunity he can't possibly turn up. He grins knocking on the door lightly before opening it and clearing his throat.
"I'm walking into the bathroom. I'm heading towards the toilet. I'm pulling down my shorts and-"
"If you are about to give me a play-by-play of your process of having your morning pee. I'm going to leave this bathroom single and so are you."
"Maybe I was about to join you in the shower." Luke smirks though he pushes the toilet seat up with a sigh and pees exactly as she predicted. "I am peeing for the record."
"Oh thanks for the clarification and they say romance is dead." Y/n states sarcastically from the shower while Luke sighs turning to lean against the sink.
"I'm walking in the shower. I'm right here beside you." Luke states he moves into the smaller space and holds her waist, planting skins on her wet skin.
"You're so annoying."
"You're just so jumpy baby, I don't know how else to not scare you." Luke smiles then placing a few kisses on her neck. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, baby."
-
Y/n drunkenly stumbles into the silent apartment, landing with a thud as the door flies from her grip.
"HE-Y. Hey! It's me. I'm home. Don't worry. Not an intruder." Y/n exclaims then rolling over as she kicks the door closed and lies on her back, giggling to herself.
"I'm going to kill you." Jack's voice declares making her gasp.
"Oh sorry Jack. I'm sorry." Y/n whispers as if she can undo her volume while Luke moves around and pick her up. "I'm sorry, Jacky."
"Yeah. Yeah." Jack yawns moving to make sure the door is locked while Luke smiles trying not to laugh since he find it funny that y/n was purposely shouting just to mimic Luke's approach to when he'd return home.
"Oopsy." Y/n giggles as Luke places her down on the bed. "I was just trying to make sure I didn't scare anyone."
Luke hums as he undoes her jeans and shimmies them down her legs.
"Sure."
"Are you mad?"
"No. I thought it was funny." Luke chuckles leaning over and kissing her before grimacing. "How much did you drink, baby?"
"I don't know. I...I don't know." Y/n murmurs then sticking out her tongue like she can tell how much she drank if she can see her tongue.
"I think Jack might've just ban the announcement of walking into rooms." Luke states then poking her tongue making it snap back into her mouth. "I love you."
"I love you too. Can we cuddle?" Y/n grins before she makes grabby hands at him.
"I'm gonna get you some water...do you want help to the toilet?" Luke asks knowing that y/n when she's drunk is always back and forward to the bathroom.
Luke gets y/n to the bathroom and rushes to the kitchen to get her some water then after placing the glass on her bedside table and moving back to the bathroom to gather his girlfriend who squeaks and slaps a hand over her mouth when he appears.
"You're just too easy to scare, baby." Luke laughs before pulling y/n up and flushing the toilet for her before deciding to just wash both their hands in the process of washing hers.
Eventually she's pulled to bed where he'd been peacefully sleeping, subconsciously expecting a phone call to pick her up, only 20 minutes ago.
summary: years have gonna quick, your family is complete and your eldest has become sids worst nightmare (kinda)
request: pretty long so you can find it here
word count: 10.2k
song: Sweet - Lana Del Rey
a/n: this one was a pleasure to write, I love the idea of a young Sid becoming a father, and also having just a herd of children, love it… thank you to whoever requested this one, I hope you enjoy!!!!
—
When you were fifteen, the world still felt endless, like a place you could get lost in and never have to come back from. It smelled like wet grass after practice, like borrowed jerseys and the sweet smoke that drifted from bonfires on late summer nights.
That was the year Sidney Crosby started walking you home.
He’d already been the boy people whispered about, the one on the verge of something huge. But to you, he was just the boy who stopped his stride to match yours when your backpack was heavy, who looked at you through fogged-up bus windows like you were the only familiar thing in a world that kept changing too fast.
You’d tease him for being quiet. He’d tease you for never shutting up. Somewhere in between, it turned into something softer something the universe had written in the stars before either of you knew how to read.
He taught you to skate one winter afternoon at the little rink behind his house, both of you bundled so thick you could barely move. The sky was bruised purple, the air cold enough to bite your nose, and your hands were trembling inside his gloves. You couldn’t stop laughing every time you fell, and he couldn’t stop reaching for you.
“Stop letting me win,” you said breathlessly after your tenth stumble.
“I’m not,” he lied easily, grinning.
You leaned into him, cheeks burning from the cold. “You so are.”
He shrugged, eyes bright beneath the edge of his toque. “Maybe I just like seeing you smile.”
And that was it. That was the whole beginning.
The years after that were a blur of growing up together, half kids, half something that felt much older. Long bus rides. Shared playlists. Handwritten letters when he traveled for tournaments. He’d press them into your palm before he left, smelling faintly of soap and winter air.
When his first interview hit TV, your mom called you in to watch. You tried to play it cool, but your chest had gone warm all the same. The kid with the shy smile and the soft eyes on the screen was still the one who’d held your hand while you tried not to fall.
By seventeen, things were different. Scouts started showing up, reporters too, and the weight of what could be pressed down on him harder every week. He was still Sid, still the boy who carried your skates and bought you hot chocolate, but now there were people in suits whispering his name in hallways.
He never let it change how he looked at you. If anything, he held tighter. He’d call from away games, voice quiet and tired, and you’d listen while he talked about drills and travel and the strange loneliness that came with being the kid everyone already decided was special.
“Everyone keeps saying I’m supposed to be something,” he’d murmur into the phone, static crackling in the line.
“You already are,” you’d whisper back.
He’d go quiet for a moment, and then, softly: “You know I couldn’t do this without you, right?”
You smiled into the dark. “You could. You just don’t have to.”
When draft week came, he begged you to come with him. Not casually, not with that half-grin charm he actually showed up at your door with his cap in his hands and asked your parents if they’d let you go.
“I’ll make sure she’s safe,” he promised, awkward in the foyer while your mom tried not to laugh. “I just need her there.”
Your dad looked at you, then at him, then said, “Don’t let her get lost in the airport.”
Your mom told you afterward that your dad couldn’t even get through his next beer because of how earnestly Sid had asked.
You packed what would fit in a duffel bag. You couldn’t believe any of it was real until you were sitting in that conference room in Ottawa, your hand in his, the smell of cologne and fresh paint hanging in the air. His knee was bouncing the whole time, and when they finally called his name, he just froze.
“Go,” you whispered.
He turned to you, eyes wide, and smiled like he’d been waiting for permission.
You clapped until your hands burned, crying and laughing all at once while he walked to the stage in that new suit. Cameras flashed and somewhere between him pulling on the jersey and the first handshake, he looked right at you and smiled that big crooked smile of his.
Later, when it was all over and the photographers had finally left him alone, he found you in the hallway, still in that scratchy borrowed blouse. He didn’t say a word, just picked you up and spun you once, his face pressed into your neck.
“I did it,” he whispered.
“You did,” you said, grinning against his shoulder. “You really did.”
He set you down but didn’t let go of your hand. “Don’t go home yet.”
“I have to, Sid.”
“Not forever. Just… promise you’ll come when I move. I don’t want to do any of this without you.”
You promised. Of course you did.
You flew home with him afterward. He couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop looking at you like you were the one who made it happen. You remember sitting in the window seat, his head tipped against your shoulder, his voice low.
“Pittsburgh,” he said, like he was testing the sound of it. “You think you’ll come visit?”
You’d laughed, nudged him with your knee. “Visit? You’re gonna be too busy being famous for me.”
“Bullshit,” he said immediately, voice soft but steady. “You’re coming with me eventually. I’ll figure it out.”
And he did.
He was drafted at seventeen, moved at eighteen, and you visited whenever school and money let you. Holidays. Long weekends. You’d show up at the rink, nervous and proud, and he’d find you in the stands no matter how big the crowd got.
But those first few years were strange anyway, calls late at night, you half-asleep in your childhood bedroom while he was in some hotel room miles away, whispering about how weird it was to live in a house owned by a legend he looked up to, about how he kept forgetting to eat dinner because he was so focused on training. You’d listen, eyes closed, smiling into the phone.
“You okay?” you’d ask sometimes.
He’d hum a little, that low sound that always meant he was thinking too much. “Yeah. Just... wish you were here.”
Sometimes when you’d visit he’d walk you through locker-room corridors that smelled like tape and sweat and ice, his hand at the small of your back like he still couldn’t believe you were there. “You miss home?” you asked once.
“Sometimes,” he said, glancing over. “But it feels less far when you’re here.”
You were twenty when he finally asked you to move to Pittsburgh. He asked like he’d already been carrying the thought around in his chest for months.
“Come here,” he said one night, over video call, his hair a mess from practice and his voice rough with exhaustion. “I can’t do this long-distance shit anymore, Y/n. I hate it. I hate coming home to an empty house. I hate not seeing you.”
You’d blinked, quiet for a moment, because he looked so serious, so heartbreakingly sincere.
“Sid—”
“Just move here,” he interrupted, desperate now. “Please. I’ll get you whatever you need. You can finish school here. Or work. I don’t care. Do nothing at all. I’ll take care of you. I just... I want you here.”
He flew back the next day. Drove straight from the airport to your parents’ house. Sat at the kitchen table across from your dad again, nervous as hell, palms pressed flat against the wood.
“I want to take care of her,” he’d said, voice shaking slightly. “And I can’t do that if she’s in a different country.”
Your mom teared up immediately. Your dad sighed, leaned back, and after a long pause, finally nodded.
And just like that, you were packing boxes, saying goodbye to childhood bedrooms, and watching the world blur past the car window as you followed him to Pittsburgh.
The first apartment wasn’t fancy. It was too quiet at night, and you could hear the hum of the fridge from your shared bedroom. But every morning, he’d wake up first, kiss your shoulder, whisper something half-asleep like, “You look pretty in the morning light.” Every night, he’d pull you against him and fall asleep mid-sentence.
There were days you’d find his gear drying in the bathtub because he didn’t want to wake you by running the laundry too late. There were nights he’d come home so exhausted he’d just drop onto the couch in full hoodie and sweats, mumbling, “Don’t let me nap, I’ll mess up my schedule,” and then you’d end up curled against him anyway, a movie still playing in the background.
He took you to games whenever he could. You’d sit quietly in a seat where he could see you, heart pounding, the cold seeping through your coat while you watched him move. There was something different about seeing him under the lights, all focus and precision. The same boy who once tripped over his own stick now commanded the ice like he’d been born there.
Between periods he’d skate past and tap his stick on the glass right where you sat. Just once, quick, but always there.
You’d smile every single time.
Afterward, when the reporters swarmed him and the cameras flashed, you’d wait in the car with the heater running. He’d slide into the passenger seat, still flushed, smelling like sweat and the faint sweetness of his shampoo.
“They asked about you again,” he’d mutter, unbuttoning his shirt.
“What’d you say?”
“That you hate attention.”
You grinned. “Good answer.”
He leaned over and kissed your cheek. “It’s true.”
It was all noise and bright lights; media, pressure, expectation, but he still came back to you every night, still left his stick leaning against the wall by the door like it was a normal life you shared. You’d sit together on the couch, half-watching TV, your legs thrown over his lap while he iced his knee.
“You ever think about where we started?” you asked once.
He smiled, eyes closed. “Backyard rink, remember?”
“Yeah.”
“Still my favourite place in the world.”
You laughed quietly. “Even after all this?”
He opened one eye, smiled crookedly. “Especially after all this.”
When he lifted the Cup at twenty-one, you were there in the crowd, screaming yourself hoarse, surrounded by people who had no idea the girl crying with joy was the same one who’d once knocked him flat on his ass because she couldn’t stop slipping.
That night, when the world went quiet again, he got home, exhausted and glowing. His hair was still damp from the shower. He didn’t say much—he never did—but when you kissed him, it felt like the whole thing had been leading here.
He rested his forehead against yours and whispered, “Can you believe it?”
You smiled. “I can believe you.”
And the ring he slid on your finger that summer during a quiet ceremony on a Cole Harbour beach with just family and the sound of waves still catches the light the same way now.
The baby came next, because of course she did.
You’d been nauseous for days before you finally bought the test. He was the one pacing outside the bathroom door, muttering, “Whatever it says, we’ll figure it out.” When you stepped out, teary and smiling, he went pale, then grinned so wide it hurt to look at.
“Guess we’re really doing this,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Looks like it.”
He laughed nervously, then kissed you like it was the first time all over again. “You’re gonna be an amazing mom.”
“And you’re gonna be—” you stopped, still stunned “—holy shit, Sid. You’re gonna be someone’s dad.”
He blinked, then started laughing too, the kind of laugh that comes when you’re so scared you can’t do anything else.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, pulling you into a hug. “I don’t even know how to hold a baby.”
“You’ll learn.”
And he did.
Nine months later, you were in a hospital bed with his hand wrapped tight around yours, and the nurse was telling you to breathe. He was pale, trying to look brave, squeezing your hand like he could take the pain for you. And then suddenly she was there, pink and perfect and wailing her lungs out.
Sophie.
He cried before you did. Big, stupid tears that caught in his eyelashes. He didn’t even try to hide them. “Hey, bug,” he whispered, voice cracking. “It’s Dad. You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re perfect.”
You watched him cradle her like she was made of glass. Every instinct in him shifted right then, like the world rearranged itself around that tiny heartbeat.
It didn’t happen overnight, but the apartment turned into something else, baby clothes hanging over the chairs, formula tins stacked by the sink, a bassinet squeezed between the couch and the wall.
He’d rush home from practice, still in sweats, to change diapers and rock her back to sleep. When she cried at three in the morning, he’d stumble out of bed mumbling, “Got it, sweetheart,” before you could even move.
He’d sit in the dim light of the nursery, whispering stories to her about road trips and ice rinks, his voice low and soft.
You’d watch from the doorway, heart breaking and healing all at once.
Sometimes he’d look up, catch you there, and smile that small, crooked smile. “Hey,” he’d whisper. “Look what we did.”
And you’d nod, eyes burning. “Yeah. Look what we did.”
She was colicky and impossibly loud for something so small. You’d walk the floor until your arms ached, both of you running on caffeine and adrenaline. Sid would take over when you couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore, pacing the narrow hall in his socks, whispering nonsense like it was a game plan.
“Alright, kiddo. We’re gonna regroup. You, me, fresh diaper. Maybe a little bottle. Let’s execute, yeah?”
Some mornings he’d fall asleep sitting up with her tucked under his chin, one hand cupped over the back of her tiny head. He’d wake an hour later, stiff and grinning. “We survived,” he’d whisper, like it was the first win of the season.
And then he’d go to practice.
The team got used to him showing up with dark circles under his eyes, baby spit on his sleeve. A few of the guys teased him and he’d just shrug, that quiet pride sitting behind everything he said. “She’s perfect,” he’d tell them. “Loud as hell, but perfect.”
He kept a photo of her tucked in his glove compartment. One of those quick Polaroids from the hospital, her wrinkled face, his exhausted smile. He’d touch it sometimes before games, a quick tap like superstition.
And when the concussions started, Sophie was barely starting to stand on her own.
You’d known it could happen, but nothing prepares you for the stillness of a darkened room, the way he’d wince when the lights were too bright or the noise too sharp. The house would go quiet those weeks; no TV, curtains drawn, Sophie’s toys moved to the far end of the hall.
You’d tiptoe around with her in your arms, whispering, “Daddy’s resting, bug.”
Sometimes you’d find her crawling up onto the couch where he lay, blanket pulled up to his chin. She’d place her small hand on his cheek, just sit there, like she could will the ache away.
He’d open his eyes, dazed and soft. “Hey, Soph,” he’d whisper, and she’d smile that tiny, toothy smile that always broke him open.
“Da?” she’d ask, the word new in her mouth.
“Yeah, baby. Way better.”
It was the smallest thing, her chubby hand on his jaw, his smile, but it felt like a whole universe of love pressed into that quiet room.
She started walking during an off-week. He’d been on the floor building a ridiculous tower of blocks, head still tender, body still tired. You were folding laundry, half-listening to him mumble commentary under his breath.
“Alright, we’ve got a strong defensive structure,” he said, stacking the last block on top. “Team Crosby looks solid.”
Then she just… stood up. No warning. No wobble. Took two steps straight toward him, squealing.
He froze, jaw slack. “Did you—did you see that?”
You looked up, half a shirt still in your hands, and laughed through a sob. “She’s walking!”
He caught her before she could fall, scooping her up, spinning once, dizzy and loud. “You did it! You did it, bug!”
She squealed again, hands fisted in his shirt, and he looked at you over her shoulder, grinning like a fool. “She’s an athlete already.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Or she’s just trying to get away from you.”
He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Same thing.”
That night he stayed up late editing video clips of her waddling across the rug, adding dramatic hockey commentary over it. “And Sophie Crosby takes her first stride, beautiful form… what a natural.”
Time folded around itself after that. Healing, practices, road trips, baby milestones. Sophie’s first full word, dada, of course, her first haircut, her first visit to the rink. She’d toddle around the locker room in a tiny jersey with his number stitched across the back, grabbing at tape rolls and water bottles.
The guys loved her. They called her the team mascot. She’d stumble from one to another, babbling, sticky fingers clutching protein bars from the snack table.
Sid never got over it. Every time she called for him, something in his chest lit up.
“She’s gonna run this place someday,” he said once, watching her chase a puck across the floor.
You nudged him with your shoulder. “You say that like you’re proud.”
“I am,” he said easily. “Scared as hell, but proud.”
There were rough days too, nights where his headaches came back, or the pressure of everything he carried pushed down harder than usual. He’d come home quiet, jaw tight, and you’d know without asking.
You’d hand him the baby, press a kiss to his temple. “Go rock her for a while.”
And he would. Always. Within minutes the tension would bleed out of his shoulders, replaced by that soft smile you loved more than anything.
Sometimes you’d catch them dancing in the living room, her tiny head on his shoulder, his bare feet moving slowly across the carpet.
He’d look up and grin. “She likes Sinatra.”
“She likes you,” you’d correct, leaning against the doorway.
He shrugged. “Good taste.”
She grew fast, too fast. One year bled into the next, the tiny onesies replaced with skates and pink helmets. Sid was the one who laced them up for her the first time. You stood by the boards, camera in hand, heart in your throat.
She wobbled out onto the ice, small and fearless, arms spread wide for balance. He followed behind her, a few careful strides, his stick dragging the ice.
“Like this, bug,” he called softly. “Little steps.”
She mimicked him, tongue poked between her teeth, and took two solid glides before falling on her butt. The sound of her giggle filled the rink.
He skated over, crouched down, and said, “You okay?”
“Again!” she shouted.
He laughed, scooped her up, set her on her feet again. “Atta girl.”
You caught it all, the light, the laughter, the look he gave her when she tried again. That same look he’d given you when you were fifteen on the backyard rink, back when everything was simpler and smaller and still somehow the same.
When they came off the ice, she ran to you, cheeks red, curls damp under her helmet.
“Mommy, I skated!”
“I saw,” you said, kneeling to hug her. “You were amazing.”
Sid leaned on the boards behind you, breath fogging in the cold. “She’s got it,” he said quietly.
You smiled at him over her shoulder. “She’s got you.”
He reached out, brushed a curl from her forehead. “Lucky kid.”
You shook your head, eyes soft. “Lucky dad.”
He grinned, small and shy. “Yeah. That too.”
You were still young yourselves, still figuring it out, but somehow it all worked. The world called him captain, superstar, savior of a franchise, and at the end of every day he came home to you, to her, to the life you’d built quietly between all the noise.
He’d hang up his keys, toe off his shoes, and say, “Hi, baby.”
You’d smile from the kitchen. “Hi, yourself.”
Then he’d drop his gear, scoop Sophie into his arms, and everything would settle.
And then it happened again the same way it always did with you two: all at once.
You’d been joking one night while half-asleep on the couch, a movie playing low in the background, Sophie snoring softly on Sid’s chest, about how she needed a little sibling.
“She’s getting spoiled,” you mumbled, eyes half-shut.
Sid yawned. “She’s perfect.”
“She’s bossy.”
“She gets that from you.”
You snorted. “Oh, bite me.”
He smiled, kissing the top of Sophie’s head. “What, you want another one to boss me around?”
“Maybe,” you said, teasing. “Maybe I do.”
He turned his head to look at you, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Careful, sweetheart. You know what happens every time we joke about that.”
You laughed, threw a throw pillow at him, but you were already smiling too wide for him not to notice.
A few weeks later, you were standing in that same bathroom again, same mirror, same shaky hands, watching the second pink line appear.
Sid was in the kitchen, still in pajamas, rummaging through the fridge when you walked in. You didn’t even say anything you just held the test out, heart hammering.
He blinked, then set down the milk carton. “No fucking way.”
You nodded. “Way.”
He rubbed his face, started laughing quiet at first, then full on. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Again?”
You laughed too, the sound cracking open something warm inside your chest. “Guess we’re doing this again.”
He kissed you until you couldn’t breathe, then whispered against your mouth, “We’re so bad at not making kids.”
You giggled. “You say that like it’s a problem.”
He smiled, forehead resting against yours. “It’s not.”
Sophie was four when Camden arrived, a spring baby, stubborn from the moment she took her first breath.
Sid cried again. You thought maybe he always would. The nurses barely had time to swaddle her before he was holding her close, whispering things only she would ever know.
He glanced at you, eyes red, smile wobbly. “She’s got your nose.”
“She’s got your lungs,” you groaned, laughing weakly as Camden wailed at full volume.
He chuckled, rocking her gently. “Already knows how to make an entrance.”
When Sophie came to meet her, she climbed right onto the hospital bed like she owned it, curls wild, eyes wide.
“My sister?” she asked, peering at the tiny bundle in your arms.
“Yep,” you said softly. “This is Camden.”
Sophie frowned. “She’s… small.”
“She’ll grow,” Sid said, smiling.
Sophie crossed her arms. “I teach her hockey.”
Sid laughed. “Good. She’ll need a coach.”
Sophie looked at him seriously. “I’m coach. You be water boy.”
You burst out laughing, and even Sid couldn’t stop grinning. “Bossy,” he muttered under his breath, but he looked so damn proud.
Those first weeks with two kids felt like chaos and magic at once. Sid learned to rock Camden with one arm while helping Sophie with her coloring books with the other. The house smelled like baby lotion and spilled juice and something always baking in the oven just a little too long.
You’d find him sitting on the living room floor, Camden asleep against his chest, Sophie braiding his hair with tiny elastic bands.
He’d look up and whisper, “Don’t laugh. She said it’s my turn to be the princess.”
You’d bite your lip to keep from smiling too hard. “You look beautiful, babe.”
He’d grin. “I know.”
The nights were harder. The baby cried, Sophie had nightmares, and he had road games that left you both too tired to speak. But every time he came home, no matter how late, he’d peek into both rooms before doing anything else.
Sometimes you’d wake in the middle of the night to find him standing in the doorway, arms crossed, just watching them sleep.
“What are you doing?” you’d whisper.
He’d shrug, still looking at them. “Just… can’t believe this is ours.”
You’d press your face into his shoulder. “You said that last time.”
He’d smile quietly. “Still true.”
He became that dad, the one who knew every pediatrician’s number by heart, who memorized nap schedules and snack preferences, who could swaddle faster than most nurses.
The guys teased him endlessly. “Crosby, you got glitter on your hoodie,” someone would say before practice, and he’d just smirk. “Comes with the territory.”
But he lived for it. The diaper runs. The bedtime stories. The tiny pink skates lined up by the door.
One morning, while you were making pancakes, Sophie wandered in wearing one of his jerseys, Camden perched on her hip like a doll.
“Daddy says girls rule,” she announced proudly.
Sid followed behind her, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking up. “I did not—”
Sophie cut him off, grinning. “You did.”
He groaned, leaning against the counter. “She’s gonna quote me forever.”
You smiled sweetly. “Good. Maybe she’ll remind you.”
He looked at both of them, then at you, and that crooked grin crept across his face. “You’re all evil.”
You kissed his cheek. “You love it.”
He sighed dramatically. “Yeah, I really do.”
That summer, after a long season, you would go home to a cabin by the lake. No cameras. No schedule. Just you, Sid, and the girls.
He’d take Sophie out in the canoe while you stayed on the dock with Camden, her little feet kicking in the warm water.
From a distance, you’d hear Sophie’s laugh echo across the lake, bright and wild. Sid’s voice followed, playful and patient.
“Don’t rock the boat, bug!”
“Am not!”
“You are!”
You’d watch them disappear around the bend, your chest tight with a kind of happiness you couldn’t explain if you tried.
Later, when the girls were asleep, you’d sit together on the porch, feet up on the railing, the sound of crickets thick in the air.
Sid would tilt his beer, glance at you. “You ever think about how lucky we got?”
You smiled softly. “All the time.”
He leaned back, head tilted toward the stars. “I don’t know what I did right.”
“You loved me,” you said simply. “And you never stopped.”
He looked over, eyes catching the soft glow from the porch light. “That I can promise.”
And he did. Every day.
By the time Camden was three, things felt balanced in that warm, messy Crosby way. You had it down to a rhythm: two car seats, two different snack preferences, two very different temper tantrums. Sophie was convinced she could raise Camden herself. Camden followed her everywhere, trailing behind with her curls and her constant questions.
Sidney, for all his schedules and precision, was blissfully chaotic at home. He’d lose his car keys in the fridge, his wallet in the toy bin, his stick tape in the crayon box. But somehow, the house still ran because he made it run.
You used to joke, “You’re the captain of the Penguins and this house,” and he’d grin that half-smile, scratch his jaw, and say, “This team’s a lot louder.”
Life felt… whole. Busy and loud and covered in sticky fingerprints, but whole.
Until one chilly February morning when you stood in the bathroom again, hands trembling, heart hammering against your ribs.
You didn’t even call for him right away. You just stared at the test on the counter, the same quiet disbelief curling in your chest.
When you finally did, he came padding down the hall in sweatpants, hair still damp from his shower, half a bagel in hand.
“What’s up, sweetheart?” he said, voice casual, crumbs clinging to his lip.
You held up the test.
He froze mid-chew. “No.”
You nodded.
He blinked. “No fucking way.”
“Sid—”
He dropped the bagel. “You’re serious?”
You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “Dead serious.”
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning into his palm. “We were careful!”
You laughed softly. “Apparently not careful enough.”
He looked up at you, that same overwhelmed look he’d had every single time before, shock melting slowly into something softer, deeper. Then, of course, came the smile. That full, helpless, can’t-fight-it smile.
“I’m not even mad,” he said quietly. “You know that, right? I just… Jesus, babe. We’re really doing this again?”
You stepped forward, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Looks like it.”
He buried his face in your hair, laughing into the curve of your neck. “You’re trying to build a hockey team, aren’t you?”
You smiled against his chest. “We’re halfway there.”
He pulled back enough to look at you, his grin softening into something tender. “You sure you’re okay with this?”
You nodded. “As long as you are.”
He kissed you once, slow and steady. “Then I’m perfect.”
The ultrasound came a few weeks later, and that was when the real chaos hit.
You’d been holding his hand, already emotional, already ready to hear “just one,” when the nurse tilted her head and frowned at the screen.
Sid’s grip tightened. “What’s that face for?”
She smiled politely. “Well, it looks like… two.”
He blinked. “Two what?”
You laughed nervously. “Don’t you dare say—”
“Two heartbeats,” she finished.
Sidney’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
The nurse chuckled. “Definitely not. Congratulations, you’re having twins.”
There was a full five seconds of silence where neither of you moved. Then he said, very quietly, “Holy shit.”
You started laughing half disbelief, half hysteria. “Twins. We’re having twins.”
Sid turned to you, his face pale but smiling, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to lose it. “We’re so fucked.”
You burst out laughing, tears in your eyes. “Language, Dad.”
He covered his face with both hands, shaking his head and laughing too. “I don’t even know where we’re gonna put them!”
You squeezed his knee. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
He peeked through his fingers, eyes soft. “You’re way too calm.”
“You’re way too dramatic.”
He smiled, leaned over, kissed your forehead. “You love me.”
You nodded. “Always.”
The months that followed were wild. You’d thought two pregnancies had prepared you, but twins were a whole different story. Sid took it like a mission; organized, meticulous, borderline obsessive. He baby-proofed the baby-proofing. Built cribs side by side, checked their screws twice, made spreadsheets for feeding schedules you didn’t even need yet.
Sophie and Camden were ecstatic.
“Can I name one?” Sophie asked.
“You can help,” you told her.
“We get a bunk bed?” Camden asked, bouncing on the couch.
Sid groaned. “Let’s get through the pregnancy first, okay?”
Every night, he’d press his ear to your belly, trying to guess which one was kicking. “This one’s the troublemaker,” he’d say, hand splayed across your skin.
You’d laugh. “That’s exactly what you said last time.”
He’d grin, still focused. “Yeah, and I was right.”
Meadow and Iris arrived in early winter, tiny and perfect, two soft bundles that stole your breath the second you saw them.
Sid was beside himself. He cried before you even held them, tears streaming unchecked as he whispered, “They’re both here. They’re both here.”
When the nurse placed them in your arms, one pink, one sleepy, both with that same Crosby chin you felt the world tilt and settle.
Sid hovered close, brushing a finger down Iris’s cheek. “How the hell did we make four of them?”
“Magic,” you murmured, half-dazed.
He smiled, eyes glassy. “You’re magic.”
You laughed weakly. “You’re delirious.”
He leaned over, kissed your forehead. “Deliriously in love.”
Later, when the room went quiet and the girls were swaddled tight in their bassinets, you found him standing between them, hands on the edge of each tiny crib.
He was whispering softly.
“What are you saying?” you asked, still groggy.
He turned, cheeks wet. “Just… trying to promise them everything.”
You swallowed hard. “Like what?”
He smiled faintly. “That I’ll always come home. That I’ll never miss a birthday. That I’ll teach them how to skate. That I’ll love their mom forever.”
Your heart ached at the tenderness in his voice. “You already do all that.”
He nodded, looking down at the twins. “Just making it official.”
Home got louder after that. Much louder.
Two bassinets. Two monitors. Two different cries. Sophie became the self-appointed “second mom,” walking around in your slippers with a pacifier in each hand. Camden was mostly interested in their hats.
Sid was everywhere at once, changing, burping, singing off-key in the middle of the night. The man could score goals in front of thousands but still panic when one baby spit up while the other started crying.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered one night at 3 a.m., pacing the nursery with Iris in one arm and a bottle in the other. “You’d think I’d have the stamina for this.”
From the bed, you called sleepily, “You’re doing great, babe.”
He looked over his shoulder, smiling despite himself. “I’m running a full penalty kill here.”
You laughed, rolling onto your side. “And you’re winning.”
He kissed the top of Iris’s head. “Barely.”
By the time they hit six months, the house was a full-on circus. Sophie and Camden turned the twins’ tummy time into commentary competitions.
“Meadow’s winning!” Sophie shouted.
“No, Iris is faster!” Camden countered.
Sid stood over them, arms crossed, trying to look serious. “Girls, this isn’t a competition.”
Sophie looked up at him, all big eyes and mischief. “You’re just saying that because Iris won.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. “...Maybe.”
You nearly fell off the couch laughing.
But it wasn’t just funny. It was beautiful. There were moments, soft, quiet ones that stopped you in your tracks.
Like how Sid always found a way to hold both twins at once, one on each shoulder, whispering to them about their sisters, about the rink, about how lucky they all were.
Or how, when you all piled into bed on Sunday mornings, four little girls tangled in blankets and curls, he’d just lie there, blinking at the ceiling, that tiny smile on his lips.
“You okay?” you’d ask softly.
He’d turn his head, eyes shining with something you could only call peace. “Yeah,” he’d whisper. “I think this is everything I ever wanted.”
And you’d believe him.
The girls loved his accomplishments like they were their own, parading around the house with Olympic gold dangling from their necks, pretending they were superheroes. Camden once wore his 2010 gold to kindergarten show-and-tell, declaring, “My dad won this for being the best at hockey!”
At games, they’d sit in the stands in little Crosby jerseys, cheering louder than anyone, their tiny voices cutting through the roar of the crowd.
In 2017, when he went back-to-back with the Cup, the twins just babies then sat giggling inside the massive trophy for photos, their chubby legs kicking as Sid laughed, “They fit perfectly.”
Media loved asking about the family in interviews: “How’s fatherhood treating you, Sid?” He’d smile shyly, say, “Best part of my life,” and everyone ate it up.
Now it’s years later, and the noise hasn’t stopped it’s just changed shape. Sophie’s sixteen now, all long legs and confidence, her dad’s calm but your spark. She rolls her eyes when Sid asks about school, but she still hugs him every time he walks through the door. The tough years, the slammed doors, the eye rolls, the quiet distance had softened into something new. There was still attitude, still that teenage fire, but now it came wrapped in warmth and laughter.
Sid used to joke, “She finally stopped hating me.”
You’d correct him every time. “She never did. She just forgot she liked you for a minute.”
And it was true. Somewhere between fourteen and sixteen, she’d turned back toward him, and when she did, it was with all that old affection, plus something new a sense of humor that could disarm the entire household.
Social media became her new playground. It started small: funny clips of her sisters, old photos, harmless jokes. But then she discovered that people on the internet loved her dad.
The first video she posted was a chaotic montage: Sid in the background doing dishes, folding laundry, tying skates, all set to some pop song that made no sense. The caption said, “Living with an old man who peaked in 2009 (love you tho, dad).”
You’d been scrolling on your phone when you saw it. “Sid,” you called from the couch, half laughing, half horrified. “You’re viral.”
He froze mid-step, a dish towel over his shoulder. “What?”
“Look.” You turned the phone toward him.
He squinted, then blinked. “That’s… me.”
“Yup.”
He frowned. “When did she even film that?”
You grinned. “Yesterday, when you were folding the laundry and singing Hall & Oates.”
He looked personally betrayed. “She recorded that?”
You were laughing too hard to answer.
Sophie came downstairs a few minutes later, earbuds in, scrolling through her own comments. “Oh my God, Dad, people love you.”
“People are laughing at me.”
“They’re laughing with you,” she said, draping her arms around his shoulders. “You’re like a meme, but in a cute way.”
He blinked. “That’s… not comforting.”
She kissed his cheek. “You’re welcome.”
He sighed, glancing at you over her head. “This is my life now, huh?”
You smiled. “Apparently.”
It didn’t stop there, of course.
Sophie had inherited his timing, his dry humor, and your mischievous streak, which made her a menace with a camera. She’d film herself asking him the most ridiculous questions just to watch his face.
“Dad, do you ever wish you were athletic?”
Sid would pause mid-bite at the kitchen table. “What does that even mean?”
“Like, if you could play sports or something.”
He’d stare at her. “I—Sophie. That is what I do.”
She’d smirk into the camera. “Oh right. I forgot.”
He’d glance at you, half amused, half exasperated. “She’s your kid.”
You’d smile sweetly. “She’s our kid.”
Sometimes she’d post old photos, grainy Polaroids of you and Sid from when you were teenagers, laughing in some forgotten kitchen, arms around each other. Or pictures of her as a baby sitting on his lap after a game, his cheeks flushed and tired, his smile soft.
The captions were always equal parts chaos and love.
“They’ve been embarrassing me since 2009.”
“Proof my parents were hot and in love before I existed.”
You didn’t know whether to be flattered or cry.
Her followers loved it.
Sid was horrified.
“People shouldn’t even know what our kitchen looks like,” he muttered one evening, scrolling through the comments on your phone.
You grinned. “Relax, no one’s complaining about your knife skills.”
He groaned. “This is your fault. You’re too calm about this.”
“Because she’s responsible,” you said. “And she’s funny. Look how happy everyone is.”
He rubbed his face, half laughing, half defeated. “I just don’t understand why people care.”
“Because she’s you, Sid,” you said softly. “And people like you.”
He paused, lowering the phone. “She’s not me. She’s better.”
You smiled. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”
One evening, you found them both sitting in the living room, the TV on some old war documentary. Sophie was trying to convince him to record a “get ready with me” video for a laugh.
She pointed the camera toward him. “Okay, Dad, tell them your skincare routine.”
He blinked at the screen. “Uh… soap?”
She laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone.
He tried again. “I use… water?”
“Iconic,” she said, gasping through giggles. “You’re an influencer.”
He smiled, shaking his head. “You’re out of your mind.”
You leaned against the doorway, watching them, that warm hum in your chest.
He caught your eye, grin softening. “What?”
You shrugged, smiling. “Just… you two.”
He looked at Sophie, then back at you. “She’s pretty amazing, huh?”
You nodded. “She always has been.”
And she was, every bit of her.
The confidence, the humor, the fire. All those parts of her that were his and yours and entirely her own.
They’d made it through every phase, every storm, every slammed door.
And now here she was, sixteen and fearless, reminding the whole world just how good a dad he really was.
Despite his protests, he couldn’t stay mad. He never could. Especially not when Sophie would curl up beside him on the couch some nights, phone in hand, grinning.
“Dad, read the comments.”
He’d shake his head. “Nope. I’m not doing that.”
“C’mon,” she’d insist, shoving the phone toward him. “They love you. Look, someone said you are ‘bee-keeping age.’”
He blinked. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “Then… fine.” He’d hand the phone back, muttering, “You’re all insane.”
But the next morning, you’d catch him humming while he made coffee, that small smile tugging at his mouth.
“You read more of the comments, didn’t you?” you teased.
He looked up, trying to hide his grin. “They said I was ‘wholesome.’ I can live with that.”
You laughed softly. “You’re a natural-born influencer, Crosby.”
He pointed his spoon at you. “Don’t say that word to me.”
Sophie knew exactly how far she could push it, and she never crossed the line. She didn’t post anything private, never the girls’ faces without asking, never anything from the house that felt too personal. She understood, instinctively, how much her parents valued their quiet life.
When her following grew, thousands, then tens of thousands, and more, she came to you both one evening, nervous, twisting her hair.
“I just wanted to tell you before it gets weird,” she said. “It’s kinda blowing up.”
Sid looked like he’d swallowed a puck. “Define ‘blowing up.’”
“Like… people are making edits of you and Mom.”
He blinked. “Edits?”
She nodded. “Like, cute little montages. Everyone thinks you’re couple goals.”
You laughed quietly, heart warm. “We are couple goals.”
Sid groaned. “This is so bizarre.”
Sophie reached out, squeezed his arm. “It’s all good stuff, Dad. I promise. People love how normal you are.”
He stared at her. “That’s the strangest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
But then she smiled, wide, earnest, proud, and something in him melted, as it always did.
He sighed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Alright, alright. Just… keep it kind. No videos of me snoring.”
She grinned. “Too late.”
He groaned, burying his face in his hands while you laughed beside him.
But you caught the way he looked at her afterward, how soft his eyes went, how full of quiet pride they were.
She’d found her own kind of spotlight, and she was using it with grace. Just like her father, even if he couldn’t see it yet.
Sid had always known Sophie was good, but sixteen made him realize she wasn’t just good. She was special.
She didn’t skate like a girl learning from her dad, or like a kid trying to live up to a name. She skated like someone who’d been born on the ice, who understood every inch of it down to the smallest sound. She read plays like she’d been studying them since before she could talk which, in a way, she had.
Every stride, every shift of her body, every snap of the puck against her stick, it was all hers.
“Jesus,” Sid muttered under his breath one afternoon, watching her run a drill from behind the glass. “She’s better than I was at that age.”
You grinned from beside him. “I know. You look terrified.”
He laughed softly. “I am.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s sixteen and faster than me.”
You nudged him with your elbow. “You love it.”
He smiled, eyes never leaving the ice. “I really, really do.”
They’d still skate together when they could, early mornings before anyone else hit the rink, or late at night when the building was quiet.
He’d be the one lacing up beside her, hair tucked under a beanie, muttering, “You ready, bug?”
She’d smirk, tugging her gloves on. “You sure you are, old man?”
He’d snort. “You’re not beating me today.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Ten minutes later, she’d fly past him, flick the puck into the top corner, and shout over her shoulder, “Looks like I win again!”
He’d laugh, hands on his knees, pretending to catch his breath. “You’re lucky I’m 38 and not 16.”
“You’re lucky I’m not in the league yet,” she’d shoot back.
He’d grin at her, that same proud, boyish grin that used to melt you. “God, I love you.”
“Love you too, Dad,” she’d say, and it always caught him a little off guard, how easy she said it now.
He went to every single game he could. Sometimes he’d try to blend in, hat pulled low, hoodie up, but it never worked. Not in Pittsburgh.
Parents would glance his way, whisper, “Is that—?”
Kids would sneak looks over their shoulders.
He never made a scene, never drew attention. He just sat quietly beside you, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the ice. You’d feel him tense with every play, muttering soft commentary under his breath like he was coaching through instinct alone.
When Sophie scored, he’d break his rule, always just once, clapping louder than anyone else in the stands.
“That’s my girl,” he’d say under his breath, eyes bright.
After the game, people would approach, always polite, always hesitant.
“Mr. Crosby, could we maybe get a photo?”
He’d smile, that shy, practiced one, and say, “Of course, as long as it doesn’t bother the team.”
Sophie would roll her eyes when she saw the line forming near the locker room. “You’re more famous than me, Dad.”
He’d grin. “Not for long.”
She’d smirk, bump his shoulder as they walked out together. “You’re right about that.”
And he’d just shake his head, grinning to himself.
Sophie drove now, which was both thrilling and terrifying.
She’d toss her keys in the bowl by the door like it was nothing, while you and Sid stood there remembering the days she couldn’t even tie her skates without help.
“Where are you going?” Sid would ask.
“Out,” she’d say.
“With who?”
“Friends.”
“Names.”
“Dad.”
“Places.”
“Dad.”
You’d hide your laugh behind your coffee mug.
He’d grumble under his breath, watching her walk out with her hair up, hoodie zipped, confidence radiating off her. “Friends,” he’d mutter. “That’s code for boys.”
You’d smile softly. “She’s smart. And she’s yours. She’ll be fine.”
He’d sigh. “I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Sometimes you’d catch him watching her from the porch when she came home, headlights flashing across the driveway. He’d wait until she was inside before locking the door, muttering something about “protocol.”
You’d tease him gently. “You’re still tracking her location, aren’t you?”
He’d give you that stubborn look. “Obviously.”
Camden was thirteen now and blossoming into her own brand of chaos. She’d appointed herself Sid’s personal stylist, claiming he needed a “younger perspective.”
Before every home game and road trip, she’d stand in front of his open closet, arms crossed, scanning the suits like a fashion critic.
“This one,” she’d say, holding up a navy jacket. “It says, I’m mature but approachable.”
He’d blink. “I just want it to say I’m on time.”
She’d grin. “You’re welcome.”
Some days she’d braid his hair, little messy ones he’d leave in longer than he should’ve, just because it made her happy.
“You look pretty, Daddy,” Iris would say, watching from the kitchen counter.
He’d wink. “Always do, sweetheart.”
Meadow, quieter and more thoughtful, had taken up drawing. She’d sit cross-legged on the floor, sketching her sisters or the dog or Sid lacing up his shoes.
When she showed him one once, him tying Sophie’s skates while she leaned on his shoulder, he just stared at it for a long time.
“Can I keep this?” he asked softly.
She nodded. “It’s for you.”
He smiled, tucking it into his wallet. “You’re gonna make me cry.”
“You cry all the time,” Iris said, giggling.
And he laughed, eyes wet. “Yeah, I kinda do.”
Life moved fast, but it was good better than good. It was warm and full and alive.
The house buzzed with music and laughter and the sound of skates clattering by the door. The twins chased the dog through the living room, Camden argued over hair ties, and Soph would sit at the kitchen table taping her stick while her dad watched from across the counter.
He didn’t say it out loud, but you could see it in the way he looked at her: proud, in awe, a little heartbroken that she’d grown up right before his eyes.
“You ready for tomorrow?” he always asked, voice low.
She smirked, not looking up. “Always.”
“Think you’ll score?”
She grinned. “Only if you’re watching.”
He smiled. “Always, bug.”
And she knew he meant it.
Because no matter how old she got, or how big her world became, there’d always be one constant, her dad, standing somewhere behind the glass, eyes shining, heart full, whispering the same thing he had since she was two years old:
“That’s my girl.”
The drive home from the rink was always quiet the way only post-game rides can be. Like tonight was, Sophie is still flushed from adrenaline, the twins in the back half-asleep against each other, Camden humming along to whatever pop song played low through the speakers. Sid had one hand on the wheel, the other absently tapping the beat on his thigh.
By the time you pulled into the driveway, the sky was turning that soft blue-gray that means dinner’s late but nobody cares. The house filled up fast: skates thunked down by the door, bags dropped in the hall, the faint smell of the crockpot that had been on all afternoon greeting everyone.
Meadow and Iris went straight to the table, already pulling out their math homework, pencils tapping and papers shuffling like they were running a tiny study group. Camden flopped onto the couch, remote in hand, announcing, “I earned this.”
“You fell asleep during the 3rd,” Sophie teased, brushing past her.
“Exactly,” Camden said, completely serious.
Sid shook his head, laughing under his breath as he followed you into the kitchen. He grabbed the cutting board while you turned on the stove, the two of you moving around each other the way people do when they’ve been doing it forever. He chopped vegetables; you stirred the sauce; Iris came in every few minutes asking for help with fractions.
“Seven-eighths plus one-half,” Sid muttered, glancing at her paper. “That’s—uh—”
“—one and three-eighths,” you said without missing a beat.
He pointed his knife at you. “Show-off.”
You smirked. “Still smarter than the captain.”
The kitchen was alive with noise: sizzling pans, the twins arguing softly about decimals, Camden laughing at something on TV. It was the kind of noise that filled you up instead of wearing you down.
Sophie came down the stairs about twenty minutes later, hair still damp from her shower, the faint smell of her shampoo trailing behind her. But it wasn’t her hair that made Sid’s knife pause mid-chop, it was the outfit.
Jeans. A fitted top. Her favorite jacket. Makeup. The kind of look that said I’m not staying in tonight.
Sid turned, brows up. “Where are you going?”
“Out,” she said, breezy as anything, grabbing her phone from the counter.
He blinked. “Out where?”
She was already slipping on her shoes. “Just out, Dad.”
“What friends?”
She smiled without looking at him. “Friends you know.”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing, because you did know. The boyfriend. The same one she’d told you about quietly one night while helping you with laundry, cheeks pink but eyes bright.
Sid didn’t know yet.
He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. “Names, please.”
She sighed, exasperated. “Dad.”
“Places, too.”
“Dad.”
You were definitely giggling now, trying to look busy stirring the sauce.
He looked over at you, suspicious. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” you said, badly hiding a smile.
Sophie rolled her eyes, knowing she’d lost that side of the argument. “It’s fine, Mom knows.”
That made Sid turn fully toward you. “You know?”
You lifted a shoulder, pretending nonchalance. “Mhm.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
You grinned, enjoying yourself now. “Wasn’t my secret to tell.”
He stared at you both, connecting dots in real time. “Wait. Wait a second.”
Sophie was halfway into her jacket when he said, “It’s a boy, isn’t it?”
She froze. “It’s—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t say ‘a friend.’”
She smiled, trying not to laugh. “It’s… a friend.”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.
You lost it then, laughing softly as you leaned against the counter. “Sid—”
“No, no, it’s fine,” he said, voice rising just a little. “It’s just—when did she get old enough to have friends?”
“About three years ago,” you teased.
He looked from you to Sophie and back again, and something in his expression shifted, a flash of disbelief and understanding, the realization that this was exactly how it started for the two of you. He’d been her age when he first waited outside your door, palms sweating, pretending to be just a friend.
He pointed at Sophie, half scolding, half helpless. “You know I was your age when I started seeing your mom?”
Sophie groaned. “Ew, Dad, I don’t need that visual.”
He grinned, shaking his head. “I’m just saying—I know how this goes.”
You stepped in then, gently touching his arm. “And you turned out okay.”
He sighed, looking at you with that mix of love and exasperation that’s carried you both through a lifetime. “Barely.”
Sophie leaned over, kissed his cheek. “You’re being dramatic.”
He tried to scowl, but his voice softened. “Text me when you get there, okay?”
“I always do.”
He pointed a finger. “And no speeding.”
“I’m literally the best driver in this house.”
“Watch it,” he warned, but he was smiling now.
She laughed, waved at you both, and was gone in a flash, door swinging shut, the sound of her car fading down the street.
For a second, the kitchen was quiet except for the faint buzz of the stove and the twins whispering about long division at the table.
Sid leaned back against the counter, exhaling. “I hate this.”
You smiled, sliding an arm around his waist. “You don’t. You’re just remembering what it felt like.”
He nodded slowly, eyes softening as he stared toward the door. “Yeah. That’s exactly the problem.”
You pressed your cheek against his shoulder. “She’s fine, Sid. You raised her right.”
He kissed the top of your head, voice low. “I know. I just wish time would slow down.”
From the living room, Camden shouted, “Dad, come here! They’re showing highlights of your rookie season!”
He groaned. “Great. Just what I need. More reminders I’m ancient.”
You laughed quietly, turning back to the stove. “Go on, old man. Your fan club awaits.”
He kissed your temple before walking away, muttering something about “ungrateful children,” and the sound of his laughter mixed with Camden’s filled the room again.
Somewhere upstairs, Sophie’s room light flicked off, her perfume still faint in the air, her laughter still lingering in your ears.
Sixteen. You remembered it well, the thrill, the nerves, the first taste of freedom.
And now it was her turn, with her dad watching the door like he always had, torn between pride and nostalgia, the two oldest hearts in the house beating in the same quiet rhythm.
The night settled in soft and warm after dinner, like it always did after a long day on the ice. The living room glowed gold from the lamplight, movie flickering faintly across the walls. The girls were scattered across the couch in a pile of limbs and blankets: Camden tucked against your side, Iris and Meadow half-asleep on Sid’s lap, and you pressed against him with your head on his shoulder.
Sid’s fingers absently traced lazy shapes along your arm while the twins snored softly against his chest. Every now and then, Camden would mumble something about the movie and you’d smile, brushing her hair back. It was quiet and comfortable in that perfect way, the kind of family stillness that made the world outside feel irrelevant.
Then the front door creaked open.
Sid’s head lifted immediately.
Sophie stepped inside, hair a little tousled from the cold, cheeks flushed, that unmistakable post-date smile tugging at her mouth as she glanced at her phone and typed something, thumbs flying.
“Hey,” she said casually, kicking her shoes off.
“Hi, baby,” you said softly. “Good time?”
“Yeah,” she murmured, still texting, still smiling.
Iris stirred against Sid’s chest. “Who’re you texting?” she asked sleepily, voice small.
Sophie froze for a second. “Just a friend.”
Camden was more awake than she looked. “Ohhh, a friend,” she teased, grinning from her nest of blankets.
“Shut up, Cam.”
Sid smirked. “Yeah, Cam, be nice to your sister.” He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly. “So… what kind of friend are we talking about?”
Sophie groaned, dramatically tossing her head back. “Dad.”
“Don’t ‘Dad’ me. I’m just asking questions.”
“Yeah, interrogating,” Camden muttered.
He ignored her. “Did you guys go out to eat?”
“Mhmm.”
“Where?”
“Just a diner.”
“Which diner?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
You were laughing quietly now, shaking your head against his shoulder. “Sid, let her breathe.”
“I’m just getting information,” he said, trying and failing to sound casual.
Sophie plopped down on the armchair across from him, still glowing from whatever time she’d just had. “It’s fine, Mom already knew.”
He shot you a look. “You knew again?”
“Maybe.”
He groaned. “You two are a conspiracy.”
Camden giggled, “She’s dating, Dad!”
“I’m not dating,” Sophie corrected. “We’re just hanging out.”
“Good,” Sid said immediately. “Because dating isn’t necessary.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“No boys,” he said, deadpan. “Just focus on hockey.”
You snorted. “Yeah, because that’s realistic.”
“Worked for me,” he said, smug.
Sophie’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh yeah? Then what about Mom?”
He blinked. “What about her?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, grinning now, reaching for the bookshelf. “Just wondering what your definition of ‘no dating’ was when you were sixteen.”
“Don’t you dare,” he warned, already laughing because he knew exactly what she was doing.
“Oh, I dare.”
She pulled down the old photo album you kept there, the one with frayed corners and a thousand memories pressed between its pages. She flipped it open dramatically and turned it toward him. “You’re lucky Grandpa didn’t kill you, sir. Look at this.”
The twins, suddenly wide awake, scampered over to see. “Is that you, Daddy?” Iris gasped, pointing.
It was. A younger Sid in a hoodie and backward cap, standing in front of your parents’ house with his arm around a teenage version of you. You were both laughing, faces flushed, a little too close.
“Yep,” Sophie said triumphantly. “Caught red-handed. The teenage menace himself.”
Camden squinted. “Mom, you look so young.”
“I was young,” you laughed, reaching for the album. “That was before your dad learned how to shave properly.”
Sid groaned, rubbing his face. “Jesus. I was a child.”
“You were sneaking out of my house,” you corrected.
Sophie nearly choked laughing. “See! Grandpa told me about that!”
Sid pointed at her, mock serious. “Your grandpa is a traitor.”
“Grandpa said you used to show up at 11 p.m. in your stupid hoodie and tap on her window,” Sophie continued gleefully. “With a stick in your hand because you’d just left practice.”
“Okay, I’m cutting this story off,” Sid said, grabbing for the photo book.
You swatted his hand away. “Nope, it’s staying open.”
He sighed, half smiling. “You all gang up on me.”
“Because you deserve it,” you said sweetly.
Sophie smirked. “So maybe you don’t get to tell me no boys, considering you were the blueprint, old man.”
He tried not to laugh, jaw tightening like he was holding onto authority by a thread. “That was different.”
“How?”
“I was responsible.”
“Sure you were,” you said, unable to keep a straight face.
Camden giggled. “Dad, you were totally not responsible.”
Iris gasped again, clutching the photo album. “Daddy, your hair looks funny.”
“It was the two-thousands!” he groaned. “We all looked funny!”
The next morning, Sophie’s latest upload popped up on your feed, a short, quiet video.
It was just a photo of you and Sid at seventeen, grinning into the camera, her caption simple:
They said no dating at sixteen. Hypocrites.
You showed Sid at breakfast, sliding your phone across the table.
He stared at it for a long moment, lips twitching. “She’s grounded again.”
You laughed, kissing his cheek. “You love it.”
He sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah. I really do.”
Then he smiled, the kind that still felt like the boy from the photo, and went back to flipping pancakes while his daughters bickered and the morning sunlight caught on the old photo album, open still on the couch, a reminder of everything you’d built and everyone they’d become.
summary: brock notices changes in his wife and the reason is worse than anything he could have imagined.
⸻
Brock noticed it in pieces.
Little things at first. Easy things to explain away.
She snapped at him over nothing. Forgot where she put her phone, then accused him of moving it. Stood in the kitchen one afternoon staring at the cupboards like she’d never seen them before.
He told himself it was stress.
The adjustment after leaving work.
The emotional weight of choosing to stay home.
But then she forgot Lincoln’s preschool pickup time.
She’d never done that. Not once.
He found her sitting in the car outside the school ten minutes late, hands clenched around the steering wheel, eyes wide and panicked.
“I don’t know what happened,” she whispered when he opened the door. “I knew I was supposed to be somewhere. I just couldn’t remember where.”
That night, she cried quietly in the shower.
The next week, she went back to the optician for the third time in two months because the world felt “off,” like she couldn’t judge space properly.
She started losing words mid-sentence.
Got frustrated when she couldn’t explain herself.
Pulled away from friends. From noise. From everything.
The doctor’s office was too quiet.
Lincoln sat on the floor coloring, humming to himself, blissfully unaware. Brock held her hand so tightly she thought her fingers might bruise.
The doctor spoke slowly. Carefully.
Early onset dementia.
Very early.
Rare, but not unheard of.
Brock stopped hearing after that.
All he could think was, She’s in her twenties.
She survived childbirth.
She almost died and she stayed.
His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Anger flared, hot and useless. Anger at the diagnosis. At her body. At the universe for daring to touch her after everything she’d already endured.
She just stared at the floor.
“What does this mean?” she asked quietly. “For my memory?”
The doctor answered honestly.
There would be changes. Some already happening. Some still to come. It could take years.
Brock stood up abruptly, pacing the room, hands on his head. “There has to be something else. A mistake. A test you missed.”
She reached for him. “Brock.”
He turned away, chest heaving. “You’re too young for this.”
She swallowed. “I know.”
That night, Lincoln fell asleep between them like he always did when Brock was away or the world felt too big.
His little body was warm. Solid. Real.
She waited until Brock’s breathing evened out, then carefully slid out of his arms and pulled Lincoln closer, wrapping herself around him.
She pressed her face into his hair.
And she broke.
Silent at first. Then shaking.
“I’m so mad,” she whispered into the darkness. “I’m so mad at my body.”
Tears soaked into Lincoln’s pajama shoulder as she clutched him.
“I fought so hard to stay,” she breathed. “I almost died for you. I stayed for you.”
Her chest hitched.
“And now my brain is just going to… let you go.”
She kissed his temple over and over, desperate.
“You’re so sweet,” she whispered. “You say please when you ask for things. You tuck your stuffies in at night so they don’t get cold. You tell your daddy he’s your hero even when he loses.”
Her voice cracked.
“How do I forget you?”
Lincoln shifted in his sleep, mumbling something soft and nonsensical. His hand found her shirt, fingers curling there instinctively.
She sobbed harder.
“I don’t want to forget your laugh,” she whispered. “Or the way you run to me like I’m home. I don’t want to forget your face. Your voice. Your name.”
Her anger surged, raw and painful.
“I quit my job for you,” she whispered fiercely. “I chose you. And now I might not remember that choice.”
Behind her, Brock was awake.
He’d heard everything.
He sat up slowly, throat tight, rage and grief tangling in his chest. Rage at the world for daring to take her from him in pieces. Grief for a future he suddenly couldn’t protect.
He wrapped his arms around both of them, holding her while she cried, holding Lincoln while he slept.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Brock whispered fiercely into her hair. “Not without a fight.”
She shook her head, sobbing. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m terrified. I’m angry. I hate this. I hate it so much.”
He pressed his forehead to hers.
“But we will write everything down. We will take pictures. We will record videos. We will remind you every single day who you are and who he is. And the doctor said it can takes years to progress any further.”
Her breath shuddered.
“And if one day you forget,” Brock whispered, “I will make sure you still feel it.”
She clutched Lincoln tighter, her tears slowing.
Because even if her memory tried to betray her, this love was already written deeper than that.
hot cocoa - bc!will smith hockey x reader x (eventual) macklin celebrini
too sweet masterlist
masterlist
word count: 2k (it’s short ik😔)
warnings: inaccurate willmack lore, discussions of parental issues
Will had met Y/N in his first year at Boston, she was a little older than him, working under his first year English professor. He’d often see her in his professors office hours, either asking for help on a research project, complaining about other professors, or just hanging out. Clearly, the professor didn’t mind, to a point where it weirded Will out a bit. He knew the Boston College advertised the close knit relationship between students and faculty, but this felt odd.
He was waiting outside of the office door, he had sent an email that he’d be there around one to look over his essay outline. He got there a little early, 12:56 to be exact, and his professor was very clearly enthralled in a conversation about the rise of Lolita aesthetics in modern media. When the time had hit 1:05, Will decided it would be best to softly knock on the door frame, notifying his professor of his arrival. The noise scaring the girl enough to turn around and let out a soft squeak. At that moment, everything Will was thinking slipped from his brain.
“You’re such a dick,” she squeaked, whacking the professor on the shoulder with a book.
“If I knew you had an appointment I wouldn’t have kept talking!” She whined, giving Will an apologetic pout, he decided that her pout could get her anything she wanted from him.
She rose from her seat, adjusting her skirt over the plump curve of her ass.
“Have a good night, Scott, I’ll send you an email draft by tomorrow, if not, feel free to send me to the eighth circle,” she hummed, Scott laughed, the joke going over Wills head, she then turned her attention to Will, “sorry for interrupting your appointment,” she said, holding her breath for his name.
“Will,” he said, his voice light, almost whimpering.
“Sorry for taking over your appointment, Will.” She smiled, walking through the doorway he was standing in. Before he had the opportunity to say anything more, she was already down the english building stairs.
As Will sat down, Scott, or to him, Professor Jones, had already started talking.
“She’s a sweet girl, passionate about English, should probably be at Oxford or Yale,” He hummed grabbing the book his class is reading from his shelf.
Will mindlessly nodded, as Scott continued, “it’s rare to see someone like her, with her circumstances strive for so much,” he hummed opening his book and taking Will’s notebook and skimming his outline.
The next time he saw her was in his English class. They had just turned in their 12 page midterm paper about a topic of their choosing. He was zoning out, when he heard a soft knock against the door frame.
“Scott,” she said quietly, loud enough for Will to hear but seemingly no one else. She sheepishly looked at the ground trying to get the courage to speak again, before Will raised his hand.
“Uh, Mr. Smith,” Scott said, confused as to why anyone had a hand up mid lecture slide.
“Someone is at the door,” he said flatly, his lips making a flat line as she watches her mouth a desperate, ‘thank you’ to him, rubbing a closed fist over her heart.
“Oh my god, everyone, this is Y/N! she will be the one reading your papers. If a single one of you is mean to her via email I will have to burn you at the stake.” He said, looking on the lecture hall desk for the papers he collected.
“Y/N, write your email on the board so they can email you about grades,” Scott said, finally finding the papers on the fairly empty desk.
Will watched as she turned to write her email, her delicate hands, her pretty hair, the curve from her waist to her hip, the tight fit of her pants. She was the kind of pretty you’d see in an early 2000’s movie, she was hot older sister, kind of pretty.
Will took a photo of her email, knowing he was going to have to email her about something, he wasn’t sure what, but he knew this couldn’t be the last he’d see her. When she walked out of the room, and all the was left of her was her pretty, loopy, handwriting, his teammate, and classmate, Gabe Perreualt, slapped him on the shoulder, “drooling a little bit, bud” he teased, trying to get his friend out of this embarrassing trance.
“No, I’m not, you’re fucking weird” he grumbled, looking down at his empty google document.
That night he looked up her name on Instagram, part of him hoping to see a boyfriend on her page, something that would immediately make him step back.
When he saw her page it was private, which made sense for a girl like her. Her profile photo was some picture a friend must’ve taken. She was all soft and bundled up in a big winter scarf with a massive mug of hot chocolate and mounds of whipped cream. Her bio was simple, a little dove emoticon and tagging Boston College. She didn’t have enough followers for her to be accepting random people, so he dropped it.
He was pleasantly surprised when he got his essay back, her loopy scrawl all over the pages in various gel pen colors, clearly circling back to each paper more than once. He was even happier when he saw a smiley face on the top of it, and a longer note on the back about how well formatted the paper was, and that it’d be interesting to do the final paper on the same topic but comparing all the books they read over the term.
He had established that she was sweet, smart, private, and very pretty, all things he liked in a girl, but he had no idea how to bring it past a crush. Is sending her an email cringey? Does he try and meet with her to discuss papers and then talk about more? Is there an issue with that in the code of conduct?
By the time finals arrived, he had gotten no further, too scared to ask about office hours, he emailed her once asking about a deadline for an assignment, to which she gave a professional response to.
When finals came and went, he thought all hope was lost, that she was just a silly hallway crush he knew a little too much about, until he walked into his introduction to microeconomics and saw her up front, a row from the very front, with her pink laptop case, a matching water bottle and a little thermos, he could only imagine was holding hot chocolate.
Will was the kind of guy to sit in the back, dick around on his phone, sending snapchats and instagram reels to his teammates. But seeing her compelled him to sit up front, a few seats away from her.
“Will, it’s nice seeing you again, your papers last term were a real treat,” she smiled softly pulling hair behind her ear.
“Thank you, glad to impress” he said more flirty than he initially planned, but seeing her blush made it worth it.
“Why is a senior in a first year micro class?” He asked, setting up his laptop to go over the syllabus.
“Senior!” She gasped, swatting him likely, brushing his hand on her shoulder, unlike the swat she gave Scott the day they met.
“I’m not old!” She whined, “I’m a second year, I just turned 20!” She pouted.
“You’re a TA so I just thought—“ Will started, mildly scared he offended her.
“No, you’re fine, just special privileges from the department chair” she hummed spinning in the rolling chair, entertaining herself before class started.
By the 30 minute mark, Y/N had looked at Will’s keyboard about 15 times before whispering, “do you know anything about economics?”
“Yeah, I’d say I’m okay” he whispered back.
“You’re helping me this term” she smiled bashfully, convinced she could make him help her, but to her joy, it didn’t take much convincing.
“Okay” he whispered back with a smile. This was his in and he didn’t even need to try.
He was lucky that he did pick up on microeconomics very easily and she didn’t. Otherwise he might’ve been in a “10 Things I Hate About You” predicament.
“You’ve never seen it!” She whined with her head in his lap on the couch in his luxury apartment.
“No, do I need to? You explained the spot real well,” he teased playing with her hair. It was beyond him on how it went from her grading his papers, to her studying with him and being able to see her pretty cursive all the time, to him playing with her hair.
“Yes! When midterms are over we’re watching it!” She hummed, purring into his hand.
“Mmm okay” he said, still scratching at her head. “We play BU tomorrow, I’d really like it if you were there” He said. He knew she had incredibly strict parents, hence her going to BC and not a more literature heavy school, and hence her work for Professor Jones, that he paid her under the table for.
“I’ll see, can say I have a late exam or something” she frowned looking up at him, saddened that she can’t have a normal college experience, that she had to hide her sweet kind-of boyfriend.
“What are we going to do when I’m in San Jose?” He asked, he knew he was more than willing to do long distance with her, he wanted nothing more than to be with her and have her finish her studies. But if she could never visit him, what were they supposed to do?
“I’ll visit, ‘m working more this term than last, and I have research that is almost to publication so I’ll get paid from that,” she mumbled shyly, it was silly that she needed to have an escape plan from her parents in order to visit her boyfriend when he plays professional hockey.
“Money won’t be a problem for me, I just don’t like you risking your relationship with your family for me” he frowned as she texted her parents about the game tomorrow.
“We’ll figure it out” she said, sitting up and placing herself in his lap again.
Macklin was never the kind of guy to really scope out the crowd. As a kid he often looked for his parents, a reassuring nudge of the head from his dad, almost giving him approval to find the puck. But when his teammates in juniors would talk about the “dimes” in the crowd, he always missed it. He used to say that was what made him such a good player, the ability to cancel out all the noise. Today his head was foggy, looking at the crowd, hoping to find someone to ground him like his parents did. He landed on a girl in a baggy BC sweatshirt, wrong team to support, but she’d work. In a sea of girls drinking various energy drinks she sat with her hot chocolate, blowing on the steaming surface. For the first time, Macklin knew what his teammates meant by seeing a dime in the crowd. When she saw Will skating in little circles she gave him a soft wave, and he waved back, big and animated, shameless.
When they were set to faceoff Will stood across from Macklin, ready to fight for the puck.
“Is that your girl?” Macklin asked, his tone as sharp as a spoon. He was scared it sounded like a chirp, which was something he hated. He hated when his teammates would make fun of the girlfriends of other players.
“Yeah,” Will smiled proudly. It didn’t matter what Macklin would say next, nothing would make him embarrassed of her, she was absolutely perfect.
“She’s pretty, really pretty” Macklin mumbled just before the puck dropped and the game started.
When the game ended, Macklin watched her walk to the tunnel with the other girls, he wished she was walking to the guest tunnel, to wrap her arms around him, not his rival/soon-to-be teammate.
Summary: you’re the first woman drafted to the NHL, and Luke can’t stop staring at you like you just solved quantum physics while scoring a hat trick. (Featuring: Mario Lemieux as your intimidating hockey godfather, a truly catastrophic painkiller confession, and the mortifying ordeal of being perceived by your teammate who thinks defensive zone coverage is foreplay.)
The air in the arena is thick with the ghosts of games past. It smells of stale popcorn, Zamboni exhaust, and the sharp, metallic bite of cold. It’s a cathedral of echoes, where the slap of a puck and the roar of a crowd can linger for decades. Today, the stands are sparsely populated with parents, scouts who look impossibly bored, and one man who is decidedly not.
Mario Lemieux sits in a plastic blue seat, a paper cup of lukewarm coffee held loosely in one hand. He’s here as a favor, a celebrity guest for the Lemieux Foundation Youth Invitational. He’s shaken a hundred small, sweaty hands, posed for twice as many pictures, and is now dutifully watching the Bantam championship game. The Northwood Knights versus the Allegheny Badgers.
He’s seen this game a thousand times. A handful of kids with real potential, a dozen more who are just having fun, and a few who were pushed here by fathers living out vicarious dreams. He watches with a polite, professional detachment.
Until he sees you.
You’re number twelve for the Knights. You move differently. While the other boys on the ice are all sharp angles and explosive, often clumsy, force, you are fluid. You don’t skate, you flow. Your edges are silent, your turns are seamless curves, and your stick seems less like a tool and more like an extension of your own arms.
The play is in your defensive zone. A hulking Badger defenseman winds up for a slapshot from the point. It’s a cannonball, a prayer hurled toward the net. Your goalie flinches. But you’re already moving. You slide, not with desperation, but with a preternatural understanding of geometry, your stick perfectly angled. The puck deflects off the blade, not into the corner with a violent crash, but softly, landing flat on the ice right in front of you as if you’d called it by name.
You’re up in an instant. Two quick strides and you’re at top speed. The other players seem to be moving through molasses.
Mario leans forward, the coffee forgotten. He squints, trying to get a better look. Your helmet, a standard Bauer model, obscures your face. But there’s something about your frame, the way your jersey hangs.
“Who’s twelve?” He asks the tournament organizer sitting beside him, a portly man named Dale whose tie is just a little too tight.
Dale consults his program, his finger tracing a line of names. “twelve … let’s see. Y/L/N. Best on the team. Best in the league, probably.”
On the ice, you weave through the neutral zone. A Badger forward tries to line you up for a check along the boards. It’s a foolish, telegraphed move. You see it coming a mile away. At the last possible second, you dip your shoulder, pulling the puck back with the toe of your blade. The boy crashes into the plexiglass with a hollow thud, his momentum utterly wasted. You don’t even look back.
You cross the blue line. Two defensemen converge on you. It’s a pincer movement, a classic trap. For anyone else, it would be the end of the play. You look to your right, a subtle head fake that sells the pass. Both defensemen bite, their weight shifting for a fraction of a second.
It’s all the time you need.
You pull the puck between your own legs, a smooth, slick motion that happens so fast it’s almost an illusion. You emerge on the other side of them, alone with the goalie.
A murmur goes through the small crowd. Mario feels a genuine smile touch his lips for the first time all day.
The goalie comes out to challenge you, making himself big. You skate straight at him, stickhandling lazily, almost disrespectfully. You’re baiting him. He takes it, dropping into his butterfly, anticipating the shot. But you don’t shoot. You glide, out-waiting him, your patience a weapon. At the last moment, you deke to your backhand, slide the puck around his outstretched pad, and tap it into the empty net.
The goal horn blares, a sad, tinny sound in the mostly empty arena. Your teammates mob you, a flurry of gloves tapping your helmet. You accept their praise with a simple nod, your posture unchanged. You skate back to the bench, your face a mask of pure, unadulterated focus.
And as you turn, the light from the rafters catches the two long, thick braids of hair spilling out from the back of your helmet.
Mario’s breath catches in his throat.
“twelve,” he says, his voice low. “That’s a girl.”
Dale the organizer nods, a weary look on his face. “That’s her. Y/N Y/L/N. Told you she was the best in the league.”
“The best in the league?” Mario repeats, his eyes never leaving you. “Dale, that kid might be one of the smartest players I’ve seen at this age. Period. Boy or girl.”
The rest of the game is more of the same. You don’t score again, but you control everything. You break up plays before they can start. Your passes are crisp, perfect, always leading your teammates into open ice. You are the quarterback, the conductor, the heart, and the brain of the team. The Knights win 3-1. Your goal was the game-winner.
As the teams shake hands, you’re just one of the players. But as they skate off, a clear line is drawn. The boys in white jerseys peel off to the left, toward their locker room, a wave of whoops and hollers echoing down the concrete hall.
You turn right, alone.
You skate to a small, unmarked door at the far end of the rink, push it open with the butt of your stick, and disappear inside.
Mario stands up. “Where’s their coach?”
“Probably in the locker room,” Dale says, gathering his papers.
“Show me.”
***
The coach’s office is less of an office and more of a glorified closet. It smells of sweat, old leather, and that specific dampness that never seems to leave hockey rinks. A single bare bulb hangs from the ceiling. A man in his late forties with tired eyes and a kind face looks up as Mario ducks through the doorway.
“Coach Walker,” Dale says, gesturing. “This is Mario Lemieux. He wanted a word.”
Coach Walker’s eyes widen slightly. He wipes a hand on his jeans before shaking Mario’s. “Mr. Lemieux. An honor. Really.”
“Mario, please,” he says, his large frame making the small room feel even smaller. “I just watched your team. You’ve got a hell of a player in number twelve.”
A look of immense pride, mixed with a familiar exhaustion, settles over the coach’s face. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Once in a lifetime talent. I’ll never have another player like her.”
“Why isn’t she playing at a higher level?” Mario asks, cutting straight to the point. “With her hockey IQ? She should be in a Triple-A program, at the very least.”
Coach Walker lets out a short, bitter laugh. He gestures to a corkboard on the wall, buried under game schedules and practice plans. Pinned to the corner are three letters, their edges curled and worn.
“Those are from the three top youth programs in the state,” Walker says, his voice losing its cheerful edge. “All rejection letters. We sent them tapes. They saw what you saw.”
“Then I don’t understand,” Mario says, genuinely confused.
“Oh, they were interested,” the coach continues, his tone hardening. “Very interested. Phone calls, emails, ‘we’d love to have him for a tryout.’ Right up until the moment they realize Y/N stands for Y/N. That the phenom on the tape is a girl.”
“What?”
“Suddenly, the rosters are full. Or they have concerns about ‘her safety.’ Or my personal favorite,” he says, pointing a finger at one of the letters, “they cite a lack of ‘appropriate changing facilities.’” He spits the words out like they’re poison. “They’ll take a boy who can barely skate backwards over a girl who could quarterback their power play from the blue line tomorrow.”
Mario feels a slow burn of anger in his chest. He’s seen politics in hockey. He’s lived it. But this is different. This is blatant, infuriating prejudice.
“So where does she get changed?” He asks quietly.
“The women’s restroom. The one for the public,” Walker says, shaking his head. “Drags her whole damn hockey bag in there before and after every game and practice. Never complains. Not once. She just wants to play.”
The door to the office is ajar, and from down the hall, they can hear the muffled sounds of the Knights celebrating their victory — shouts, laughter, the sound of sticks banging on the floor. A world you’re not a part of.
“She’s fourteen?” Mario asks.
“Turned fourteen last month.”
“And she’s playing with boys her age? Some of those kids are huge.”
“She’s smarter than they are,” the coach says simply. “Faster, too. She knows how to avoid the big hits. She has to. She knows they’re gunning for her, the parents on the other teams whispering, telling their sons to ‘finish the check on the girl.’ She hears it. She just … uses it.”
There’s a moment of silence in the tiny office, the sounds of celebration down the hall feeling a world away.
“This is ridiculous,” Mario says, his voice a low rumble. “The bureaucracy … the old boys’ club. It’s always been there, but to shut down a talent like that? Before she even gets a chance?”
“Tell me about it,” Coach Walker sighs. He slumps into his worn-out office chair. “I’ve done everything I can. I’ve made the calls. I’ve yelled at league commissioners. Nobody wants to be the first. Nobody wants to rock the boat.” He looks up at Mario, a glint of desperation in his tired eyes. “They’re going to waste her, Mr. Lemieux. They’re going to let the best player this state has seen in a decade fall through the cracks because she was born a girl.”
Mario looks back at the corkboard, at the official letterheads and the polite, dismissive words. He thinks of you on the ice, the effortless grace, the fierce intelligence. He thinks of you skating alone to a public bathroom while your teammates celebrate together.
“Maybe,” Mario says, a new resolve hardening his voice, “they just need a bigger boat.”
***
The hallway is cold and smells of wet concrete. The celebratory noise from the Knights’ locker room is a dull roar behind a closed door. You push open the heavy door of the women’s restroom, the oversized hockey bag slung over your shoulder, its weight familiar and comforting.
Your hair is damp, combed back from your face. You’re wearing jeans and a simple grey hoodie. Without the helmet and pads, you look your age. Young. The ferocity you display on the ice is replaced by a quiet, observant calm.
You take a deep breath, the adrenaline from the game slowly beginning to fade, leaving a pleasant exhaustion in its wake. It was a good game. You close your eyes for a second, replaying the goal in your head. The fake, the deke, the slide of the puck over the line. A small, satisfied smile touches your lips.
“Y/L/N.”
Your eyes snap open.
Leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his chest, is a man so tall he has to duck his head slightly to avoid the low-hanging pipes. He’s dressed in a simple black coat, but he carries an aura of importance that seems to fill the empty hallway.
You know who he is. Every kid who has ever held a hockey stick in Pennsylvania knows who he is. Mario Lemieux.
Your mind races. Is he here for a fundraiser? Did his kid play in the tournament? You give a small, polite nod, unsure of what to say.
“That was some game,” he says, his voice a deep, calm baritone. He pushes off the wall and takes a step toward you. He doesn’t offer a hand, just stands there, observing you with an intensity that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope.
“Thanks,” you manage, your voice coming out a little quieter than you intended. You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder.
“The move in the second period,” he continues, “the head fake to sell the pass to the wing before you pulled it between your skates. Did you practice that?”
You’re taken aback. He wasn’t just watching, he was analyzing.
“Sometimes,” you say with a shrug. “It just seemed like the right thing to do. The D-men were flat-footed.”
“They were flat-footed because you made them flat-footed,” he corrects you gently. “You controlled their skates for them. That’s not something you can teach.”
A faint blush rises on your cheeks. This isn’t like when parents say, ‘Good game!’ This is praise from a god of the sport, and it’s specific. It’s real.
“I just try to see the ice,” you murmur, looking down at your sneakers.
“I was just talking to your coach,” he says, his tone shifting slightly. It becomes more serious. “He was telling me about some of the … noise you’ve been dealing with. Off the ice.”
Your stomach tightens. You immediately know what he’s talking about. The letters. The phone calls that go unanswered. The whispers in the stands. A familiar wall of defensiveness goes up inside you. You’ve learned to protect yourself from the disappointment.
“It’s whatever,” you say, the casualness of your tone a well-practiced defense. “I don’t really care.”
“I think you do,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “And I think you should. It’s not right.”
You look up at him, really look at him. There’s no pity in his eyes. There’s something else. Anger. Recognition.
“What am I supposed to do about it?” You ask, and for the first time, a sliver of the frustration you keep so carefully buried leaks into your voice. “It’s always been like this. ‘There are no facilities.’ ‘We’re worried about your safety.’ It’s just excuses.”
“Yes,” he agrees, nodding slowly. “They are. They’re excuses from people who are afraid of what they don’t understand. People who are comfortable with the way things have always been.”
He takes another step closer. The sheer size of him is intimidating, but his demeanor is anything but.
“I’ve dealt with my share of hockey bureaucracy, Y/N. I’ve sat in boardrooms with men who think they know what’s best for the sport, men who would rather protect their own little kingdoms than let the game grow.” He pauses, his eyes locking onto yours. “Talent is talent. It doesn’t matter if it’s in a boy or a girl. And what I saw on that ice today … that was talent.”
The word hangs in the air between you. You’ve been called good. You’ve been called a great player ‘for a girl.’ But the way he says ‘talent,’ it feels different. It feels like a fact. Unqualified. Absolute.
A knot forms in your throat. You swallow hard.
“Your coach says he’s hit a wall,” Mario says.
You just nod, unable to speak.
“I’d like to make a few phone calls,” he says simply. “Talk to some people. See if we can’t knock that wall down.”
Your head snaps up. You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the words. Mario Lemieux wants to make phone calls. For you.
“Why?” The question slips out before you can stop it. It’s small, vulnerable.
He offers a slight, wry smile. “Because I hate seeing good hockey go to waste. And because, selfishly, I want to see what a player like you can do when the doors are actually open.”
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a sleek, simple business card. He flips it over, takes a pen from his other pocket, and scribbles something on the back.
“This is my direct number,” he says, holding the card out to you. “Not my agent, not my assistant. Mine. I want you to call me tomorrow. We can talk more then. No pressure. Just a conversation.”
You stare at the card in his hand. Your own hands are trembling slightly. You shift the weight of your hockey bag and take it from him. The card is heavy, the lettering embossed. On the back, in neat, block handwriting, is a phone number.
It feels like the most valuable object in the world.
“Okay,” you whisper. The word is barely audible over the thump of your own heart.
“Okay,” he repeats with a nod. He gives you one last, appraising look. “Get some rest. You played a great game.”
And with that, he turns and walks down the long, empty hallway, his footsteps echoing until he disappears around the corner.
You stand there for a long time, alone in the quiet corridor. The sounds of your team celebrating down the hall have faded, the door likely closed now. It’s just you, your oversized bag, and the small, rectangular piece of paper in your hand.
You look from the number to the closed locker room door and back again. For the first time, the distance between your world and theirs doesn’t feel like a chasm. It feels like a problem that might just have a solution. And that solution is a phone number, resting in the palm of your hand.
***
That phone call is the most terrifying ten seconds of your life.
You sit on your bed, the business card slick with sweat in your hand, staring at the number he wrote on the back. Your thumb hovers over the call button on your beat-up flip phone.
“Just do it,” your dad says, leaning against your bedroom doorframe. “The worst thing he can say is that he changed his mind.”
“That’s a pretty bad worst thing,” you mumble, but you press the button anyway.
It rings twice.
“Hello?” The voice is unmistakable. Deep, calm.
“Uh, hi, Mr. Lemieux,” you stammer, your heart trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “This is … this is Y/N Y/L/N.”
“Y/N,” he says, and his voice warms instantly. “I was hoping you’d call. You have a minute to talk?”
That minute turns into four years.
Four years is a lifetime. It’s a blur of phone calls, rink-side meetings, and doors that were once welded shut suddenly creaking open. Mario’s name is a master key, and he uses it without hesitation. First, it’s a spot on a national-level U16 boys’ team. The whispers are there, louder now. The scrutiny is intense. Every mistake is magnified, every success is qualified with “… for a girl.”
You respond the only way you know how: on the ice. You lead the league in assists. You are the smartest player on any sheet of ice you touch.
At sixteen, Mario makes the big push. The Ontario Hockey League and the Western Hockey League hem and haw, citing the same old tired excuses. But the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League — the ‘Q’ — is different. Perhaps it’s their history of high-flying, creative players. Perhaps it’s the persuasive power of a legend making a personal appeal to their commissioner. A team, the Shawinigan Cataractes, agrees to let you try out.
Before the training camp, Mario flies you out to meet someone. You walk into a glass-walled office in Los Angeles and shake hands with Pat Brisson. The Pat Brisson. He represents Sidney Crosby, Nathan MacKinnon, a roster of gods.
He looks at you, then at Mario, then back at you.
“So this is the one,” Pat says, a shrewd, calculating look in his eyes.
“This is the one,” Mario confirms.
“They’re going to be brutal,” Pat says, his focus entirely on you now. “The media, the other players, the fans in the cheap seats. They’ll chirp you. They’ll test you. They’ll do everything they can to get under your skin.”
“I can handle it,” you say, your voice steady.
“I know you can,” Pat says with a sharp nod. “But we’re not going to hide from it. We’re going to lean into it. Our entire strategy is going to be simple. We’re going to let everyone know you’re a girl. And then you’re going to go out there and prove you’re better than every single boy they put in front of you. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” you say.
It becomes your mantra. The headlines are relentless. You step on the ice in Shawinigan and the chirps are merciless, a mix of crude English and even cruder French.
“Go back to the kitchen!” One player screams from the bench during your first exhibition game.
The next shift, you strip the puck from him at your own blue line, turn him inside out with a move so filthy the crowd gasps, and score on a breakaway. As you skate past his bench, you don’t say a word. You just meet his eyes. It’s more than enough.
You don’t just make the team. You become its star.
By seventeen, you’re an alternate captain. By eighteen, you’re the first female captain in the history of the Canadian Hockey League. You lead the Cataractes to a Memorial Cup championship, and you are named tournament MVP. You finish your final season with 121 points. You are not just the best player on your team; you are the best player in the entire league. The debate about whether a girl can play at this level is over. You ended it.
And now, a new debate begins.
***
The first draft is in Ottawa. The Professional Women’s Hockey League. The stage at the Hard Rock is bathed in purple and black light. It’s a historic moment and there’s a palpable energy of excitement and progress in the air.
You’re proud of it. Truly. You see the young girls in the audience holding signs, their faces painted, and you understand the importance of this. But as you sit in the front row between your mom and dad, a knot of anxiety is tangled in your gut.
There’s no suspense. The commissioner walks to the podium.
“With the first overall selection in the inaugural PWHL Draft,” she announces, her voice ringing with significance, “the New York Sirens are proud to select, from the Shawinigan Cataractes … Y/N Y/L/N!”
The room erupts. You stand, smooth down your dress, and hug your parents. You walk to the stage, shake the commissioner’s hand, and hold up the teal and orange jersey. You smile for the cameras, the flashbulbs popping like fireworks. You say all the right things in the interviews.
“It’s an incredible honor.”
“What this league is doing for women’s hockey is monumental.”
“I’m just so grateful for this opportunity.”
Later that night, in the hotel bar, you’re sitting in a quiet corner with Mario. He swirls the ice in his glass of water, watching you.
“You did good up there,” he says. “You handled that with class.”
“Thanks,” you say, picking at the label on your bottle of soda.
“You’re happy about it,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement that’s fishing for a contradiction.
“I am,” you insist, meeting his gaze. “It’s amazing. It is. But …”
“But it’s not the dream,” he finishes for you.
You look down at your hands. “Is that awful? To feel that way? All those people … they’re building something incredible. And I feel like I’m looking past it.”
“It’s not awful,” he says, his voice firm. “It’s honest. You can be proud of what they’re building and still want to follow your own path. The dream was never to be the best female hockey player in the world. The dream was to be the best hockey player in the world. Period.”
He leans forward slightly. “And that path goes through one place. Las Vegas. In three days.”
***
Three days later, you’re sitting at a table inside the Sphere.
The place is an assault on the senses. The world’s largest LED screen wraps around and above you, displaying a dizzying array of team logos, player highlights, and shimmering graphics. The air conditioning is arctic. The anxiety is thick enough to choke on.
You’re wearing a simple, elegant dark green dress. Your hair is down, styled in loose waves. Beside you, your dad is fidgeting with his tie for the hundredth time. Your mom is clutching your hand, her knuckles white. And next to her, a rock of calm in a sea of tension, is Mario.
On the massive screen, the broadcast begins. The commentators’ faces, fifty feet tall, loom over the arena.
“Welcome to the 2025 NHL Entry Draft,” the host, Kevin Weekes, says. “An incredible venue for an incredible class of prospects. But of course, the story everyone is talking about is Y/N Y/L/N.”
Your highlights from the QMJHL flash across the screen — goals, assists, the Memorial Cup celebration.
“No one questions the skill,” another analyst, Cheryl Pounder, chimes in. “The hockey IQ is off the charts. She’s arguably the best playmaker in this draft. The question, and it’s the one every GM is asking, is how does her game translate to the size and speed of the National Hockey League?”
“It’s the physicality, Cheryl,” a third commentator adds. “Can she survive an 84-game season against men who are bigger, stronger, and faster than anyone she’s ever faced? It’s an unprecedented situation. No one knows where she’s going to go. Some scouts have her in the top ten, others have her falling to the second round. It is the great unknown of this draft.”
A cold dread begins to pool in your stomach. You knew this was coming, but hearing it broadcast to millions of people makes it sickeningly real.
Gary Bettman walks to the podium. The draft officially begins.
“With the first overall pick, the New York Islanders are proud to select …”
Matthew Schaefer, no surprise there.
Pick two. A center from the OHL.
Pick three. A Swedish phenom.
With every pick that isn’t you, your mom squeezes your hand a little tighter. You keep a placid, neutral expression on your face, a mask you perfected years ago. Inside, your nerves are shredding.
The top ten is gone. Pat had told you there was a good chance you’d go somewhere between eight and twelve. The first pang of real doubt hits you.
“And now, on the clock, with the eleventh overall selection, the Pittsburgh Penguins,” Bettman announces.
This is it. Mario’s team. The team you grew up watching. The team whose practice facility you’ve skated at a dozen times. Kyle Dubas appears on the giant screen from their draft room in Pittsburgh. The story is perfect. It’s written in the stars.
“The Pittsburgh Penguins are proud to select …” he begins.
You hold your breath.
“… from the Calgary Hitmen, Benjamin Kindel.”
The air goes out of you in a silent rush. It’s a physical blow. You manage a polite clap as the young Canadian stands up from his table. You glance at Mario. His jaw is set like granite.
He leans over to you, his voice a low, angry whisper only you and your parents can hear. “I’m going to have a long talk with Kyle tomorrow. Maybe fire him.”
It’s meant to be a joke, to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t work. The seed of fear has been planted. What if they’re all passing on you? What if the commentators were right? What if this was all for nothing?
Pick twelve. The Philadelphia Flyers. Not you.
Pick thirteen. The Detroit Red Wings. Not you.
Pick twelve. The Columbus Blue Jackets. Not you.
The first round is halfway over. The cameras keep panning to your table, catching your forced smiles, your stoic facade. You feel like an animal in a zoo. The girl who might get picked. The novelty act.
The familiar humiliation starts to creep in, the same feeling you got standing outside the boys’ locker room all those years ago. You are separate. You are other. You are a risk nobody is willing to take.
You look at your parents. Your dad is trying for a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t reach his worried eyes. Your mom looks like she’s about to cry. You feel a wave of guilt. You brought them here. You put them through this.
Maybe the PWHL is where you belong after all. Maybe that’s your ceiling. The thought is a bitter pill.
On the podium, Gary Bettman is speaking again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a trade to announce.”
A hush falls over the Sphere. The graphics on the screen swirl and change.
“We have a trade between the Vancouver Canucks and the New Jersey Devils.”
You barely register it. A mid-round pick swap, probably. Teams jockeying for position later on.
“The Vancouver Canucks trade the fifteenth overall selection to the New Jersey Devils,” Bettman continues, and now your head snaps up, “in exchange for the fiftieth overall selection in this year’s draft, a second-round selection in the 2026 draft, and the rights to prospect Seamus Casey.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd. That’s a haul. A third, a second, and a top prospect … to move up for one pick? Whoever the Devils want, they want them badly.
On the main screen, the feed switches to the New Jersey Devils’ war room. General Manager Tom Fitzgerald walks to their podium, flanked by his staff. He looks calm, confident. He looks like a man who just got exactly what he wanted.
The camera in the Sphere pans, sweeping over the remaining top prospects. It lingers on a big defenseman from Finland. It shows a speedy Canadian winger.
And then it finds your table.
Your face is now fifty feet high, broadcast for the whole world to see. You can feel thousands of pairs of eyes on you. Your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs. This is it. This is the moment. It’s either the culmination of a dream or the beginning of a nightmare.
Tom Fitzgerald leans into the microphone. He doesn’t drag it out. He doesn’t build the suspense.
“The New Jersey Devils are proud to select …”
He pauses, and in that one second of silence, you live an entire lifetime of hope and fear.
“… from the Shawinigan Cataractes, Y/N Y/L/N.”
The word hangs in the air for a split second before the Sphere erupts.
The sound is a physical force, a wave that washes over you. It’s a roar of cheers, applause, and surprised shouts. For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to connect the sound of your name to the reality of the moment.
Then your mom is crying, grabbing you in a fierce hug. Your dad is yelling something incoherent, his face split by a grin of pure joy. You turn to Mario. He’s not smiling. He has a look of solemn satisfaction on his face. He simply puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, a gesture that says everything. I knew it. I told you.
You stand up on shaky legs. The world feels like it’s tilting. You make your way to the stage, moving through a dream. Someone hands you a jersey. It’s red and black. You hold it up, and the flashbulbs are blinding.
You put it on. The fabric is heavy, the crest on the front stiff and new. It feels … right. It feels like coming home to a place you’ve never been.
You walk off the stage, dazed, and find your way back to your family. Pat is there now, a wide smile on his face as he talks on his phone.
Mario pulls you into a hug, a real one this time. He’s so tall he envelops you completely.
“They didn’t just draft you,” he says, his voice rumbling in your ear. “They traded up. They paid a price because they were afraid someone else was going to take you right before them. They didn’t take a chance on you, Y/N. They targeted you.”
He pulls back, holding you by the shoulders, his eyes locking onto yours.
“You’re not the girl who got drafted,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re the fifteenth overall pick in the NHL Entry Draft. Now go show them why they should have taken you first.”
***
The moment you step off the stage, you’re swallowed by a vortex of managed chaos. A smiling woman from the league’s PR department with a headset and a clipboard gently steers you down a hallway. The roar of the draft floor fades behind you, replaced by the sterile hum of backstage corridors.
“Right this way, Y/N,” the woman says brightly. “We’re just going to do a few quick interviews, some photos, and then we’ll get you to the Devils’ media team.”
It’s not quick.
First, it’s a sit-down with ESPN. The lights are hot, the questions are a predictable mix of “How does it feel?” and “What do you say to the skeptics?” You give the polite, media-trained answers Pat drilled into you, your voice steady even as your hands tremble in your lap.
Then it’s Sportsnet. Then the NHL Network. You feel like you’re saying the same five sentences on a loop.
“It’s a dream come true.”
“I’m just excited to get to work.”
“I’ve always believed in my ability.”
“The Devils are a great organization.”
“I can’t wait to meet my teammates.”
You’re mid-sentence with a blogger from a popular hockey site when a different PR person, this one wearing a Devils polo shirt, rushes over.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, not looking sorry at all. “We need her. Phone call.” He hands you your phone, which has been in their safekeeping. The screen is a blinding, strobing mess of notifications. But there’s a call coming through from an unknown number.
“Who is it?” You ask, your brain feeling fuzzy from the lights and repetitive questions.
“It’s your captain,” he says, a grin spreading across his face.
Your breath hitches. You swipe to answer, your thumb barely connecting with the screen. You press the phone to your ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Y/N?” The voice on the other end is calm, with a slight, charming Swiss-German accent. Nico Hischier.
“Yes,” you manage to say. “Hi.”
“Hey, Nico Hischier here. I just … wow. Welcome to New Jersey,” he says, and you can hear the genuine smile in his voice. “A bunch of us are together watching. When we saw Fitz traded up, we were all trying to guess who it was for. Nobody guessed this. In a good way! We’re all so excited.”
The background noise behind him is a low murmur of voices and then a distinct shout of “NICO! TELL HER DAWSON SAYS SHE BETTER BE A GOOD PASSER!”
Nico laughs, a warm, easy sound. “You’ll have to excuse Dawson. He’s already thinking about the power play. But seriously, on behalf of all the guys, we’re thrilled. What you did in the Q was incredible to watch.”
He’s not talking to you like a history project or a media spectacle. He’s talking to you like a hockey player. A teammate. It’s the first time all night that the reality of the situation truly sinks in, cutting through the surreal haze. You’re not just a draft pick. You’re a New Jersey Devil.
“Thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. You turn away from the PR reps, seeking a sliver of privacy. “Thanks, captain. That … that really means a lot.”
“Of course,” he says. “I know tonight is going to be crazy for you. Probably the next few months will be. Just … try to enjoy it. And know that when you get to camp, we’ve got your back. You’re one of us now. The media, the noise, we’ll handle it as a team. You just worry about playing hockey.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink them away furiously. “I will. Thank you, Nico.”
“Alright. I’ll let you go. Get some rest when you can. And hey, welcome to the Devils.”
The line clicks off. You stand there for a moment, the phone pressed to your ear, the sincerity of his words a soothing balm on your frayed nerves. He didn't have to call. He certainly didn't have to say any of that. But he did.
“Ready for social?” The Devils PR guy asks, breaking the spell.
***
The next hour is a blur of manufactured fun. You are introduced to a perky twenty-something named Maddie who runs the Devils’ TikTok account.
“Okay, Y/N, this is going to be amazing for engagement!” She says, her energy both infectious and exhausting. “First, we’re going to do the one where you point at different text bubbles that pop up on screen. So the first one will say ‘First Woman Drafted,’ and you just point up and smile. Got it? Great!”
You do it. You point. You smile.
“Perfect! Now, we’re going to do a transition Reel. We have your Shawinigan jersey here. You’re going to hold it up in front of the camera, then pull it away, and you’ll be wearing the Devils jersey! We’ll edit it, it’ll look sick.”
You change jerseys. The camera rolls. You feel ridiculous.
“Now one for the league’s account,” another social media manager says, stepping forward. “We want to do a ‘get to know you’ thing. I’ll fire some questions, you just give quick answers. Favorite pre-game meal?”
“Pasta with chicken.”
“Favorite artist right now?”
“Sabrina Carpenter.”
“Celebrity crush?”
You freeze. Pat’s voice rings in your ears from one of your media training sessions. Never answer that. Keep your private life private.
“Don’t really have one,” you lie smoothly.
“Okay, okay, last one!” Maddie chirps, holding her phone up again. “We’re doing a video where you look into the camera and say, ‘Hey, Devils fans. I’m here. Let’s go.’ But like, with intensity.”
You stare into the tiny lens of her iPhone, summon the last dregs of your adrenaline, and deliver the line.
“Hey, Devils fans. I’m here. Let’s go.”
“Amazing!” She squeals. “The comments are going to go crazy!”
You’re finally released, your head swimming, your cheeks aching from smiling. You feel less like a hockey player and more like a content creation machine. As you’re led toward the green room where your family is waiting, you pass a TV screen. It’s showing a replay of the draft commentary.
“… and there it is,” you hear Cheryl Pounder saying, “The New Jersey Devils make history. But Tom Fitzgerald wouldn’t have made that trade if he didn’t believe Y/N Y/L/N can be an impact player in the National Hockey League.”
Your step falters. An impact player. The words cut through the noise of the TikToks and the flashbulbs. That’s what matters. That’s the goal.
***
You push open the door to the private room and the world comes rushing back in.
“There she is!” Your dad shouts, his eyes red but his smile a mile wide.
Your mom engulfs you in a hug, still crying softly into your shoulder. “Oh, sweetie, we are just so, so proud of you.”
Over her shoulder, you see Mario. He’s holding a bouquet of flowers so enormous it’s comical. It’s a breathtaking explosion of white roses, lilies, and hydrangeas. He looks immensely pleased with himself.
“Had to make sure they were bigger than any bouquet the number fourteen pick got,” he says with a deep chuckle as you finally detach from your mom. “Just a little reminder from me to Pittsburgh about what they missed out on.”
You laugh, a real, genuine laugh for the first time in what feels like hours. “Still thinking about firing Dubas?”
“The thought has crossed my mind every thirty seconds since then,” Mario says with a completely straight face, which only makes you laugh harder.
In the corner, Pat is a whirlwind of activity. He has his cell phone pressed to one ear and a second one in his hand that he keeps glancing at.
“No, a full-page ad is fine, but we need creative control,” he says into the phone. He sees you looking and gives you a huge, triumphant wink. He covers the receiver. “Nike is on hold. They want to talk about a signature line. Not just a skate. A whole line. Bauer is scrambling. Gatorade wants to make you a pillar of their next global campaign. And a reporter from Vogue wants to know who you’re wearing.”
He gestures to your green dress. “Who are you wearing, by the way?”
“It’s from a mall,” you say, feeling completely overwhelmed. “I don’t even know.”
“We’ll say it’s custom,” he mutters before turning his attention back to his call. “Listen, I have to call you back.”
Mario steps forward, gently taking the massive bouquet from his own hands and placing it in yours. The scent is intoxicating.
“Alright,” he says, his voice cutting through the celebratory chaos. He puts a hand on your shoulder and one on your dad’s. “That’s enough business for tonight. Pat can make you rich tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate. I have a car waiting and a reservation at a restaurant where no one will bother us. My treat.”
The relief is so profound it almost brings you to your knees. A quiet dinner. Your family. Your mentor. It’s all you want in the world.
***
Meanwhile, at a lake house in Michigan …
The setting sun paints the surface of the lake in fiery shades of orange and pink. Inside a sprawling, modern house with floor-to-ceiling windows, the only light comes from the massive television screen displaying the NHL draft. Empty chip bags and beer bottles litter the coffee table.
Quinn is lounging on an armchair, scrolling through his phone. Luke is stretched out on the floor, idly tossing a foam puck into the air. Jack is perched on the edge of the sofa, his focus laser-sharp on the screen, his posture radiating a nervous energy even from a thousand miles away.
“This draft is boring,” Luke says, catching the foam puck. “Wake me up when something interesting happens.”
“The kid from Saginaw is going to be good,” Quinn says, not looking up from his phone. “San Jose got a stud.”
“Yeah, yeah, everyone’s a stud,” Jack mutters, his eyes narrowed on the TV. “Let’s see what Fitzy does. He’s been quiet.”
They watch as the picks tick by. Pittsburgh is on the clock.
“Here we go,” Jack says, leaning forward. “He’s gotta take a center.”
The Penguins select Benjamin Kindel.
“Good pick,” Jack says with a decisive nod. “Smart.”
A few more picks go by. Luke is starting to doze off. Then, the announcement.
“We have a trade to announce.”
Jack sits bolt upright. “Okay, here we go. Fitz is cooking.”
Luke props himself up on his elbows. “Who’s trading?”
“Vancouver and New Jersey,” the commissioner says.
Quinn’s head shoots up from his phone. “What? No one told me we were trading our pick.”
“The fifteenth pick … to the Devils,” the announcer clarifies.
“Whoa,” Luke says, now fully awake. “Fitz gave up a lot. A second, a third, and Casey? Who the hell is he trading up for?”
“It’s gotta be one of the Russian kids,” Jack theorizes, rattling off names. “Or maybe that big D-man from Finland. Someone must have been trying to jump us.”
The broadcast cuts to the Devils’ war room. Tom Fitzgerald is at the podium.
“Alright, Fitz, who’d you get for us?” Jack says to the screen.
“The New Jersey Devils are proud to select … from the Shawinigan Cataractes … Y/N Y/L/N.”
A stunned silence fills the room, broken only by the sound of the television.
Luke is the first to speak. His voice is a disbelieving whisper.
“No. Way.”
Quinn is just staring at the screen, his mouth slightly agape, looking back and forth between your smiling face holding up a Devils jersey and his brothers.
Jack doesn’t say anything for a long time. His face is a blank mask of concentration. He’s not shocked. He’s processing. He’s running simulations in his mind, calculating angles, reconfiguring power-play units. He’s a hockey supercomputer booting up a new, unprecedented variable.
Finally, he speaks. “Holy shit.” He says it quietly, with a sort of reverence. “Fitz actually did it.”
“What does this even mean?” Luke asks, sitting up completely. He looks genuinely bewildered. “Like … for the team? For the locker room? What are we supposed to do?”
“You’re supposed to treat her like a teammate,” Quinn says, his voice taking on the authoritative tone of a captain. He’s looking at Jack and Luke, his expression serious. “You guys need to get ahead of this. Every team in the league is going to circle your games now. Every scrum, every post-whistle … they’re going to test her. And they’re going to test you to see if you have her back.”
“Of course we’ll have her back,” Jack scoffs, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He pulls out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. “She’s a Devil.” He finds your highlights from the Memorial Cup. The clip of you turning a defenseman inside out plays on the small screen. “Look at that. The poise. The vision.”
He looks up at Luke. “She’s a playmaker. That’s a puck-moving player who can feed our transition game. That’s what matters.” He pauses. “The media is going to be an absolute circus, though. We’re gonna have to shut that down from day one. Set the tone.” He’s already in leadership mode, protecting the sanctity of the room.
“So … I have a question,” Luke says slowly, a classic Luke expression of earnest confusion on his face. “And I’m not trying to be a jerk, I’m serious. Where does she, like … get changed?”
Jack and Quinn both look at him.
Quinn sighs. “They’ll add a curtain around her stall or something, Luke. The Prudential Center has the budget.”
“Oh. Right. Cool,” Luke says, nodding as if this is a perfectly normal piece of team logistics. He thinks for another second. “Man, I wonder if she’s any good at Catan. We need a fourth for game nights on the road.”
Jack isn’t listening. He’s still watching your highlights, a slow grin spreading across his face. He sees the head fake. He sees the no-look backhand pass to the slot. He sees a player who thinks the game on his level.
“Dude,” he says to Luke, finally looking up from his phone, a spark of genuine excitement in his eyes. “I think our power play just got a lot better.”
***
The celebratory dinner is a pocket of impossible calm after the storm of the draft. At a secluded corner table in a dimly lit, absurdly expensive steakhouse off the Las Vegas strip, the four of you finally have a moment to breathe. The conversation is easy, filled with stories from your childhood hockey days, your parents recounting tales of 6 a.m. practices and tournaments in frozen northern towns. For a few hours, you’re not a historic draft pick or a brand-in-the-making. You’re just their daughter.
The feeling, however, is fleeting. Real life, and the reality of what just happened, comes at you fast. The weeks after the draft are a whirlwind. Pat’s office secures a condo for you in a high-rise in Jersey City with a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. Boxes are packed and unpacked. Endorsement deals are signed. You do a photoshoot for a magazine, the feeling of the designer clothes foreign and strange against your skin, a stark contrast to the familiar weight of hockey pads.
But amidst all the noise, there is one singular focus, a beacon guiding you through the haze of your new life: Development Camp.
***
One Week Before Development Camp …
Dougie Hamilton is on his couch in Toronto, watching a movie, when his phone buzzes. He glances at it. A WhatsApp notification.
Unknown Number has added you to “A Friendly Reminder”
He frowns. A new group chat. He sees the names of his teammates appearing in the chat list. Nico Hischier. Jack Hughes. Timo Meier. Ondrej Palat. Every single player on the Devils’ roster, right down to the guys on two-way contracts in Utica.
Dougie Hamilton: Who is this?
Before anyone else can type, a video appears in the chat. No caption. Just a play button. Dougie taps it, intrigued.
The video is portrait-style, clearly filmed on a phone. It’s a close-up of a man’s face, a face every single person in this chat knows. The lighting is low, but the eyes are intense, missing nothing. It’s Mario Lemieux. He doesn’t blink.
“This message is for the New Jersey Devils,” he begins, his voice a low, even rumble. It’s the calmest, most terrifying sound Dougie has ever heard. “In a few weeks, a rookie is coming to your camp. My player. Y/N Y/L/N. I’m sure you’ve seen the news.”
He pauses, letting the silence hang heavy.
“Let me be perfectly clear. She is not a media spectacle. She is not a locker room distraction. She is a hockey player. A damn good one. And she is your teammate. You will treat her as such. You will make her feel welcome. You will give her a fair chance to earn her spot, just like any other prospect. And when the time comes, you will protect her on the ice as you would any other member of your team.”
His gaze seems to pierce through the screen.
“I have a long memory and a lot of friends in this league. If I hear — from anyone — that she has been treated with anything less than the full respect a teammate deserves, you will find that your careers, your reputations, and your future contract negotiations will become … complicated.”
He leans a fraction of an inch closer to the camera.
“Enjoy the rest of your summer. I’ll be watching.”
The video ends. A moment later, a new message appears in the chat.
This video will self-destruct in two minutes.
The chat immediately explodes.
Timo Meier: Was that who I think it was?
Ondrej Palat: How the hell did he get all our numbers?
Jonas Siegenthaler: I feel like I just got threatened by the Godfather.
Jack Hughes: LMAO FITZ IS GONNA HAVE A HEART ATTACK
Nico Hischier: Everyone relax. He’s just being protective. The message is simple: be good teammates. We were going to do that anyway. This doesn’t change anything.
Jack Hughes: It kinda changes things. Now I’m terrified of Lemieux. Which is fair.
Two minutes later, precisely as promised, the video vanishes from the chat history. A moment after that, the group itself is deleted, the unknown number disappearing into the digital ether. The players are left with nothing but the chilling memory of Mario Lemieux’s promise.
***
You know nothing about this.
When you walk into the RWJBarnabas Health Hockey House for the first day of development camp, all you feel is a tidal wave of nervous excitement. The building smells of fresh ice and new equipment. You’re handed a bag full of gear, everything crisp and new, emblazoned with the Devils logo. Your practice jersey is white, the number 21 stitched on the back in red. Twelve, your number in the Q, is taken by a veteran. Twenty-one feels new. A clean slate.
You find your assigned stall in the prospects’ locker room, a temporary space for the week. Your name is printed on a placard above the stall. Y/L/N. It feels real.
The other prospects file in, a mix of recent draft picks like you and players who have been in the system for a year or two. Some guys come over and introduce themselves, offering handshakes and welcoming smiles. Others watch you from a distance, their expressions a mix of curiosity and skepticism. They’re your competition.
You’re taping the knob of a new stick when you hear it. The comment isn’t meant for you to hear, but the acoustics of a locker room carry whispers. It’s a seventh-round pick, a big, lumbering defenseman named Gauthier, talking to another prospect a few stalls down.
“You see the media circus out front?” Gauthier says, his voice low. “It’s all for her. It’s a publicity stunt, man. Fitz is trying to sell jerseys. There’s no way she cracks the main roster. The women’s league is waiting for her.”
The words are a punch to the gut, a cold splash of the same doubt you’ve been swimming against your entire life. Your hands still for a moment. You don’t turn around. You don’t acknowledge that you heard. You just take a slow, deep breath, and a familiar, icy resolve settles over you.
You finish taping your stick, your movements precise and controlled. Fine. Let them think that. You’ve been proving people wrong your whole life. This is just a bigger stage with brighter lights.
On the ice, you let your play do the talking. The first few drills are simple skating and puck-handling exercises. You’re fluid, your edges sharp, your hands soft. You don’t just execute the drills, you master them.
The coaches put you in a 3-on-2 rush drill. You carry the puck over the blue line, two teammates on your wings. The two defensemen are the hulking Gauthier and another prospect. Gauthier fixes his eyes on you, clearly intending to make a statement, to prove you can’t handle the physicality.
You see him coming. You see the angle he’s taking. It’s a classic, aggressive play to force you to the outside. Instead of fighting it, you invite it. You skate hard toward the boards, drawing him with you. At the last possible second, just before he can plaster you into the glass, you drop the puck behind you into the empty space you just created — a perfect drop pass — and pivot hard.
Gauthier, his momentum carrying him forward, is completely taken out of the play. Your teammate scoops up the puck and walks in on a 2-on-1 against the remaining defenseman. He scores easily.
As you skate back up the ice, you don’t even glance at Gauthier. You just get back in line for the next rep, your face an unreadable mask of focus. But across the ice, a few of the Devils’ coaches are murmuring to each other, nodding in approval. You made the right play. Not the flashy play, not the selfish play. The smart play.
The ‘publicity stunt’ just created a scoring chance.
***
When the veterans arrive for the main training camp a week later, the entire atmosphere of the building shifts. The pace is faster, the passes are harder, the intensity is tenfold what it was at development camp. These are no longer boys trying to make a team, these are men trying to win a Stanley Cup.
You feel the difference immediately. The windows to make a play are smaller, the physical battles in the corners are fiercer. But you adjust. You have to.
The veterans are, to your surprise, incredibly welcoming. Nico makes a point of skating with you during warmups, asking you how you’re settling in. Dougie gives you a tap on the shin pads and a “nice pass” after a crisp breakout drill. They’re professional, respectful, and inclusive. You’re so focused on earning your spot that you don’t even notice they’re being pointedly nice, their interactions colored by the ghost of a self-destructing video.
It’s during a small-area possession drill that you’re paired with Luke. The drill is simple: two teams of three fight for the puck in a confined space. The goal is to maintain possession for thirty seconds. Your team is you, Luke, and another prospect. The other team is Jack Hughes, Timo Meier, and Jonas Siegenthaler. It’s a ridiculously unfair matchup.
The puck is dropped. Timo Meier, a human wrecking ball, immediately out-muscles the prospect for the puck. He cycles it down low to Jack, who is already spinning, looking for an opening. Luke moves to pressure him.
You read the play. You see Jack’s eyes dart to Siegenthaler creeping down from the point. It’s the obvious pass. So you don’t cover the passing lane. You go to the net, right into the space Jack wants to go. You take away his second option before he even knows it’s his second option.
Jack, seeing the obvious pass to the point is covered by Luke’s long reach, instinctively tries to cut to the net for a wraparound. But you’re there, your stick perfectly positioned, deflecting the puck off his blade and into the corner.
Luke, surprised but recovering quickly, pivots to get the loose puck. He looks up, ready to move it to the prospect.
“Hughes! Boards!” You call out.
He doesn’t hesitate. He rims the puck hard around the boards behind the net. You’re already there to pick it up, having anticipated the entire sequence. You shield the puck from a charging Timo, spin away from the pressure, and slide a perfect backhand pass into the now-open space where Luke has circled. Possession maintained.
The coach’s whistle blows. Thirty seconds are up. Your team won the rep.
Luke skates over to you, breathing hard, a look of genuine astonishment on his face.
“How did you know Jack was going to the net?” He asks.
You shrug. “He’s a left shot. He had the puck on his forehand behind the goal line. His only two options were a backhand pass to the point or a forehand wraparound. You had the pass, so I took the net.” You say it like it’s as simple as tying your skates.
Luke just stares at you. He sees the flush on your cheeks from the exertion, the stray strands of hair that have escaped your helmet, the intense, analytical focus in your eyes. He’s seen pretty girls before. He’s a professional athlete. But he’s never seen that particular look on a girl before. That hyper-competent, I-just-outsmarted-your-superstar-brother look.
And it does something to his brain. It’s like a circuit shorts out and reconnects in a new, confusing way. A strange, warm feeling spreads through his chest.
“Right,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. “Smart.”
He skates away to get a drink of water, feeling oddly flustered. He keeps glancing back at you as you talk with a coach. He’s seen you in interviews. He thought you were pretty then, sure. But this is different. This isn't about looks. This is about watching you execute a complex defensive read under pressure against two of the best players on the team and then explaining it like it was simple arithmetic.
He’s so distracted that in the next drill, a simple passing sequence, the puck hits his skate and skitters away. He never misses that pass.
Across the ice, Jack sees it all. He saw the play you made to strip him of the puck. He saw Luke’s dumbfounded expression. And he definitely saw Luke flub the next easy pass while staring at you.
Later, in the locker room, as Luke is untying his skates, Jack ambles over to his stall, a sly grin playing on his lips.
“Little rusty today, Lukey?” Jack asks, leaning against the adjacent stall. “That pass in the star drill … woof. Looked like you were back in mites.”
“Shut up,” Luke mumbles, pulling off a skate. “Lost an edge.”
“You didn’t lose an edge,” Jack says, his grin widening. “You lost your brain. You were a little distracted, weren’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Luke says, pointedly not looking at his brother.
“Oh, I think you do,” Jack pushes, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You were watching number twenty-one. Pretty impressive what she did to me on that last shift, huh? Little embarrassing for me, but impressive.”
“She’s a good player,” Luke says, trying to sound casual. “She sees the ice well.”
“‘She’s a good player,’” Jack mimics in a high-pitched, mocking voice. “Is that what we’re calling it? You were staring at her like she was the last bottle of water in the desert. You’ve been watching her all practice.”
“I’m just … observing the new prospect,” Luke says defensively. “Trying to see how she fits in.”
Jack lets out a short, sharp laugh. “Observing. Right. Dude, it’s written all over your face. You’ve got a thing for her.”
Luke’s head snaps up, his cheeks flushing a bright red. “I do not!”
“You do,” Jack says, his eyes dancing with amusement. “It’s that look you get. It’s a mix of ‘wow, she’s good at hockey’ and ‘oh no, she’s pretty.’ It’s your kryptonite, little brother.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re totally smitten with the rookie,” Jack fires back. He pats Luke’s shoulder, his grin now impossibly wide. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. For now.”
He walks away, chuckling to himself, leaving Luke staring at his skates, his mind racing, his face burning. He replays the drill in his head. Your voice calling his name. Your perfect pass. Your explanation.
Oh no, he thinks, the realization dawning on him with horrifying clarity. Jack’s right.
***
The preseason is a gauntlet. It’s a blur of charter flights to anonymous cities, half-empty arenas, and a rotating cast of teammates as the coaching staff makes its cuts. You play in three of the six exhibition games. In the first, you look tentative, your timing a fraction of a second off as you adjust to the sheer speed of NHL veterans. In the second, you find your rhythm, picking up an assist and playing sound defensive hockey. In the third, against the Rangers at Madison Square Garden, you score, a quick snapshot from the slot on the power play that beats the goalie clean.
You do everything right. You’re the first one on the ice and the last one off. You study film until your eyes burn. You ask questions. You listen. You block shots. You finish your checks. You make the smart, simple play every single time. You do everything you can to prove that you’re not a publicity stunt, but a hockey player who can help this team win.
And still, on the final cut-down day, your stomach is a tangled knot of dread.
You’re summoned to the coaches’ office after the morning skate. The walk down the hallway feels a mile long. This is the room where dreams die. You’ve seen dejected prospects, kids you played with just yesterday, leaving this office with their equipment bags already packed.
You knock.
“Come in.”
Sheldon Keefe is sitting behind his desk, his expression unreadable. Tom Fitzgerald is in a chair beside the desk, a folder in his lap. They don’t smile. The room is silent for a beat, the tension thick enough to suffocate.
You stand before them, your hands clasped behind your back, your posture ramrod straight. You brace yourself for the inevitable. “You had a great camp, but we feel it’s best if you go back to juniors …”
Fitzgerald is the one who speaks first. “Close the door, please.”
You do, the click of the latch echoing like a gunshot. This is it.
“Well, you didn’t make it easy on us,” Fitz says, his tone level.
Your heart plummets.
“You made it impossible,” he continues, and a small, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of his mouth. “Impossible to cut you. You earned your spot, Y/N. You’re on the opening night roster.”
The air rushes out of your lungs. You feel lightheaded, your knees weak. You grip your hands tighter behind your back to keep them from shaking. You try to formulate a response, to say thank you, but no words come out. Just a choked, emotional sound.
“Don’t thank us,” Keefe says, his gravelly voice softening for the first time. “You earned it. You’re a smart player, you’re responsible in your own end, and you create offense. You make our team better. That’s the end of the discussion.” He leans forward, his gaze direct and serious. “The work starts now. This league is hard. It’s a grind. Are you ready for it?”
You find your voice, and it’s stronger than you expected. “Yes, Coach. I am.”
“Good,” Fitz says, standing up. He extends a hand. “Welcome to the New Jersey Devils. Officially.”
You shake his hand, then Keefe’s. As you turn to leave, Fitz adds one more thing.
“Your stall has been moved to the main room. Find your spot.”
That, more than anything, makes it real.
You walk out of the office, your mind in a daze. You push open the doors to the main locker room. It’s quiet, most of the players having already left. But your new stall is there, nestled between Dawson Mercer and Simon Nemec. A permanent, engraved nameplate is affixed above it: 21 - Y/L/N.
Your equipment, which the trainers have already moved, is neatly arranged. This is your home now. You run a hand over the smooth, cool metal of the nameplate, the letters grounding you. You made it. You’re here.
A slow clap breaks the silence. You turn. Jack is leaning against his stall across the room, a towel around his neck, a wide, knowing grin on his face.
“Knew it was coming,” he says. “Fitz would’ve had a riot on his hands if he cut you. Me. I would have rioted.” He pushes off the stall and walks over, clapping you on the shoulder. “Congrats. Now you get to feed me one-timers on the power-play unit for real.”
Luke appears from the trainer’s room, his hair damp from the shower. His face breaks into a genuine, beaming smile when he sees you.
“You made it! Awesome!” He says, his enthusiasm boyish and infectious. “I mean, we all knew you were going to. But still. It’s official. That’s so cool.”
Nico emerges from the gym, his expression calm and steady as always. He gives you a firm, approving nod. “Welcome to the team. For real this time. You earned this. Now, let’s go win some hockey games.”
The support is overwhelming, a wave of acceptance that washes away the last of your anxieties. The whispers of the skeptics, the ghost of Gauthier’s comment, they all fade into the background. These are your teammates. This is your room.
You finally allow yourself a real, true smile. “Let’s go.”
***
The season opener in Raleigh is a full-blown media event. The morning skate is packed with reporters, their cameras and microphones all pointed at you. Your parents and Mario fly in that afternoon, their presence a comforting anchor in the swirling chaos. You meet them in the lobby of the team hotel.
“Try not to throw up from the nerves,” your dad says, pulling you into a tight hug. It’s the advice he’s given you before every major game of your life.
“We are so, so proud of you, no matter what happens tonight,” your mom says, her eyes already welling with tears as she kisses your cheek.
Mario waits until they’ve stepped back. He puts his hands on your shoulders, his expression serious.
“You’ve done the work,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You’ve proven you belong here. There’s nothing left to prove. Don’t go out there tonight and try to be a hero. Don’t try to be the first woman in the NHL. Just be number twenty-one for the New Jersey Devils. Play your game. The rest will take care of itself.”
His words are a release valve for the pressure that has been building inside you. He’s right. Just play hockey. It’s the one thing you know how to do.
Walking into PNC Arena that evening is a sensory overload. The roar of a hostile crowd, the flashing lights, the sheer scale of it all. This isn’t the QMJHL anymore. This is the show.
The puck drops, and the game moves at a speed you’ve never experienced. It’s not just the skating, it’s the thinking. Decisions are made in microseconds. Passes are zipped through impossibly small windows. And the physicality … it’s a promise of violence in every puck battle.
Early in the first period, you’re chasing a puck into the corner. You get there first, but you hear a freight train coming. It’s Andrei Svechnikov. You have just enough time to brace yourself before he finishes his check. The impact is jarring, a full-body shock that rattles your teeth. You stay on your feet, absorbing the blow, and manage to chip the puck up the boards to your defenseman before he can pin you.
It’s a small play, but an important one. You took a heavy, clean hit from a power forward and you didn’t just survive it; you made the right play. On the bench, you hear your linemate, Ondrej Palat, tap his stick on the boards. A sign of respect. Atta girl. Way to eat that one.
You settle in. Midway through the period, you make your mark. Jack carries the puck into the zone on a 3-on-2. You’re driving the far lane, pulling a defenseman with you. Jack cuts to the middle, drawing your man as well. He sees it, and at the last second, he drops the puck into the space they’ve all vacated. It lands right on the tape of the trailer, Timo Meier. Timo winds up and unleashes a cannon of a slapshot that nearly tears a hole in the net.
Goal, New Jersey.
You skate to the celebration, mobbing Timo with the rest of the line. It’s your first official NHL point. An assist. On the way back to the bench, Jack skates by and gives you a glove tap. “That’s what I’m talking about. Create that space.”
The first goal comes early in the second period. It’s a broken play in the Carolina zone. A shot from Dougie Hamilton at the point is blocked and the puck caroms right to your stick in the high slot. There’s no time to think. You just react. You snap the puck on net, a hard, low shot aimed for the far pad, hoping for a rebound. But the goalie is still scrambling back into position from the first shot. The puck slips right through his five-hole.
The red light flashes. The horn blares, a sound you’ll never forget.
You’re momentarily frozen, unsure if it actually went in. Then Dawson Mercer is tackling you in a hug, lifting you off the ice. The rest of the team piles on. Your first NHL goal. You can’t stop smiling. As you skate past the bench, you see Luke, stick in the air, a massive, genuine grin on his face. You give him a nod, your heart hammering in your chest.
The game is a back-and-forth affair. Carolina ties it late in the second. It’s 2-2 heading into the third, the tension in the building ratcheting up with every shift.
With six minutes left to play, you find yourself on the ice for a critical shift. The play is in your own end. You intercept a pass along the half-wall, look up, and see Jesper Bratt taking off through the neutral zone. You thread a perfect stretch pass, hitting him in stride at the far blue line. He’s in on a breakaway.
He dekes, shoots … and hits the post. The puck ricochets hard off the iron and comes flying back out, right into the high slot. You’ve been trailing the play, busting your gut to get up the ice. The puck lands right in front of you. The goalie is down and out, still sprawled from the first attempt. You have a wide-open net.
You don’t rush it. You settle the puck, take a deep breath, and wire it into the top corner.
Goal. 3-2, New Jersey.
The arena falls silent, stunned. Your teammates erupt. But this time, your celebration is different. It’s not the wide-eyed shock of the first goal. This is pure swagger.
You drop to one knee in a classic power slide, gliding toward the corner glass. As you come to a stop, you push yourself up. You turn to face the silent, hostile crowd. You slowly, deliberately, take the end of your long braid, which has fallen over your shoulder, and you theatrically flip it back. Then, with a smirk, you blow a kiss to the stands.
It’s a statement. I’m here. I’m a girl. And I’m better than you tonight.
On the bench, the camera finds Luke.
And his brain simply ceases to function.
He’s on his feet, ready to cheer, his mouth open to yell. But then he sees the celly. He sees the hair flip. He sees the kiss. And everything short-circuits. His mouth hangs slightly agape. His eyes are wide, locked on you, a look of dumbfounded mesmerization on his face. He looks like a computer that has just been handed a problem it cannot compute. He is completely and totally buffered.
Jack, standing right next to him, sees it all. He sees your celebration on the ice, and then he turns and sees the expression on his brother’s face. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his own. This is comedy gold. He nudges Luke hard in the ribs.
“Dude, close your mouth,” Jack snickers. “You’ll catch flies.”
Luke blinks, snapping out of it. He shakes his head, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “What? I was just … great goal. Great celly.”
“‘Great celly,’” Jack mocks. “You looked like you saw a unicorn score a goal and then solve a Rubik’s cube. It was pathetic. And adorable.”
Luke just shakes his head and tries to pretend he wasn’t just mentally rebooting for ten straight seconds. But it’s too late. A dozen cameras caught it. By the time you get back to the bench, a GIF of Luke’s slack-jawed expression is already making the rounds on Hockey Twitter with the caption: Find someone who looks at you the way Luke Hughes looks at Y/N Y/L/N.
The Devils hang on to win the game, 3-2. Your second goal is the game-winner. In the locker room, it’s pandemonium. You’re mobbed, your helmet getting knocked off in the joyous scrum. Nico hands you the team’s player-of-the-game award, a vintage leather Devils jacket.
“Two goals, one assist, and the game-winner in your first NHL game,” Nico announces to the room, his voice full of pride. “Not a bad start. Jacket’s yours.”
The room erupts in cheers and stick taps. You’re beaming, overwhelmed, and happier than you’ve ever been in your life.
***
After the media interviews and the post-game cool-down, you finally head for the exit, the borrowed player-of-the-game jacket feeling warm and heavy on your shoulders. Your parents and Mario are waiting for you in the family area, a quiet hallway outside the locker room.
Your mom is crying, obviously. Your dad just pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. “Two goals!” He keeps saying, over and over again. “Two!”
Mario is standing back, a look of profound, quiet pride on his face. He doesn’t say a word, just gives you a nod that speaks volumes. It says, I told you so. I knew you could do this.
Just then, Jack and Luke emerge from the locker room, their gear bags slung over their shoulders.
“Hey, there she is!” Jack says, grinning. “Rookie of the year campaign is off to a hot start. Don’t forget about us little people when you’re famous.”
You laugh. “Wouldn’t have happened without your pass on the first one.”
Luke steps forward, his eyes finding yours. He looks a little flustered. “Yeah, seriously, great game. That was … that was amazing to watch.” He’s trying to be a normal, supportive teammate, but his gaze is a little too intense, his smile a little too wide.
And then he makes the mistake of glancing past you. His eyes meet Mario’s.
Mario hasn’t moved. He’s just standing there, arms crossed, his expression neutral. But his eyes … his eyes are fixed on Luke. There is no warmth in them. It’s a laser-like stare, an unnervingly perceptive gaze that seems to peel back every layer of Luke’s brain and analyze the raw data underneath. Mario doesn’t look angry. He looks like he’s calculating the precise trajectory of a satellite from a million miles away. He looks like he knows. He knows about the buffering. He knows about the competency kink. He knows every thought that has crossed Luke’s mind in the last three hours.
Luke’s blood runs cold.
His friendly smile freezes on his face. He feels like a bug under a microscope. He can almost hear Mario’s voice in his head, a low, threatening rumble from that self-destructing video.
He immediately averts his eyes, his gaze darting around the hallway as if looking for an escape route. His brain goes into full-blown panic mode.
Don’t think about her. Don’t think about the celly. Don’t think about how cool she is. He can hear you thinking. He’s Mario freaking Lemieux. Think about something else. Anything else. The Pythagorean theorem. The Devils’ defensive zone coverage. The lyrics to the national anthem. Anything.
Jack sees the silent, one-sided psychic battle taking place. He sees the color drain from Luke’s face. He sees the beads of sweat forming on his brother’s brow. And he finds it absolutely, unequivocally hilarious. He decides to pour a little gasoline on the fire.
“Yeah, Lukey here was really impressed with that second goal,” Jack says, clapping his brother on the back a little too hard. “Weren’t you, buddy? Said it was the best celly he’s ever seen.”
Luke shoots Jack a look that could kill, a silent plea of shut up shut up shut up.
Mario’s gaze doesn’t waver. A muscle in his jaw twitches. It’s the only sign of … something. Disapproval? A warning? It’s impossible to tell, which only makes it more terrifying.
You, meanwhile, are completely oblivious to the high-stakes telepathic drama unfolding. You just hear the compliment.
“Oh, thanks, Luke!” You say, beaming at him. “I don’t know, the first one felt pretty good too.”
Your genuine, clueless smile is the final blow. Luke just manages a tight, strangled nod, unable to form words. He grabs his bag, mutters a hasty, “Gotta go, bus is leaving,” and practically flees down the hallway, Jack trailing behind him, shaking with barely suppressed laughter.
You watch them go, a little confused by their abrupt departure.
“Well,” you say, turning back to your family. “They were nice.”
Mario finally breaks his stare, his focus returning to you. The intimidating aura vanishes, replaced by a warm, paternal smile. “Forget them,” he says, draping an arm around your shoulder. “Let’s go get some food. I think a two-goal performance deserves a very expensive dessert.”
As he guides you and your still-crying parents down the hall, you have no idea that you didn’t just win a hockey game. You won a permanent, rent-free space in Luke Hughes’s head and landed him squarely on Mario Lemieux’s very intimidating radar. The season is just beginning.
***
The first month of the season is a revelation. The NHL is a different beast — faster, stronger, smarter. Every night is a battle against the best players in the world. You learn to survive, then you learn to thrive. You’re not just a historical footnote, you’re a contributing member of the team. You’re a fixture on the third line, you kill penalties, and you quarterback the second power-play unit. The points come in respectable, rookie-season numbers, but more importantly, the coaches trust you in your own end. You are reliable. In the unforgiving meritocracy of professional hockey, that’s the highest compliment you can earn.
You find a routine. Morning skate, post-practice workout, video sessions, home-cooked meals in your quiet Jersey City apartment, sleep, repeat. Your life is hockey. It’s simple, it’s focused, and you like it that way.
Which is why, when Maddie from social media calls a “fun content meeting,” you immediately have a bad feeling about it.
“Okay, team!” She chirps, standing at the front of a conference room. A handful of players are present — you, Nico, Jack, a very reluctant-looking Luke, and a few others. “So, we want to launch a new video series to boost engagement on YouTube and TikTok. Something authentic, something that shows the fans your personalities.”
She clicks a button on her laptop, and a slide appears on the screen behind her. It reads: THE DEVILS’ LIE DETECTOR CHALLENGE!
A collective groan goes through the room.
“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!” Maddie insists. “It’s super popular online. We’ll hook you up to a real polygraph machine, have a professional operator ask some questions, and see what happens!”
“What kind of questions?” Nico asks, his captain’s voice laced with skepticism. He is the sworn enemy of anything that could be classified as a “distraction.”
“Easy stuff!” Maddie says reassuringly. “Like, ‘Is pineapple an acceptable pizza topping?’ or ‘Have you ever cried during a movie?’ We can even let you guys suggest some questions for each other. It’ll be light, I promise.”
Jack, who had been slouched in his chair looking bored, suddenly sits up straight. A dangerous, mischievous glint appears in his eyes. He has just been handed a stick of dynamite and a book of matches.
“You know what, Maddie?” Jack says, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I think that’s a fantastic idea. A real chance to build team chemistry through honesty.” He turns to his brother. “Luke would be perfect for this. He’s the most honest guy I know. Can’t tell a lie to save his life.”
Luke, who had been trying to blend into the wall, stiffens. “I, uh, I don’t know,” he stammers, looking desperately for an escape route. “I think I have a … a thing. With the trainer. My shoulder feels weird.”
“Your shoulder is fine,” Jack says, waving a dismissive hand. “You have to do it. For the fans. You love the fans, right?”
It’s a perfectly laid trap. Luke is cornered. He glances around the room, but no one offers him a lifeline. You’re just watching the exchange, a little amused by the brotherly dynamic, completely unaware of the speeding train that is about to hit him.
“Yeah,” Luke says, his voice barely a whisper. “For the fans.”
“Great!” Maddie claps her hands. “We’ll start filming next week!”
***
The set is a small, black-curtained room in the depths of the Prudential Center. Two cameras are pointed at a single chair. A stern-looking man in a cheap suit, the polygraph operator, is setting up his machine. It looks intimidatingly official.
Jack, of course, goes first. He lies with the effortless charm of a seasoned con artist and gets caught every time, laughing it off.
“Did you, Jack Hughes, eat the last of Dougie Hamilton’s specially imported protein cookies?” Maddie asks from off-camera.
“Absolutely not,” Jack says, looking deeply offended. “I respect a man’s personal cookie stash.”
The operator, a man of few words named Stan, grunts. “Lie.”
Jack just shrugs and grins at the camera. “Worth a shot.”
Then, it’s Luke’s turn.
He sits down in the chair, looking like a man on his way to the gallows. Stan the operator begins attaching sensors to his fingers and a band around his chest.
“Just relax and answer truthfully,” Stan says in a monotone voice.
“Okay, let’s start with some baselines,” Maddie says. “Is your name Luke Hughes?”
“Yes,” Luke says, his voice tight.
“Truth,” Stan confirms.
“Are you a defenseman for the New Jersey Devils?”
“Yes.”
“Truth.”
“Okay, fun ones now,” Maddie says, and you can practically hear her smile. You know for a fact that Jack was whispering in her ear for five straight minutes before Luke’s turn. “Luke, have you ever stolen your brothers’ equipment?”
Luke hesitates. “No.”
“Lie,” Stan says instantly.
Luke’s face flushes. “Okay, maybe once or twice. In high school when I ran out of sticks.”
The small crew laughs. Maddie continues. “Do you secretly think you would have been a better first-overall pick than your brother Jack?”
“No,” Luke says firmly.
“Truth,” Stan says.
A wave of relief washes over Luke’s face. He’s getting the hang of this. Maybe he’ll survive.
“Okay, last one, Luke,” Maddie says, her voice taking on a playful, deliberate tone. “Simple yes or no. Are you currently, and be honest, harboring a secret crush on one of your teammates?”
The question hangs in the air.
Luke’s entire body goes rigid. The needle on Stan’s machine jumps erratically. A bead of sweat traces a path down his temple. This is it. This is the nightmare scenario. He can feel Jack’s smug energy radiating from across the room.
He tries to laugh it off, but the sound that comes out is more like a strangled cough. “A crush? On a teammate?” He says, forcing a smile. “What, like … like Marky or something? No. That’s insane. No.”
He says the final “no” with as much conviction as he can muster. He looks Stan dead in the eye, pleading with his entire being for the operator to just let this one slide.
Stan watches the needles on his machine. He looks at Luke’s rapidly beating heart rate on the monitor. He looks at the sweat on his brow. He purses his lips. The silence stretches for an eternity.
Finally, Stan looks up, his expression completely deadpan.
“… That’s a lie.”
The room explodes. Jack lets out a full-throated howl of laughter so loud it echoes down the hall. Maddie is covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking with giggles. The cameramen are trying, and failing, to hold back their own amusement.
Luke goes from red to ghost white. “No! It’s not! This thing is broken!” He says, frantically trying to pull the sensors off his fingers. “You didn’t calibrate it for … for my specific athletic heart rate! It’s a known variable! Look it up!”
Stan just raises a single, unimpressed eyebrow. “The machine is functioning within normal parameters. The subject is exhibiting signs of deception.”
“I want a lawyer!” Luke yells, only half-joking, as he finally frees himself from the chair and flees the room, the sound of his brother’s triumphant laughter chasing him down the corridor.
***
You are blissfully unaware of any of this.
You’re in your apartment on an off day, going through your normal routine. You’ve just finished a workout and are making a protein smoothie when your phone, which has been resting on the counter, starts to vibrate. Then it vibrates again. And again. And again. It buzzes with a frantic, insistent rhythm that’s far beyond the usual trickle of notifications.
You wipe your hands and pick it up. The lock screen is a chaotic mess of Instagram tags, Twitter mentions, and text messages. You frown, confused, and unlock it. The first thing you see is the Devils’ latest Instagram post. The thumbnail is a picture of Luke, looking horrified, with the words “THE TRUTH COMES OUT!” in bold letters.
The caption reads: We hooked the guys up to a LIE DETECTOR and things got … interesting. 🤫 FULL VIDEO LINK IN BIO!
You roll your eyes, but you’re intrigued. You tap the link and the YouTube video starts to play. You chuckle as Jack gets caught lying about the cookies. You smile at some of the other guys’ answers. Then, Luke’s segment begins.
You watch him squirm. You see the final question about having a crush on a teammate. You hear his panicked denial.
“No.”
And Stan’s deadpan response.
“That’s a lie.”
You let out a short laugh. Poor Luke, you think. That’s brutal. You feel a pang of secondhand embarrassment for him. It’s a funny, harmless prank. You close the app, thinking nothing more of it, and go back to your smoothie. It’s just team content. It has nothing to do with you.
But your phone won’t stop buzzing.
You ignore it for a while, but the sheer volume of notifications is impossible to ignore. Curiosity piqued, you open Instagram again and look at the comments under the Devils’ post.
The first few are standard fan reactions.
LMAO LUKE’S FACE
The admin is an evil genius for this 😂
But then you start seeing your own username. Over and over again.
@Y/N_Y/L/N come get your man!
So we all agree the teammate is @Y/N_Y/L/N right? 👀
Someone needs to edit this with the clip of him watching her celly in the Carolina game.
A cold, confusing feeling starts to creep into your stomach. You keep scrolling. Someone has already made the edit. It’s a side-by-side video. On the left is Luke in the lie detector chair, sweating as he says “No.” On the right is the clip from opening night — you scoring, the hair flip, the kiss to the crowd, and the camera cutting to Luke on the bench, his jaw slack, his brain clearly buffering.
The pieces are there, but they don’t quite fit. It’s just fan speculation, right?
Then you see a message notification from a name you haven’t seen in a while. It’s Olivier, your old captain from the Shawinigan Cataractes.
Olivier Gagnon: Hey Y/N, congrats on the hot start. Knew you’d kill it. Also, saw that lie detector video your team put out. That Hughes kid looks absolutely sick over you lol. Reminds me of half the guys on our bus who were too scared to talk to you. Some things never change eh? Good luck against the Flyers this week.
Your blood runs cold. This isn’t just anonymous fans anymore. This is someone who knows you, a fellow hockey player. Looks absolutely sick over you.
Your perception of the video shifts entirely. It’s not a funny, abstract prank anymore. It’s personal.
You go back and watch the clip of Luke one more time. But this time, you’re not just watching. You’re analyzing. You see the way his eyes widen in genuine panic when Maddie asks the question. You see the way he swallows hard before he answers. You see the frantic, desperate denial. It’s not the playful squirming of someone caught in a harmless fib. It’s the raw terror of someone whose deepest secret has just been exposed to the entire world.
And you think back. You think about the way he always seems to be near you in the gym. The way he sometimes stammers when he tries to talk to you about a play. The way you always seem to catch his eye from across the room, an intense, observant gaze that you had always just interpreted as professional curiosity. The way his face lit up, a little too brightly, when you made the team.
The puzzle pieces don’t just click into place. They slam together with the force of a slapshot.
Oh.
Oh, no.
A wave of heat washes over you. You’re not angry. You’re not even necessarily flattered. You’re just … flustered. Completely flustered. This is your teammate. This is your workplace. This is a pristine, professional environment you have fought tooth and nail to be a part of. And it has just been complicated by a viral video and a very obvious, very public crush.
What are you supposed to do now? How are you supposed to act tomorrow at the rink? The simplicity of your routine — skate, work, eat, sleep — has just been shattered.
***
The next morning, you walk into the locker room with a sense of deep trepidation. The atmosphere is … charged. A few of the guys give you knowing smirks. You pointedly ignore them.
Luke is nowhere to be seen.
You get dressed and head out to the rink for the morning skate. You find him there, already on the ice, going through drills by himself. He’s wearing a hoodie under his helmet, the hood pulled up, as if it could somehow make him invisible.
He doesn’t see you until you’re right beside him.
“Hey, Luke,” you say, your voice softer than you intended.
He jumps as if you’d tasered him. The puck he was stickhandling goes flying. “Oh! Hey. Y/N. What’s up?” He won’t meet your eyes, his gaze fixed on a spot on the boards somewhere over your shoulder.
“Just wanted to see if you were okay,” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “You know … after the video.”
His face goes pale under his helmet. “The video? Oh, that. Yeah, no, I’m fine. It was hilarious, right?” He lets out a high-pitched, unnatural laugh. “That machine was such a piece of junk. Total carnival game. They probably paid the operator to say that stuff. For the clicks, you know? It’s all fake.” He’s talking a mile a minute, rambling, his words tripping over each other in their haste to escape his mouth.
“Luke,” you say, cutting him off gently. “It’s okay.”
“No, really, you should have seen the wires, they were all frayed,” he continues, not hearing you. “And the guy, Stan, I think his name was, I saw him eating a tuna sandwich right before, the mercury from the fish can interfere with the electrical signals, it’s basic science-”
“What’s basic science?”
A new voice cuts in. Jack glides over, a Cheshire Cat grin plastered on his face. He drapes an arm over Luke’s shoulders, who flinches as if he’s been branded.
“Are we talking about the 100% accurate, scientifically validated polygraph test that got two million views in twelve hours?” Jack asks cheerfully. “I was just watching it again this morning. My favorite part is the little vein that pops out on your forehead when you lie, Lukey. It’s very telling.”
Luke looks like he wants the ice to open up and swallow him whole. He shoots a helpless, pleading look at you.
You stand there, caught between a brother who is enjoying this far too much and a brother who looks like he’s about to have a full-blown panic attack. And for the first time, you have absolutely no idea what to say.
A piercing whistle slices through the air, signaling the start of a drill. The moment is shattered. Luke, saved by the bell, practically teleports to the other side of the ice. Jack gives you a theatrical shrug and a wink before skating off, leaving you standing there with the ghost of a conversation hanging in the cold rink air.
The next few weeks are a masterclass in professional awkwardness.
On the surface, everything is normal. You’re teammates. You practice together, you play together, you win and lose together. But underneath, a new, unspoken current runs between you and Luke. He avoids being the last one in the dressing room with you. He makes sure there’s always another player between you during team meetings. If you’re at the same table for a team meal on the road, he directs all his conversation to Dawson Mercer or Simon Nemec.
It’s not hostile. It’s … careful. He’s a fawn that’s been spooked, and you’re the sudden noise in the woods he’s trying to avoid.
You, for your part, try to act as if nothing has changed. You pass him the puck in practice with the same precision as always. You talk about defensive zone coverage in the film room. You’re determined to not let a silly, viral video — and the very real feelings it exposed — complicate the dream you’ve worked so hard to achieve.
Jack, of course, does nothing to help the situation. He takes every opportunity to make quiet, cutting remarks in Luke’s presence.
“Hey Y/N,” he’ll say as you’re all stretching, “Luke was just saying he thinks you should take more shots on the power play. He thinks your shot is really pretty. I mean, effective. Pretty effective.”
Luke will just turn a shade of crimson and suddenly become intensely focused on stretching his hamstrings.
It’s a strange, silent dance that the whole team pretends not to notice. And it might have gone on forever if not for a frozen piece of vulcanized rubber traveling at one hundred miles per hour.
***
It’s a Saturday night, a home game against the Rangers. The rivalry adds a bitter, electric edge to the air in the Prudential Center. The game is fast, chippy, and brutally physical. Late in the second period, with the Devils on a penalty kill, you and Luke are on the ice.
The Rangers are cycling the puck, setting up Mika Zibanejad for a one-timer from his office in the left faceoff circle. You read the play, your stick extended, cutting off the passing lane to the slot. Luke sees Zibanejad winding up and knows there’s no time to get a stick on the puck. He does the only thing a defenseman can do. He makes himself big.
Zibanejad unleashes a rocket.
The sound is sickening, a sharp, wet thwack that isn’t the sound of puck hitting shin pads. It’s the sound of puck hitting bone. Luke goes down in a heap, dropping his stick and clutching his right ankle, his face contorted in a mask of pure agony.
The whistle blows. The trainer is over the boards in an instant. Jack is already there, his face tight with concern. You skate over, your stomach churning at the sight of Luke on the ice. He’s trying to be tough, but you can see the tears welling in his eyes from the sheer, blinding pain.
He can’t put any weight on it. Two trainers have to help him limp off the ice, his arms slung over their shoulders, his head bowed. A grim silence falls over the arena.
He doesn’t return for the third period. The official word comes down from the press box: lower-body injury, will not return. After the game, a 4-2 win you barely feel like celebrating, Sheldon Keefe tells the media that Luke has gone to the hospital for X-rays.
***
A few hours later, he’s back in his own apartment, his leg propped up on a mountain of pillows. The diagnosis is, thankfully, not a break. It’s a deep, severe bone bruise and a high ankle sprain. He’ll be out for a few weeks, but his season isn’t over.
The prescription, however, is for some very serious, hospital-grade painkillers.
Which is why, when you, Jack, Nico, and Dawson let yourselves in with the spare key Jack has, you find Luke floating somewhere in the stratosphere.
He’s lying on his couch, a goofy, blissed-out grin on his face. His pupils are the size of dinner plates.
“Hey guys!” He says, his words slow and syrupy. “You came to my party. I didn’t know I was having a party.”
“How you feeling, buddy?” Nico asks, trying to sound serious but clearly fighting a smile.
“I feel … floaty,” Luke announces. “My ankle is a cloud. A fluffy, angry cloud. But it’s okay. The nice doctor gave me the good stuff.” He giggles.
Then his eyes find you, standing near the doorway. His goofy grin softens into a look of profound, wondrous awe.
“Y/N,” he breathes, his voice full of reverence. “You’re here. You came to my cloud party.”
You offer a small, sympathetic smile. “Hey, Luke. You really took one for the team. That was a brave block.”
“She’s so pretty, Jack,” Luke says, his gaze never leaving you. He’s talking to his brother, but it feels like a public service announcement for the entire room. “Isn’t she pretty? Her eyes are like … like two perfectly polished hockey pucks. But, like, sparkly.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck. Dawson is trying very hard to study a spot on the ceiling. Nico looks like a captain desperately trying to keep control of a mutiny.
Jack, on the other hand, is slowly pulling his phone out of his pocket, his face alight with the gleeful, predatory focus of a wildlife documentarian who has just stumbled upon a rare, exotic bird.
“And she’s so good at hockey,” Luke continues, his voice rising with drugged enthusiasm. “Like, so good. Did you see her on that PK? Before I died? Her stick positioning was perfect. She baited the pass and then took away the lane. It was so smart. That’s so hot.” He sighs, a deep, contented sound. “A girl who’s pretty and understands defensive zone systems? That’s everything, man. That’s the whole package.”
Jack has the phone up now, the red recording light glowing brightly.
“Oh yeah, Lukey,” Jack says, goading him on. “Keep going. This is fantastic stuff. Tell us more about the whole package.”
Luke finally seems to notice the phone. His eyes widen. The goofy grin melts away, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror as the fog in his brain momentarily parts.
And his face just crumples. He begins to cry. Not quiet, dignified tears. These are huge, gasping, hysterical sobs.
“No!” He wails, pointing a trembling finger at the phone. “Jack, stop! You can’t! Mario is gonna see it! He’s gonna kill me! He has spies everywhere, Nico! He threatened us!”
Nico shoots Jack a death glare. “Jack, put the phone away. Now.”
“He’s gonna kill me and I’m gonna be dead!” Luke sobs, his voice cracking. “And I’ve never even won the Stanley Cup! I just wanna touch the Cup before I die! Is that too much to ask?”
It’s the most tragic, pathetic, and hilarious meltdown anyone in the room has ever witnessed. Dawson is choking back laughter. Nico is rubbing his temples, probably questioning all of his life choices that led him to being captain of this chaotic team. Jack is still filming, tears of mirth streaming down his own face.
You’ve had enough.
You walk forward, gently taking the phone from Jack’s hand. He’s laughing so hard he offers no resistance. You end the recording and slide the phone into your pocket. You walk over to the couch and sit on the edge of the coffee table, right in front of a still-sobbing Luke.
“Luke,” you say, your voice calm and steady. “Hey. Look at me.”
He sniffles, his teary, drugged-out eyes finding yours.
“It’s okay,” you say softly. “No one is going to kill you. You’re going to be fine. And you’re going to win a Stanley Cup someday.” You reach out and gently pat his good leg. “You need to get some rest.”
He hiccups, his sobs subsiding into confused whimpers.
You stand up, your gaze sweeping over the other three men in the room. “He needs to sleep. We should go.”
You turn to leave, but then you pause in the doorway. You look back at Luke, who is watching you with the wide, trusting eyes of a golden retriever. A small, almost imperceptible smile plays on your lips.
“And hey,” you say, your voice clear and direct. “Tomorrow, when you’re not high as a kite … you can tell me all that again.”
The room falls silent. Jack’s jaw, which had been open in a silent laugh, snaps shut. Dawson’s eyes widen. Nico just stares.
You don’t wait for a response. You turn and walk out of the apartment, leaving a wake of stunned silence and the echo of a challenge hanging in the air.
***
The next afternoon, you’ve just gotten home from practice when there’s a soft knock on your apartment door. You know who it is before you even open it.
Luke is standing in the hallway, leaning heavily on a crutch. He’s not wearing a goofy grin anymore. He looks exhausted, pale, and more nervous than you’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing a plain grey hoodie and sweatpants. He looks young, vulnerable, and completely sober.
“Hey,” he says, his voice raspy.
“Hey,” you reply, leaning against the doorframe. “Shouldn’t you be at home with your fluffy, angry cloud?”
A faint blush colors his pale cheeks. “I couldn’t,” he says, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Not after last night. And not after what you said.” He finally forces himself to look up and meet your eyes. “You told me … you told me to tell you again.”
You don’t say anything. You just cross your arms, your expression unreadable, and wait. You’re not going to make this easy for him.
He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Look,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. “What I said last night … it was embarrassing, and I was on another planet, but it was true. All of it. I’m sorry if I’ve made things weird for you since that stupid lie detector video. I’ve been trying to be normal, but I’m really bad at it.”
He shifts his weight on his good leg. “The truth is, I think you’re incredible. And not just because you’re a hockey player. But that’s a big part of it. You’re one of the smartest, most skilled people I’ve ever shared the ice with. Watching you play, watching you think the game … it’s amazing. And I respect that more than I can even say.”
He pauses, swallowing hard. “And yes. I also think you’re beautiful. And funny. And the fact that you’re all of those things at once just … it’s a lot. For my brain. It kind of short-circuits everything.” He gestures vaguely with his hand, a look of pure, agonizing sincerity on his face. “I’ve been a complete idiot about this whole thing, and I get it if you just want me to back off and be a normal teammate. I can do that. I will. I just … you told me to tell you, so I’m telling you.”
He finishes, his chest heaving slightly, having laid all his cards on the table. He waits for your verdict, bracing himself for the rejection.
You let the silence hang in the air for a long moment, just watching him. You see the fear in his eyes, but also the courage it took for him to stand here and say all that.
A slow, genuine smile finally spreads across your face.
“You are,” you say softly, “a complete idiot.”
His shoulders slump in defeat. “Yeah, I know.”
“But,” you continue, your smile widening, “for what it’s worth … your stick positioning on the penalty kill is pretty good, too.”
His head snaps up, a flicker of hope in his eyes.
You uncross your arms and push the door to your apartment open wider, creating an unmistakable invitation.
“Do you want to come in?” You ask. “We can watch some film. Or you could just tell me all of it again. Without the hysterical crying this time.”
For the first time all day, a real, true smile breaks through his nervousness. It’s a smile of pure, unadulterated relief.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice full of warmth. “I’d like that.”
He maneuvers his crutch through the doorway and follows you inside. The door clicks shut behind him, closing out the rest of the world, leaving just the two of you, finally, at the beginning.
this is possibly the best thing i have read in a LONG time. i don’t think anything has made me as giggly as this did since middle school wattpad fanfiction. an absolute hit (once again!)
summary: this was the first year that will had brought someone home for thanksgiving. and his family? they lived Y/N as soon as she stepped into the house. and they LOVED her banana bread.
requests: open
masterlist
Will Smith had always said hockey prepared him for anything—packed arenas, roaring fans, sudden breakaways, even late-night bus rides after tough losses. But as he stood in Y/N’s kitchen holding a bowl of mashed bananas and trying not to sneeze from the flour in the air, he realized there were still a few things the sport hadn’t trained him for.
Such as baking banana bread the morning of his family’s Thanksgiving party.
Y/N leaned over the counter, measuring sugar with the precision of someone who had watched the recipe video three times. “You know,” she said, glancing at Will with a teasing smile, “for someone who claims he ‘totally bakes all the time,’ you’re doing a lot of staring and not a lot of helping.”
“I am helping,” Will protested, gently nudging her shoulder with his. “Moral support is a very underrated form of assistance.”
“Mhm. Sure it is.”
But she was smiling, and he felt it inside his chest like warmth from an oven.
He slid closer behind her and rested a light hand on her waist to peek at the recipe again. “Wait—do we put the chocolate chips in now? Or later?”
“Now,” she said, reaching for the bag. But Will snatched it first, holding it up triumphantly.
“I’ve got this part,” he declared.
She gave him a suspicious look. “Do you?”
“Absolutely.”
He opened the bag and poured the entire thing into the mixing bowl.
“Will!” Y/N burst into laughter. “It said one cup, not the whole bag!”
“Chocolate chip overachiever,” he said proudly.
She shook her head but didn’t take the bowl away. “Well… I mean… your cousins will probably love it.”
“My cousins will love anything with chocolate. You’ve just made me the Thanksgiving hero.”
“You made yourself the Thanksgiving chaos agent,” she corrected playfully.
He grinned and leaned down to kiss her cheek—quick and warm—before mixing the batter. She pretended not to melt, but he saw the tiny smile she tried to hide.
And he loved it.
—
The Smith family home was already buzzing long before they arrived. Cars lined the driveway, music drifted through the open windows, and warm light spilled out onto the porch. Will parked the car, reached over, and squeezed Y/N’s hand gently.
“You ready?” he asked.
She nodded, though her fingers trembled a little around the container of banana bread. “I think so. Are they… nice?”
“Oh, they’re very nice,” Will said. Then paused. “But also loud. And competitive. And my Aunt might ask you seventeen questions before you even take your shoes off.”
Y/N laughed nervously. “Great… totally calming.”
“You’ll be fine,” he promised, sliding an arm around her waist as they walked toward the door. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”
And he meant it.
When they stepped inside, they were immediately greeted by a wave of warmth—cinnamon, stuffing, and the unmistakable smell of someone burning sweet potatoes.
“WILL!” someone shouted from the living room.
His younger cousins launched themselves at him like a welcoming committee of chaos. Will barely had time to let go of Y/N before he was pulled into a hug pile, laughing as he tried to keep his balance.
Y/N stood by the doorway clutching the banana bread like a shield until Will managed to untangle himself and return to her side, sliding his arm back around her like it belonged there.
“This is Y/N,” he announced proudly.
A chorus of greetings filled the room.
“Hi, sweetheart!”
“So nice to meet you!”
“You made banana bread? Oh, bless you.”
“You put chocolate chips? Even better!”
Will shot her a tiny, smug look.
She elbowed him.
His aunt swooped in next, just as Will predicted. “So how long have you two been together? Do you like hockey? Are you going to the winter family trip? Do you have siblings? Are you hungry? Did you drive safe? Do you want something to drink?”
Will squeezed Y/N’s hand behind his back as she answered with as much patience as she could muster. He leaned down and whispered, “I warned you,” which made her laugh, easing the tension.
His family was wild, but in the warm, welcoming way that felt like home.
—
At some point, Y/N found herself ushered into the kitchen by Will’s mom, Coleen, who was stirring gravy with the confidence of a seasoned Thanksgiving general.
“So,” she said lightly, “how’s Will doing with all his traveling? I imagine it’s a lot.”
Y/N smiled. “It is, but he makes time. He always checks in, even on road trips.”
“That sounds like him.” she chuckled. “When he was little, he used to call me from sleepovers if he missed home. He likes having his people close.”
Y/N felt her cheeks warm at that—especially because Will had practically attached himself to her the moment they entered the house.
Almost as if summoned by her thoughts, Will returned to the kitchen and slid an arm around her waist from behind.
“There you are,” he said softly. “I was looking for you.”
“Told you,” his mom teased, making Will raise a brow.
“Mom, come on,” he muttered.
Y/N laughed as he guided her toward the living room again, keeping close like it was second nature.
—
Family games at the Smith house were legendary. Will had warned Y/N, but she still wasn’t prepared for the level of intensity his relatives brought to Thanksgiving trivia.
Y/N sat beside Will on the floor, her shoulder pressed against his, his arm loosely draped around her. Every once in a while he’d give her a little squeeze of encouragement, especially when she answered a question right.
When she got one question faster than his cousin tyler, the room erupted—but tyler pointed dramatically at Will.
“Will!” he barked. “You brought a ringer!”
Will lifted his chin proudly. “Obviously.”
Y/N playfully nudged him. “I’m not a ringer. I just knew that one.”
“Uh-huh. Totally innocent,” Will murmured, leaning closer and brushing a soft kiss against her temple. His family erupted in teasing “oooohs,” but he just grinned against her hair.
Y/N hid her face in her hands, laughing, but Will’s fingers brushed gently over her shoulder in a way that said you’re okay.
And she felt it.
—
When dinner was finally ready, the dining room transformed into the heart of the evening. The table was packed—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, rolls, cranberry sauce, and Will’s and Y/N’s banana bread sitting proudly near the center.
Everyone squeezed together, elbows bumping, chairs scraping, kids arguing over who got the biggest roll. Y/N found herself between Will and his youngest cousin, Lily, who immediately started asking if Y/N could braid hair better than Will could.
“Definitely,” Y/N whispered, which made Lily giggle.
Before the meal started, Will rested his hand on the small of Y/N’s back, leaning close.
“This is really nice,” she murmured.
He smiled. “Better now that you’re here.”
She gave him a soft look—warm, grateful, just for him—and he brushed a tiny kiss to her forehead. His dad cleared his throat loudly in mock warning.
Will pulled back, cheeks pink, but still grinning.
During the meal, conversation flowed effortlessly around them. Hockey came up—of course—and Y/N listened as Will’s uncles argued over which of his goals had been the best so far this season.
When she chimed in with her own opinion, the table went silent for a second—then everyone nodded in agreement.
“You picked the right one,” Will whispered, nudging her knee with his under the table.
“You trained me well,” she whispered back.
The banana bread was a massive hit—so much so that Will’s dad tried to steal the remaining slices to hide for later.
“Not a chance,” Will said, shielding the container dramatically. “This is coming home with us.”
Y/N shook her head in amusement as she leaned into his shoulder.
—
Dessert and games followed dinner, and somehow Y/N ended up in a group helping clean the kitchen while Will’s cousins begged him to go outside and shoot a mini hockey puck with them.
Will kept glancing at her as he backed toward the door, clearly torn between joining the game and not wanting to leave her alone.
“Go,” she told him, smiling. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“I promise.”
He hesitated a second longer before jogging outside—only to run back inside ten seconds later just to steal a quick kiss from her lips.
His family howled from the yard.
“WILL, GET BACK OUT HERE!”
He grinned at her sheepishly. “Okay, now I’ll go.”
She laughed. “Go!”
But as he left, she felt her heart swell. Even surrounded by the people he loved most, he still looked for her.
—
As the night wound down, the house grew softer—lights dimmer, voices lower, kids drowsy on the sofas. Y/N and Will found a quiet corner of the living room beside the fireplace, sitting close on the carpet as the family talked around them.
Will slid his fingers into hers, absent-mindedly tracing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.
“You did amazing,” he murmured.
“I survived,” she said jokingly.
“You didn’t just survive. They love you. I can tell.”
Y/N looked around—at his smiling cousins, his mom laughing with an aunt, his dad trying to convince someone that his gravy was superior to Will’s grandmother’s recipe.
“They’re… really great,” she admitted softly. “Loud. But great.”
Will laughed quietly. “They’re a lot. But they’re my lot.”
He leaned his shoulder against hers. “And I’m glad you were here with me.”
She rested her head lightly against him. “Me too.”
A few minutes passed in peaceful silence until his mom walked by and whispered, “Cuties,” which made both of them blush.
—
The drive home was calm—streetlights glowing, soft music playing, Y/N leaning comfortably against her seat with Will holding her hand on the center console.
“That was a good day,” she said gently.
“One of my favorites,” Will replied, glancing at her with a soft smile. “Thanks for coming. And for making banana bread. And for surviving Aunt Patty.”
“I should get a medal for that.”
“You absolutely should.”
He lifted her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles before placing it back on his thigh, fingers intertwined.
Y/N felt warm. Safe. Happy.
“Think your family liked me?” she asked quietly.
Will looked over at her like the answer was the easiest thing in the world.
“They adored you.”
“And you?”
His voice softened. “I adore you too.”
She smiled, leaning her head back as the streetlights passed by slowly.
(Header and divider by me. Please credit if used <3)
Summary: You are 4 years old, and Luke Hughes is 5 years old. You just moved to Michigan, and your neighbors invited your family over. You and Luke quickly become friends.
Word count: 1.18k
Warnings: brief mentions of blood (a scraped knee, nothing too crazy)
Takes place in: June 19, 2008
You and Luke had just met, yet he was already dragging you back into the house like you were best friends and into his bedroom to show you all of his toys. And by "toys," it really means a bunch of hockey mini-sticks and other hockey-related things.
“This is my lucky stick! One time I scored on Quinn with it, so that means it’s REALLY good.” He says, proudly showing it off.
“That’s so cool!” You say. “You should play hockey with my Cam-Cam one day. He’s super good!” You say with a smile. You never miss an opportunity to talk up your older brother. He is your favorite person, after all.
“That sounds so fun!” Luke says with a big grin, pulling out more of his things to show you. He hands you a stick, and he puts a small ball on the ground. “Wanna play?” He says hopefully.
You don’t really know what you’re doing or how, but you say yes anyway. He points to a sideways laundry basket and decides that it's the goal. There really aren’t any rules to your game, but you make it work anyway. You’re 4 and 5 years old, so of course it’s chaotic.
“I did it! I scored!” You shout triumphantly, jumping up and down as you whack the ball into the laundry basket. “Can we go tell Cam-Cam?” You ask, because of course you do. Luke nods, and you both abandon your game to join your brothers outside. You find the three of them laughing and playing kickball. Cameron immediately stops what he’s doing when he sees you running towards him.
“Cam-Cam, I scored in hockey!” You say proudly, jumping into his arms. He catches you with ease, bouncing you a little bit. He smiles, looking into your big, excited eyes.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says with sudden tenderness. He doesn’t know what it is about this exact moment, but as he looks into your eyes, he sees his baby sister. And in that moment, he knows that he will always protect you with all he has for the rest of his life. Because you truly are his world, and he loves you so much.
He pulls you into a closer hug for a moment before pressing a kiss to the side of your head and saying a quick “I love you, bug.” Before setting you down again.
You giggle, and all three Hughes brothers watch the sweet interaction. All three of them think Cameron is super cool, of course. After watching you and your brother’s sweet exchange, Quinn and Jack’s eyes lock onto little Luke. When he’s distracted, they both run over, Quinn scooping him up and Jack trying to get in on the hug too, as Luke flails around.
“Get off of me! Yuck!” Luke screams, but his brothers don’t stop.
“Never!” Jack yells.
“You’re stuck!” Quinn adds.
Their banter continues as you cling to Cameron’s leg. All of your parents appear on the back deck, watching the interactions going on between the brothers.
“Looks like ours have an influence on your sons,” Josh says to Jim.
Ellen looks over, jumping in. “They never hug each other like that. It’s always ‘fight, fight, fight.’ They must really think Cameron is cool, and I’m glad. He’ll be a good influence on our boys.” She smiles and turns to her husband, who also smiles and nods.
“Y/N is so young, she’s never really had friends,” Lena says while watching you giggling at Luke and his brothers. “It seems she has already befriended Luke.” She smiles and looks at the three other parents.
They smile back. “Luke has never really had friends either. It’s always been his brothers.” Jim says.
“It’s the same with her and Cameron,” Josh says.
The four adults continue to watch their children with soft smiles. Meanwhile, Luke has managed to escape his brothers’ grip, and he runs straight to you as they chase him. He grabs your little hand with his and starts dragging you along with him.
“RUN!” Luke yells while giggling as any five-year-old would. You run with him, also giggling, holding his hand tighter. Cameron joins Jack and Quinn in chasing you guys to not feel left out.
Luke is much faster than you, so you end up falling and scraping your knee in the dirt. “Owie..” You say, sniffling.
Luke stops running immediately, stepping forward to stand between you and the boys. He holds up a hand and says, “STOP.” Then, he drops to one knee in front of you. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice too mature for a 5-year-old.
Your bottom lip wobbles, and you look up at him and shake your head. “It hurts…” Your voice shakes.
He looks at your knee that is bleeding ever so slightly. That’s when Cameron steps forward and kneels as well. “It’s okay, bug,” he says tenderly.
You scoot closer to your big brother, resting your head against him, trying your best not to cry. “It hurts, Cam-Cam..”
Luke runs away while you latch onto Cameron, the other two brothers watching and feeling useless. A couple of minutes later, Luke comes back with a handful of Band-Aids in a plethora of sizes. He holds them out to Cameron, who takes two and bandages your wound in an “x” shape.
“Better?” Cameron asks, rubbing your shoulder gently with his hand.
You nod softly, still whimpering a small bit. “Thanks Cam-Cam…” You say.
“You should thank Luke, too,” Cameron says. “He saved your life.” He adds jokingly.
You look over at Luke, who looks very proud of himself, and you manage a small smile. “Thank you, Luke…” You say sweetly, your smile slowly getting bigger.
Luke smiles back and offers a hand to help you up. You take it. “You’re welcome!” He says proudly.
“The Maple Leafs game starts in a couple of minutes!” Jack says excitedly as he starts running back up to the house.
“No way! You like them too?” Cameron says excitedly.
“It’s our favorite team!” Quinn says. “Wanna come watch with us?” he asks.
“YES!” He says excitedly.
“Heyyy… I wanna watch too!” Luke says, and Quinn nods at him as he starts running up the hill with Cameron.
“Wanna watch with me?” Luke asks you, offering his hand again.
“Yes!” You say with excitement. You’re only four, but you have always enjoyed watching hockey with your family, even if you don’t understand it. You even have your own mini jerseys.
Luke starts pulling you up the hill, and you follow happily. Once you make it up, into the house, and then into the living room, the other three boys are already watching the game, as well as your parents, all watching from the kitchen.
Luke pulls you to the couch, and you sit shoulder to shoulder, listening intently as Luke explains it to you as best as a five-year-old can. You barely even know each other, yet it feels like your minds are one. Because even after only knowing each other for one day, you are already best of friends.
a/n: This is the last part I'm gonna write of Reader and Luke as children for now. I'm gonna come back to it, but I want to write this out of order, but put it in order on the masterlist so that it's a super long series. I wanna give you all the things that you want!
I know I'm a new creator, but please give me advice for improving my writing, and PLEASE send me requests for new parts of this series!! I would love to write based on what you want, even if only 3 people read it! I appreciate anyone who has interacted with me so far. I hope you enjoy this new chapter!!
I love when boys aren’t shy about loving soft caresses, like when their girlfriend is sitting next to them and just running her fingers over his arm or his neck or running her hand through their hair and they’re just enjoying it even with others around
Idk if you can create sth around this for Will? :)
Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it!🫶🏻
Close Enough to Feel WS2
Summary: Y/N and Will navigate their growing relationship through playful, tender moments at team dinners and friend gatherings. Soft touches, laughter, and quiet intimacy reveal the depth of their connection. Their love thrives in small gestures that feel both private and magical, even in public settings.
Word Count: 1.6k
Requests: OPEN
Main Masterlist SJS Masterlist
I never thought a hockey rink could feel like the most romantic place on earth until I met Will Smith. From the moment I first saw him on the ice, gliding with a combination of strength and grace that seemed almost unreal, I was captivated. Not just by the way he moved, but by the way he laughed, the way he smiled at teammates, the way he carried himself with a mix of confidence and warmth that made everyone feel at ease.
Our first encounter was chaotic in a way that only a professional hockey game could be. I had somehow ended up sitting on the glass, not because I was a die-hard fan, but because I had agreed to come support a friend who was friends with someone on the team. Will noticed me immediately, not in a creepy way, but with that kind of attention that made you feel like he was trying to understand the world through your eyes. I felt it in my chest, an unexpected flutter that I hadn’t felt in years.
We started talking after the game, and it was effortless. He was charming without trying, teasing without being mean, and when he smiled at me, I swear the rink went quiet for a moment. By the end of the night, we had exchanged numbers, and over the next few weeks, texts turned into calls, calls turned into late-night coffee dates, and late-night coffee dates turned into long walks in the park where he insisted I sit on his lap on the bench just to see if I would. I did.
Dating Will was like discovering a secret world I didn’t know existed. His schedule was insane, but he always made time for me. Even in the busiest moments, he found little ways to show he cared. And I found myself learning how to love the quiet moments the way he did.
--
We were at a friend’s apartment for a casual evening, a small gathering with a few teammates and their partners. Everyone was laughing, glasses clinking, the smell of takeout filling the air. Will was seated next to me on the couch, his elbow brushing mine, and without thinking, I ran my fingers over his forearm. His eyes softened the instant he felt my touch, and I could see the tension in his shoulders melt away, even with everyone around.
“Stop it,” he said softly, though there was a teasing lilt to his voice.
“Stop what?” I asked innocently, leaning closer.
“Being distracting,” he said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. I laughed and pressed my fingers a little closer to his skin.
“I think you like it,” I whispered, and he looked down at me with that grin that made my knees weak. He didn’t argue. He never argued. Instead, his hand found mine, and he gave it a gentle squeeze under the table, sending a thrill straight through me.
Later, as people chatted and moved about the apartment, I let my hand slide up from his wrist to the back of his neck, tangling my fingers in his hair. Will tilted his head slightly into my touch, closing his eyes, and I couldn’t help but grin. He was completely unabashed, completely present in this tiny private moment amidst a crowded room.
“You’re really good at that,” he murmured, voice low and warm.
“I only do it for you,” I said, leaning my forehead against his shoulder.
He laughed softly, the sound making my chest feel light. “I’m glad. I don’t think anyone else would be able to handle it this well.”
That was the thing about Will. He didn’t shy away from affection. He didn’t hide when he liked being touched. He leaned into it, let his hands find mine, let me trace patterns over his arms or run my fingers through his hair. It was impossible not to get lost in the way he responded.
Another evening, we were at a larger gathering, a backyard barbecue with some friends from the team. The sun was setting, painting the sky pink and gold, and I found myself sitting next to him on the patio bench. I traced my fingers lightly along his neck, feeling the small shiver that ran down his spine. He tilted his head back slightly so I could reach more, letting out a contented sigh.
“Someone is in a generous mood tonight,” he said with a lazy smile, turning his hand so our fingers interlaced.
“I’m just reminding you who you belong to,” I teased, tracing slow circles on the back of his hand.
He laughed. “I like that reminder.”
The other couples were chatting and laughing, but for us, it felt like the world had shrunk down to our little corner. Even in public, even with friends around, our touches were intimate and private. There was a kind of thrill in it, running my hand over his arm, letting my fingers find the nape of his neck, knowing that he was enjoying it openly.
One rainy evening, we found ourselves sitting on the couch at Will’s apartment, friends scattered around the living room with mugs of hot chocolate and board games on the coffee table. I leaned against him, running my fingers lightly through his hair as he laughed at a joke someone else made. He pressed his hand over mine, letting me know silently that he loved it.
“You always know how to make me melt, don’t you?” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of my head.
“I think you like it too much to complain,” I said, smiling against his shoulder.
He chuckled, tugging me slightly closer, and I let my fingers wander down his arm, feeling the steady warmth beneath my touch. His eyes closed for a moment, and I caught that expression I loved so much. Soft, relaxed, completely unguarded. That was the Will I adored. The one who wasn’t worried about anyone seeing him enjoy a quiet, tender moment with me.
Even in the busiest social settings, we found our private rhythms. At another team dinner, I let my hand wander across his arm while he laughed at a story a teammate was telling. He leaned into me just enough so I could reach the back of his neck, pressing a gentle kiss against my temple in gratitude. It was playful, flirty, and impossibly sweet all at once.
“You really know how to keep a guy distracted,” he whispered, voice low, catching me by surprise.
“I thought you liked it,” I teased, brushing my fingers through his hair again.
“I do,” he said simply, and the way he said it made my heart pound. “I really do.”
Our friends would glance over occasionally, maybe noticing the subtle touches, the easy intimacy, but Will didn’t care. He was completely unbothered by eyes on us, completely content in the private bubble we created in public spaces. His hand would find mine, his head would rest against mine, and every brush of my fingers across his arm or neck sent little shocks of warmth straight through me.
By the end of the evening, we were often sitting side by side on some couch or bench, fingers entwined, his hair messy from my wandering hands, our laughter mingling with the background chatter. There was a joy in that, a thrill in being openly affectionate, in letting the world fade for a few moments while we focused on each other.
I loved the way Will responded to me, the way he let himself enjoy the smallest gestures without shame or hesitation. Running my fingers over his arm, letting my hand rest against his neck, threading my fingers through his hair—it was all met with soft sighs, gentle touches in return, and eyes that seemed to smile just for me.
One night, after a dinner with a few teammates and their partners, we lingered on the couch while everyone else moved into the living room to play cards. I leaned against Will, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, tangling in his hair, letting him lean into every touch. He rested his forehead against mine, letting out a deep, contented breath.
“I could get used to this,” he whispered. “Being like this with you, in public, where it feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”
“You and me both,” I said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple.
That was the essence of us. Quiet, tender, playful, and perfectly in sync. Love did not need to be loud. It could exist in the brush of fingers across a shoulder, the gentle tug of a hand intertwined, the quiet, intimate connection that made every crowded room feel like it belonged only to us.
As I watched Will smile down at me, running his hand lazily over mine, I felt completely at home. Fingers, laughter, warmth, and small moments like this were our love story. Because with Will Smith, love was simple. It was soft touches, knowing glances, and the quiet joy of being completely, unabashedly together. And that was everything I could ever want.
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
word count: 35.3k
warnings: cursing and alcohol use
includes: childhood friends to lovers, heavy angst, pining, soulmate!au if you squint, groveling!oscar, journalist!reader, and down bad oscar
summary: when oscar and you reunite after a decade of being apart things are different. yet there’s parts of both of you that cling on to the past and a connection that neither of you can deny that makes things in the present even more difficult. everything in you tells you to not let oscar back in, but all he wants is to have is his other half back. can a bond that was once broken ever be mended? you don't think so, but oscar is determined to prove you wrong.
a/n: hi!! i'm back!! so i started writing this in april and it took me the whole season to finish it...per usual lol. anyways this is my lonest fic i've ever written! so grab a snack and get comfy because this is wild ride. i hope you all enjoy and as always please let me know what you think! comments, reblogs, and asks mean the world to us writers! <3
masterlist
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Sometimes there are people that enter your life and you think there’s not a chance that you won’t have them forever. That there isn’t a thing in this world that could separate the two of you, but the universe has its plans set in place the minute that person enters your orbit and there isn’t a thing you can do about it.
Some people you do have in your life forever– while others you only have for a set period of time. And sometimes if you’re lucky the people who leave you come back eventually. The world works in mysterious ways and people drift apart, chapters close and new ones begin. It’s life.
Although you never thought Oscar Piastri would just be a chapter in your life.
Oscar and you had known each other since you two were in diapers. The Piastris were your next door neighbors and your parents had become great friends with them before either of you were in the picture. When both of your Mums fell pregnant around the same time they were ecstatic, the thought of their little bundles of joy having a friend just next door was a match made in heaven. Oscar and you ended up being just around four months apart in age and you never let Oscar forget that you were the older one.
From learning to walk and talk, learning your ABC’s, the arrival of siblings, birthdays, first days of school. If there was something that was to be remembered or commemorated– Oscar and you were side by side for all of it.
There wasn’t anyone you were closer with in the world than Oscar.
Your sister and Oscar’s sisters came a close second, but at the end of the day Oscar and you were each other’s person.
When Oscar started to race RC cars you helped him build a makeshift track in his backyard and when he made the move to actual karting– well it was a surprise to no one. He’d always been a little nerd about cars as a child and somehow had wrangled you into finding an appreciation for it at least. Your younger sister and Oscar’s sisters happily didn’t show as much interest.
The smell of exhaust and the sound of go-kart engines had become things you found comfort in when you were younger. Weekends spent with the Piastri’s at whatever race Oscar had entered into were some of your favorite memories as a child. From the ages of 10 to 14 there wasn’t a summer that wasn’t filled with racing. The unforgiving Australian sun would beat down on the track and you’d still sit there, sunkissed and supportive, your eyes glued to Oscar’s kart the whole time.
As the two of you got older and Oscar really started to take racing seriously your support never wavered, if anything it got stronger. You could tell even from a young age that Oscar Piastri was going to be somebody. And every March when the roar of the Formula 1 cars echoed through what was practically your backyard and you two sat in the grandstands you both knew that someday Oscar would be in one of those twenty cars that flew through Albert Park.
You just didn’t think for him to get there– that it would take him away from you.
The technicalities and culture of single seater racing was something you had no knowledge of. All you knew was that you loved to watch Oscar race, and loved to watch racing in general. So why should you at age fourteen know that racing in Europe would open so many new doors for Oscar and that it was inevitable that he move there to further his career.
Even as a young child Oscar had been attuned to other people’s emotions. He was the calm in most chaos and could read the ones closest to him like a book. Which makes his decision to not tell you about him leaving until the night before the dumbest idea he’s ever had. He should have known how you would react and maybe this dumb decision was also a form of self preservation.
If he didn’t tell you then maybe him leaving wouldn’t be real and if he didn’t tell you till the last minute then none of your shared memories towards the end would be tainted with the dark cloud that is your other half moving across the country. In the end no matter how mature Oscar was for his age– he was still a fourteen year old boy trying to figure out how to tell his favorite person that he was moving 10,000 miles away and that he didn’t know when he would be back.
The old swingset creaked beneath him as his feet lazily dragged through the grass. The sun was beginning to set over the coast and the slight chill in the air let him know that summer was coming to it’s end, just like his life here. He’d texted you to come over ten minutes ago and with each passing minute he was that much closer to not even telling you about him leaving. He can already imagine the look on your face when he tells you and it makes his stomach churn.
He hears the back gate open and then latch as it swings back closed. Your footsteps shouldn’t be making any sound against the plush grass, yet to Oscar it sounds like you're stomping with the force of an elephant as you make your way towards him. His grip on the metal chains were so tight that his knuckles had turned white and when he hears you sit in the empty swing next to him he thinks his heart is going to pound out of his chest.
“Sorry, I had to help Mum with the dishes before I came over.” You’re met with silence and a blank faced Oscar, who isn’t even looking at you. You lean forward slightly in the swing to get a good look at his face and he won’t even make eye contact with you. “What’s wrong?”
Your mind starts going through endless possibilities, it wasn’t like Oscar to not say anything to you and now you feel guilty for not getting here sooner– he clearly has something going on. Did a grandparent die? The family pet? Does he have a terminal illness?
“Oscar what’s going on?” You pry again.
“I’m going to England.” He blurts it out so fast you can barely understand him, but Oscar figured it was like ripping off a bandaid– get it over as quickly as possible.
“What did you say?”
“I said I’m going to England.” He still won’t look at you and he knows it’s cowardly, but he can’t help it.
You give him a strange look, why is he acting so weird about a trip to England? It’s just a vacation before school starts back up– at least that’s what you think he’s implying at first.
“Ok– how long are you guys going to be gone? Do we need to watch Rosie?”
He finally works up the nerve to face you and you can’t believe he seems to be in this much agony over going to England on vacation. Little do you know that in a few seconds you’re going to wish all that was happening was a vacation.
“You guys won’t need to watch Rosie because I’m the only one going to England.” Your eyebrows furrow in confusion and before you can ask a follow up question he goes and rips your heart out. “Y/N– I’m moving to England.”
Your brain can’t seem to process the information and your mouth tries to form words, but all you can focus on is the word moving. Not visiting or going on a holiday– but moving. As in leaving Melbourne and making a new home someplace without you right next door.
He starts to ramble on about how it’s crucial for his racing career and that if he stays in Australia he won’t move up through the feeder series like he needs to. It’s all background noise as you try to come to terms with the fact that your best friend– your other half practically is moving half way across the world. “Dad’s going to stay with me for a couple months until I get settled, but I’ll be back for the summer and Christmas and maybe some other school bre-”
“When are you leaving?”
Oscar pauses for a moment, knowing this is what is really going to hurt you and he hates that he waited so long to tell you. “First thing in the morning.”
You feel your stomach drop and a ringing start in your ears. Not only was he leaving, but he was leaving without giving you any warning. Oscar had given you no time to savor your last moments together– instead he’s tainted them. The two of you lock eyes and you hate how he’s looking at you– like you’re some dog that’s on its last leg and getting ready to be loaded into the car to go get put down. The realization hurts and the lump in your throat only seems to be getting bigger as you really come to terms with the fact that everything is going to change between you two now. He’ll have a new life and you’ll become that girl he grew up with. A memory, pages in a scrapbook, a chapter in his life.
You’re pissed and upset, but Oscar Piastri is not going to get any tears out of you this evening. You’ll wait until you’re back in your room, with your One Direction pillow case to cry into and a Mum who will ask what’s wrong.
“Why’d you wait until now to tell me?”
Oscar shrugs, a lump as equally as big had formed in his throat as he watched you silently process the bomb that he’d dropped. He hated that he had to leave home– leave you, but he loved racing and he wanted to do what was necessary to make his dreams come true. “I thought that maybe if I didn’t tell you our last couple days together wouldn’t be ruined by knowing that I was leaving. I just wanted things to be normal.”
“Well things are never going to be normal again Oscar.” You counter.
And he knows that, but he doesn’t want to admit it. So he chooses to say nothing, instead he just stares back at you, memorizing every detail of your face, down to the last freckle.
On the other hand at age fourteen you feel like a lot of things are the end of the world, but god if this didn’t feel like it to you. You were so mad at him for keeping this from you and you want to be a brat and ice him out, but it’s Oscar.
Your Oscar.
So you hold it all in and try to enjoy what little time you have left with him. “You’re gonna hate England. It rains all the time.”
Oscar smirks a little at your comment, he thinks that maybe this won’t absolutely destroy the both of you. “It rains all the time here too.”
“Yeah, but it’s cloudy and grey there.”
“Then I’ll fit right in.” He’s referring to how he never tans, not even in the Australian sun and when he sees you smile a little the lump in his throat starts to shrink.
He promises to Facetime and text, anything to keep in contact and says that any chance he can get to come home and visit he will and you tell him not to forget about you when he gets his Formula 1 seat. It’s all a formality– the things you say to the other person when they announce their departure from your life.
Eventually the stars make their way into the night sky and Oscar knows he has to be up early for his flight in the morning, but he wants to soak up every last minute with you that he can. “I’m leaving at seven in the morning if you want to come over and say goodbye before I leave.” Oscar states as the two of you stand by the back gate, trying to stay out for as long as possible.
“Yeah I’ll be over.” You state before letting the gate close behind you.
“Goodnight.” Oscar says as the two of you stand separated by the fence.
“Night Osc.” Your voice is soft and gentle and Oscar knows you’re acting like this isn’t killing you, mainly because he’s trying to act like it isn’t killing him either.
He watches you as you cross over into your yard all the way until he sees you disappear through your backdoor. He stands there for a second, trying to capture this moment in his mind. This is one of the last times he’s going to see you for who knows how long and he doesn’t want to forget it.
That night you cry into your Mother’s arms while Oscar packs and repacks his suitcase until he can’t think straight.
Morning arrives in the blink of an eye and before the sun can even make her grand arrival in the morning sky Oscar’s parents are loading up the car with luggage. He’s stalling–his eyes constantly shooting over towards your front door, hoping that any second you’d walk out that door and come give him a hug goodbye. But you don’t come over and Oscar almost misses his flight waiting for you. He starts to go over and knock on your door, but his Mother stops him dead in his tracks. “Let her have her space honey. She’ll call you when she’s ready.”
There’s no hugs or goodbyes exchanged. No texts or calls. Just Oscar standing there facing your house with his suitcase, hoping, praying that you would come out and at least say bye. Time runs out and he ends up watching your houses fade away into the distance from the backseat of the car.
This was the official start of a new chapter in his life and as his Dad turns onto another street and he can no longer see your house or even his own he knows this is the end and beginning. He’s leaving behind his family, his childhood memories, everything he’s ever known to chase his dream.
But most importantly he’s leaving you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar has always been able to adapt to things quickly in life. There was no tantrum thrown when each of his sisters arrived. There was no first day of school meltdown picture to be found. He took to karting like a fish takes to water. And so Oscar really thought that this move to England would be a piece of cake– but he was dead wrong.
He missed home.
He missed you.
England was depressing and not even the prospect of racing could cheer him up, not until you finally reached out to him. Which was a week later.
Oscar swore the sun had never shone so bright in England as it did the day your name popped up on his phone. It was a simple text– how’s England? But Oscar treasured it like it was the winning lottery numbers.
It didn’t take long for the two of you to fall back into your old habits and sometimes it was like you both were just right next door and not across the globe. As the weeks turned into months Oscar slowly started to feel more at ease. Racing and school took up the majority of his time and when he got the chance the two of you would talk, but that would soon come to an end.
His first year away Oscar came home for what seemed like every school break and it was great to be able to see him and you two spent as much time together as you could. It was Oscar and you– just like old times. But even with things seeming like old times, there was still that looming cloud hovering above you, knowing that Oscar would eventually leave again.
Then as those months turned into years, life and the distance between the two of you started to take its natural course. The calls stopped, texts were either unanswered or boiled down to birthdays and holidays, flights home weren’t booked. Oscar was making a life for himself and he’d clearly settled into the English boarding school lifestyle all while pursuing his racing dreams. You on the other hand were also living your life, just 10,000 miles away. You were passionate about your education and had made new friends that as far as you know weren’t going to move across the globe.
To say you still didn’t keep tabs on Oscar as the years passed was a straight up lie. Social media and Oscar’s sister Hattie kept you in the loop even without the communication from Oscar, maybe it was a little sad, but you don’t just get rid of that connection you have with someone overnight– or in your case years.
So when Hattie lets it slip one night that Oscar is bringing home his girlfriend for Christmas in a couple weeks you aren’t the least bit surprised. Oscar may not have been the best social media user, but his private instagram showed a whole different side of him. You’d started to notice the same girl that seemed to be in all his group photos with friends at parties and then eventually they’d be next to each other in group photos, looking more than friendly.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that seventeen year old Oscar had bagged himself his first girlfriend. Her name was Lucy and she was gorgeous and clearly had a brain on her. You may have done some digging on her one night when you were feeling a little depressed, which was a bad idea in general. You hadn’t spoken an actual word to Oscar in lord knows how long and yet you felt this possessive wave wash over you and you hated yourself for being like that. Oscar had his new life and you had yours, yet at times you still felt like you were still fourteen when it came to anything pertaining to Oscar.
You smile at Hattie, plastering on fake enthusiasm towards the fact that Oscar was coming home, but only to show off his new girlfriend. Not to come see you, because god forbid he come see you. The resentment and abandonment issues you’d harbored against Oscar had truly come to light in recent days– since the announcement of his trip home with his girlfriend in tow. It wasn’t fair to his girlfriend and in all honesty it wasn’t fair to Oscar, communication is a two way street and you had stopped reaching out too. There were clearly some deeper feelings that were arising over this, ones you wouldn’t come to realize until years later.
Your Mum is the second person to mention Oscar’s big trip home to you and you once again plaster a fake smile on your face and tell her that you can’t wait to see him- fully knowing that you’ll find an excuse to miss the already planned joint family dinner. In another universe it would be like old times on Christmas, but this is the same universe that ripped your person from you, so the flu would be making an appearance this Christmas alongside Oscar’s girlfriend.
Christmas arrives and so does this stomach bug that you can’t seem to shake. Of course you don’t want to risk getting everyone else sick, so Christmas Eve night is spent alone, in your room. You’re grateful that your Mum doesn’t push you to suck it up and just go. You know deep down she knows you aren’t really sick and the real reason as to why you aren’t going, even though you won’t admit it to yourself either. Cult classic Christmas movies play continuously as you stuff your face with the extra sugar cookies your Mum didn’t take next door. It’s about as depressing as you can get on Christmas Eve, spending it alone out of spite, but you're seventeen and there wasn’t any other logical solution than to play fake sick.
The opening title to Elf starts to play on the TV when your phone dings, the text notification lighting up your phone. You glance at it, not really bothered to reply to whoever is trying to reach you, but the name that illuminates across the screen makes you do a double take. Your hand whips out from under the blanket and grabs your phone.
oscar: you’re missing out on your mum’s sugar cookies. the candy cane one still looks like a penis even after all these years.
Your heart is pounding out of your chest as you read the text over and over, making sure you’re not hallucinating. How dare he just text you out of the blue like that? Text like you two haven’t gone almost two years without speaking regularly. It’s annoying and you hate how much it affects you. How you can’t seem to get your emotions in check when the mere mention of him is brought up.
you: eat an extra one for me. i’ll be puking my guts up if i try and eat one of those tonight.
You take a deep breath and press send, reaching for one of the cookies to occupy you while you wait for the inevitable no reply. He’s probably laughing it up with his girlfriend over your Mum’s horribly shaped, but delicious, cookies. It should be you over there, yet here you are being pathetic and hiding.
oscar: feel better soon.
you: thanks.
You toss your phone back onto your bed, before wiping the excess cookie crumbs from your shirt.
What a shitty Christmas.
Your Mum and Hattie don’t really mention how Oscar’s visit went or how you somehow avoided him like the plague the whole time he was home, considering you live next to each other, and for that you are thankful. When he leaves back for England a few short days later you pretend not to care that it coincides with your birthday. Not that you would be up for celebrating with him if he even offered, but the fact that he didn’t even send a birthday text after texting you out of the blue on Christmas Eve has you wondering if he knew you weren’t sick.
Oscar always could see through your bullshit when you two were younger and you knew he knew that you wouldn’t miss Christmas Eve even if you had the bubonic plague. It was your favorite time of year and he never let you live down the year you had been so sick that you’d practically lost your voice, but still insisted on singing Last Christmas with your froggy voice– thus the Kermit nickname that stuck with you for a year was born.
There wasn’t anyone that you knew everything and nothing about at the same time like Oscar Piastri. To you he’ll always be fourteen and you think that’s why you’ve had such a hard time with this adjustment of him not being in your life even years later. Because to you– the Oscar that you know– wouldn’t have forgotten about you, but the sad part is that is the Oscar you know. The seventeen year old Oscar has every part of fourteen year old Oscar in him and when you finally accepted that and let go of what you once knew life seemed to get easier or you were just getting older. Either way you weren’t going to miss another Christmas because you didn’t want to face the boy who ripped out a piece of yourself and took it with him to England.
The following spring Oscar doesn’t come home for your graduation from high school or even send you a congratulations text and that summer when he comes home to celebrate his graduation you’ve already moved out.
The best decision you ever made was to move out as soon as you could. As much as you loved the Piastri’s, being next to them was a constant reminder of Oscar and once you started University you really wanted a fresh start. You wanted to start this new chapter in your life Oscar free. You’d spent all of your teenage years trying to adjust to not having the person in your life that you thought would be there forever.
It was an adjustment being away from home, but god did you thrive once you got settled. This was the place you were going to become you– to make your mark on the world and plan for the future. You just didn’t think that future would somehow involve you being at the 2025 Australian Grand Prix.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You’d graduated from your University at the top of your class with a degree in journalism and you’d landed a job at one of the top establishments in Melbourne not too long after graduating. You were passionate about journalism and wanted to cover the world’s historical events. The things you see in LIFE magazine or The New York Times. Never in your life did you think you’d be sent to cover the events of the freaking Australian Grand Prix.
When the email came across your laptop first thing in the morning you thought it had been sent to the wrong person and you replied to your boss with a– was this meant to go to me? Only to be met with– Yes. I heard through the grapevine you have connections to the Piastri’s. Give me a one on one with Oscar and coverage of the weekend and we’ll talk about that promotion
You read the reply from your boss about a hundred times before realizing this was real life and not a hallucination. You wanted to die. This felt like a punishment and you were drawing a blank on what you did to deserve it. At this point in your grown life Oscar wasn’t even an afterthought. You were twenty-four years old. You hadn’t thought about him in the way you used to since before you started University. Yet, it makes your stomach twist a little at the thought of seeing him again all these years later.
Of course his face was plastered all over the city the past couple years when Grand Prix time came around, but you’d grown to see his face as some random model that you see in every store advert. Not the boy you once knew everything about. That Christmas Eve six years ago was the last time you had any communication with Oscar and now you’re going to have to show up at his work and act like you were just any other journalist.
Life really was a bitch sometimes, but you were a grown woman and god dammit if you weren’t going to suck it up and get that promotion. You didn’t go through four years of schooling and horrible internships to lose a promotion because of Oscar Piastri.
Your Mum was the one to break the news to you about Oscar finally getting a seat in Formula 1. It was text on a random Tuesday afternoon and you remember feeling genuine happiness for him in the moment. It was something he’d wanted since he was a kid and to see him accomplish his dreams no matter how you felt about him or how you two had fallen out didn’t matter at that point in time. Because all you saw was the two of you as children and weekends spent watching Oscar karting, the yearly paddock adventures during the Grand Prix weekend. It’s bittersweet because you thought you’d be there beside him when he got to that moment in his life, but for him to get there he had to lose you.
For a brief second you think about texting him and congratulating him, but you talk yourself out of, hell you didn’t even know if he still had the same number all these years later. You like his iconic tweet involving Alpine, lost in the thousands of other interactions, and leave it at that.
The week leading up to the race weekend you theorize how this is going to happen, every possible outcome and by Wednesday you think you might start balding from how stressed you’ve made yourself, but you weren’t going to back out at the last minute. You were going to walk into that paddock tomorrow morning with your head held high and give the best damn coverage of the weekend and interview with Oscar that the world has ever seen.
Well that was the plan.
You’d made it to Albert Park without a hitch and triple checked that you had everything you could possibly need before you left your apartment. You made your way to the paddock entrance, trying to blend in as much as possible. That is– until your pass won’t scan. You try holding it at every angle against the scanner and the pillar consistently lights up red, you even go as far as trying a different entry lane and you’re still met with the glaringly red denial of entry. You feel like all eyes are on you and you’re sure everyone thinks you're some freak that’s got a bogus pass and is trying to sneak into the paddock, but your pass couldn’t be more legit.
There’s hundreds of cameras waiting at the entrance to get the first pics of the drivers entering the paddock for the first time this weekend and you’re praying that Oscar doesn’t show up during all of this. A worker starts to come over after watching you struggle for what seemed like forever, but before they can even speak a British accent sounds off behind you and then a burst of McLaren orange shows up in your peripheral vision. You panic for a minute thinking it’s Oscar, but then you realize he’s not British and that it’s his teammate Lando.
He puts his pass up to the scanner and is met with the same fate as you. “Oh my god how have they not fixed these. Start of the new season and it’s not working, once again.” The two of you make eye contact briefly and he notices you’ve been dealt the same cards. “Yours not working either?” He asks, completely ignoring the entourage he has surrounding him trying to get his pass to scan for him and the worker quickly coming to his aide, unlike you who had to wait. You shake your head no at him and try your pass one last time for good measure– no entry once again. “I’m just squeezing past the turnstile. I’d do the same if I were you.”
You watch as the curly haired driver squeezes his way between the metal turnstile and the wall before immediately being swarmed by fans who don’t know what personal space is and photographers trying to get the perfect shot. You decide the chaos of Lando arriving is the perfect opportunity for you to sneak in and so you squeeze through, not as easily as him though, who seemed to have the waist of a Victoria Secret model. You weren’t going to waste anymore time, figuring that if Lando was here then Oscar surely wasn’t far behind.
As you walk through the paddock memories of the last time you were here flash in your mind. A lot had changed since then– in your life and in the paddock. You didn’t think back then that this is how your life would have turned out. Sure you figured Oscar would be here, but you didn’t think you’d be here under these circumstances or that Oscar and you weren’t glued at the hip anymore.
The hustle and bustle of everything starts to get overwhelming and the idea of seeing Oscar again after so long is actually starting to become a reality. The nerves were settling in and you could feel your stomach twisting the closer you got to the media area. There aren’t many other reporters and media personnel when you enter the room so you seize the opportunity to lay claim to the seat in the last row, practically tucked into the back corner by the plastic fern.
Oscar was supposed to be in the second set of drivers that had to do the press conference today and you were praying you could hide back here with this fake plant and that he wouldn’t spot you. There’s only five rows of seats and they aren’t very long rows, so chances are he’ll spot you, but hell he probably doesn’t even know what you look like now. So what did you really have to worry about?
The first round of drivers goes by without a hitch and you actually get some good material for your weekend coverage. You’re also proud of yourself for using the lull between panels to get a head start on your work instead of spiraling over seeing Oscar. That is until the doors open and the new set of drivers trickle into the building.
Your eyes are glued to each driver as they walk in and make the short journey to the couches at the front of the room. Kimi, Charles, Max– they all filter in one after the other and you're left waiting for the final person to make their grand entrance. The creaking of the door opening makes your eyes dart over and when the hint of the McLaren team kit peaks through the door frame you feel your heart rate sky rocket.
The moment your eyes lock onto Oscar you think you might have blacked out for a brief second. He’d changed so much since the last time you actually saw him in person. He was a grown man now. Pictures and videos online didn’t do him justice. He had gotten so big. He had the broadest shoulders, the fabric of his shirt straining against the buff muscles of his upper body. His hair had grown out some, it was the same sandy brown color, but more fluffy than when he was younger. And that neck– Jesus that neck of his. It was so damn thick and made the two moles on his Adam’s apple, something you used to love about him, even more prominent.
You’ve been so distracted taking in Oscar’s grand arrival that you don’t even realize the press conference has officially begun until the reporter next to you stands up and starts asking Oscar of all people a question. Which means all of his attention is focused towards the back of the room, the row you’re sitting in, the person next to you. His eyes are bound to wander to the people on either side of that reporter, but still you try to scoot closer to the fake plant, hoping that either the plant hides you well enough or that if Oscar looks to the left and sees you that he doesn’t realize it’s you. You think that the back row has to be far enough back that Oscar can’t clearly see anybody right?
You were so wrong.
The plant does absolutely nothing to hide you either and the two of you lock eyes for the first time in almost a decade.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar Piastri was a patient man. He’d done his time in the feeder series, spent his childhood karting, dedicated his life to be able to chase his dream and after a tricky rookie season and a rough start to his second season this season seemed to be the one he’d dreamed about. The season he’d patiently been waiting for.
He’d been anxious, ready for the season to start and to show everyone what he was capable of, especially in the beast of a car the team had developed, not to mention the first race of the season being his home race. Oscar was ready to put the first points on the board towards the championship title. There wasn’t anything that could throw him off his game this season. Or at least he didn’t think there was.
The walk into the paddock this morning had Oscar filled with excitement. There was nothing like seeing all the fans, especially hometown fans, so ready to cheer him on when he’s out on the track. Autographs are signed, pictures are taken, it’s all second nature to Oscar now. McLaren’s and his own personal social media person are in tow– camera’s in hand capturing all the good content they can to kick off the season. Even though it’s only media day it’s still a jam packed schedule and his press officer makes haste to fill him in on his day as they sit in McLaren’s hospitality unit.
“You’ve got team content to film first thing this morning, then the press conference at one, and then this afternoon there’s a one on one interview we’ve set up with a local journalist. Sort of like a hometown special thing for your home race. Should be good publicity and a good piece for you to ramp up excitement for the season.” Sophie, his press officer states.
Oscar nods as he shovels another forkfull of eggs into his mouth. Sounds like a normal media day to him– except it’s not.
Content filming is Oscar’s own personal nightmare. Lando makes it easier when they do joint content, but when he has to film solo stuff he wants to jump off a cliff, but nonetheless he powers through and grabs a quick lunch before heading to do the press conference. Oscar is the last driver to arrive and he’s not late by any means, but when he passes through the double doors and sees the room full of press and the other three drivers already on the couch waiting for him he puts a little pep in his step and scurries towards the empty spot next to Charles.
As Oscar gets settled into his spot his eyes scan the room. The front row is filled with some familiar faces, veteran reporters that have been doing this their whole lives and are there to cover every race weekend. The room is pretty full, there’s only about five rows of chairs so there’s quite a few people standing along the sides too. Oscar’s gaze wanders through them as questions are rattled off to the other drivers. He starts to daydream, thinking about what his Mum is going to make for dinner tonight since he’s back home for the weekend when the sound of his name being called out snaps him out of his trance.
“Oscar. We all know it’s the start of the season, but McLaren has been predicted to be the front runners this season. Will there be anymore Papaya Rules or will we get to see a distinct number one and number two driver this year?”
Oscar focuses his vision to the back row where some guy with a big beard and round eyeglasses is standing up, notebook in hand waiting for some headline worthy answer from him. Oscar takes a deep breath, a small smile on his face as he gets ready to recite the pre-rehearsed PR answer that’s been drilled into him.
“Well– it is still very early. We haven’t even got a practice session in yet. But the team of course will assess everything after every race and it’s always been–” Oscar’s eyes wander to the left as he rambles off the textbook answer to the reporter, but who he locks eyes with has him stumbling over his words. He does a double take at first, surely thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him, but no he’d recognize that face anywhere.
Y/N.
Even without seeing you in person for god knows how long he still kept tabs on you through social media, but to see you in person, in the flesh has his mind scrambled. What were you doing here of all places? He feels his heart pounding in his chest and for a moment the two of you are like deer stuck in the headlights of a car. His mouth feels dry and his fingers grip the microphone like it’s about to run away from him.
He feels a light elbow shove from Charles and realizes he hasn’t finished answering the poor reporter's question. “Um sorry.” Oscar states, clearing his throat before continuing. “Yeah it’s always been said that Lando and I are free to race so really we are just going to have to see how the season plays out.” Oscar quickly spits out some bullshit to finish answering the question. He prays no one else has any questions for him– he doesn’t think his brain can focus on anything else right now besides you.
He’s trying to not be creepy and constantly stare at you, but god he hasn’t seen you in forever and you’ve changed so much. He’d always thought you were beautiful, but to see you become this breathtaking woman, to see you grow into yourself is something he never thought he’d get to see in person. He figured he'd be keeping tabs on you through social media for the rest of his life. Although he always had a feeling that you guys would reunite when the universe wanted you to and apparently the 2025 Australian Grand Prix was that moment in time.
The press conference wraps up a few minutes later and Oscar is quick to his feet, hoping to catch you before you leave, but as soon as the cameras stop recording Oscar watches as you scurry out the back door and into the abyss that is a Formula 1 paddock.
Oscar is sure he’s made some fans and photographers upset on his journey through the paddock and back to Mclaren’s hospitality, but he doesn’t have it in him to play good racing driver and act like his whole world hasn’t just been turned upside down. The sound of the door to his driver's room finally closing behind him is the only thing that brings Oscar a small amount of solace at the moment. He needed some time alone to process what had just happened, he felt like he had more adrenaline coursing through his veins than when he stepped out of the car after a grueling race. The cool material of his physio table helps to somewhat ground him and just when he lays his head back on the makeshift towel pillow there's a knock on the door.
He groans at the sound, he couldn’t even get five minutes to himself?
“Yeah?” Oscar hollers as he slowly sits up on the table, his legs now dangling from the side.
The door opens and in comes Lando with a half eaten Kinder bar in his hand only to see a disheveled Oscar in front of him. “God, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Looking a little paler than usual there, Oscar.”
A humorous scoff comes from Oscar towards Lando’s remark. “I think I might’ve.” He doesn’t have it in him to elaborate or even tell Lando that the person he once considered his person randomly showed up at the press conference moments ago after not seeing you for almost a decade. He’s thankful when Lando doesn’t pry to know more and starts going on about something pertaining to their passes.
“Nick has our new passes. I don’t know if yours didn’t work this morning, but mine didn’t. Although seeing a hot reporter while I was stuck this morning did make things a little better.”
For some reason Oscar is curious about this hot reporter that Lando mentions, it was nothing out of the blue for Lando to casually talk about how attractive some women are, but he has an inkling about the identity of this one. “What was she wearing?”
Lando shrugs as he takes a bite of his kinder bar. “Blue shirt, black pants, hair up in a clip. She looked to be around our age. Why did you see her too?” Lando states, a smirk slightly stretching across his face over the idea of Oscar also thinking you were hot.
Oscar immediately knows Lando is talking about you and it goes straight through him. He starts to get defensive, but then he realizes that Lando doesn’t know who you are or that Oscar knows who you are. No use creating an awkward situation over something like this, so Oscar bites his tongue. “I might have.”
Lando nods at his younger teammate, he was awkward sometimes, but this was a new awkward for Oscar. Lando knew there was something more going on than what he let on, but Lando wasn’t going to pry. If Oscar wanted to tell him something he would, so he throws the wrapper of his Kinder bar in the little trash can in the corner and reminds Oscar about the passes one last time before heading back next door to his driver's room.
A deep sigh escapes past Oscar’s lips as the door closes once more. He pulls his phone out of his pants pocket, his body almost moves in autopilot, clicking on your contact and pulling up a new text conversation. His thumbs hover over the keyboard, his brain is fighting with his heart as he types, deletes, and retypes the same message about a million times it seems. He doesn’t even know what to say to you, hell he isn’t even sure if you still have the same number as when you were fourteen, but he’s praying you do as he finally hits send on the most thrilling thing he’s done in a long ass time.
Oscar: hey this is oscar. i’m hoping this is still your number, but i’m almost positive i saw you at the press conference earlier. if that was you i’d love to get some coffee or something and talk. if that wasn’t you then disregard this message lol.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It was a miracle that you had found a secluded place in the paddock, away from all the prying eyes and cameras to have your mental breakdown. You really weren’t sure if you were going to throw up, shit yourself, or maybe do both. The simple connection you felt between Oscar and you just by making eye contact had your head spinning and your gut churning. The ding that sounds off from your phone only makes things worse. Of course you never deleted his contact, even after all these years, but honestly that wasn’t saying much. You still had your Girl Scouts leader’s phone number from when you were twelve.
His name glares from your phone screen as you sit against the back of some building by the dumpster. You don’t want to open it, afraid of the can of worms it will open if you do, but the curious part of you wants to know so badly what he wants. Like ripping off a bandaid you tap the text notification and your eyes quickly scan the screen.
You’d always wondered what would happen when Oscar and you would reconnect, so many nights as a teenager were spent imagining the perfect scenario, the same nights you let yourself miss him and stop putting on the facade that you didn’t care. There were a million scenes that you’d imagined, but you never thought you’d be in your twenties or that it would be at the Australian Grand Prix. You don’t want this to change your life, it’s not fair that Oscar can just seem to come and go from your life when he wants. And you know if he actually wants to reconnect– that part of you that you keep locked away, the part of you that still wants him in your life will overpower every step you’ve taken to move on with your life. You don’t want him to come in and taint everything you’ve accomplished without him by your side.
There isn’t time to respond to his text or even panic call your sister, because when you glance at the time it’s almost three. You should have been getting prepped for the interview fifteen minutes ago and now you are going to be late. Of course, because what else could go wrong today?
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar sits in the stiff chair, listening to Sophie say something to him about what not to say in his interview as they wait for everything to be set up. It goes in one ear and out the other because all he can think about is you at the moment. This will probably be the worst interview he’s been a part of, but he can’t help it, all he wants to do is talk to you right now. Not some forty year old man who thinks he knows him because they are both Australian. The guy is already running late, so that right there tells Oscar this is going to be a wash. He’s about ready to ask Sophie if this can be rescheduled when he hears the door open and the most angelic voice echo through the room.
There is a part of Oscar that thinks he may be dreaming again, that this whole day is just one big elaborate dream. Never in a million years did he think you’d be the one that was interviewing him. His mouth goes dry at the sight of you and he’s sure his jaw has dropped. Your cheeks are flushed, surely from running here and your hair has fallen out of the clip you've previously adorned, soft curls frame your face as you adjust the strap to your bag on your shoulder.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. First time here, I had trouble finding my way around.”
Oscar clocks the lie immediately, sure it was probably the first time being here as an adult, but the two of you were here so many years as children, so no it wasn’t your first time here.
“No problem, I think the cameras and everything just finished getting set up, so we should be good to go. If you want to take the seat across from Oscar. I’ll let you get ready and we will begin.” Sophie states, before grabbing a folder of what you were sure were important press documents, from the table next to Oscar.
You can feel Oscar’s eyes practically burning holes into you as you sit down in the chair opposite of him. You pretend to not notice as you set your bag down gently on the carpeted floor, quickly rummaging through it to find your notebook. It’s like clockwork, the way you set your phone on the small table next to you, the record button is pressed, and your notebook is opened to the correct page in what seems like record time.
There is still a part of you that thinks maybe you can act like you don’t know Oscar, but the moment you look up for the first time since sitting down and see those honey brown eyes that you once knew so well, you know there’s no use in even trying to fake it with him.
“Hi Oscar.”
To hear you say his name after so long should not have Oscar feeling this way.
Have him flustered like a teenage boy.
He hasn’t seen you in forever, he’s lived a whole new life without you, had a long-term girlfriend, done so many things without you in his life. Yet you seem to have this power over him even after all these years.
You two were always just friends, but anyone with two working eyes, hell even one, could see that Oscar had always had a soft spot for you, and deep down the both of you knew, even as kids, that your connection went way deeper than friendship.
Only who would have thought that connection would still be there after almost a decade of no contact.
“Hi Y/N.”
Silence falls between the two of you and Sophie looks on strangely from across the room. Shy– fond smiles creep onto both of your faces and Sophie is beyond confused as to what is going on. “Do you two know each other or?”
“We grew up together.” Oscar replies without taking his eyes off of you.
You aren’t sure what’s come over you– after being in Oscar’s presence for a mere few minutes it’s like the built up resentment you’ve harbored towards him over the years isn’t there. Maybe it’s the initial shock of seeing him again after so long, all the good memories and the hope that you two will reconnect and that maybe it will be like old times may be overpowering all the bad feelings and memories you’ve had.
Sophie slowly nods, the sight in front of her is not one of two old friends, but more like people who were more than friends or at least had some history. The energy between the two of you was charged like a live wire.
“Well that’s nice, but we should get this interview going.”
Hearing Sophie’s words breaks you out of your Oscar trance and has you coming back to reality. You were here to work at the end of the day and your promotion is riding on the quality of this interview.
You start with the basic questions to get both of you warmed up and as the interview progresses you start asking the more hard hitting ones. It’s going great and both Oscar and you are comfortable, laughs are shared and you know this is going to be a hit with your boss and the public. That is until you reach your last question and you know that as soon as the words leave your mouth and process through Oscar’s mind that it was maybe too personal to ask.
“Well Oscar, it’s been a pleasure being able to sit down and have this chat with you. I think we’ve gotten to know a little more about the man from Melbourne, but I have just one more question for you today.”
Oscar nods, “It better be a good one. Best for last as they say.”
You smile, glancing down at your notebook to verify the question before looking back at Oscar. “You’ve clearly come so far in your career and to be a Formula 1 driver is a dream that so many children have, but the smallest percentage of them actually get to fulfill that dream. Obviously everything that has happened in your life happened for a reason– to get you to this point in your career–to be one of twenty. But looking back, if there was one thing you could change that’s happened and still end up where you are today, what would it be?”
Oscar shuffles uncomfortably in his chair as he internalizes your question. You could hear a pin drop. It was so silent in that room, the atmosphere had gone from light and friendly to awkward and tense.
He immediately knows what the answer would be and it brings up every bad memory and emotion he has associated with that time. He clears the slight lump forming in his throat as he tries to figure out how to word this without airing out his and your personal business for everyone and their mother to hear.
“Um– well I’d have to say I wouldn’t have moved to England at such a young age to do Euro karting. I had a whole life that I abandoned. People I abandoned.” He looks you directly in the eye when he says it and he’s trying to say everything he never got to say through these code words, trying to express how he feels through his eyes, but he knows until he gets to actually talk to you it’s not going to make that big of a difference. “If I knew what I knew now and if I knew I could still fulfill my dreams I would have stayed in Australia.”
You don’t even know what to say, your throat is tight and your head is spinning. Oscar was talking directly to you– about you. He wasn’t just answering the question, he was trying to clear the air. Maybe you had indirectly added that question in hopes that he would answer the way he did. That even after all these years your thoughts that he maybe regretted leaving you behind were true and that the pessimistic ones that squashed those ones down were ones of self preservation in case he didn’t regret leaving.
“Well thanks for sitting down with me today Oscar and even getting a little deep here at the end. Wishing you the best luck this weekend and for the rest of the season.”
You quickly wrap up the interview, not even responding to Oscar’s response to your last question. The cameras are turned off and the crew makes quick work to pack everything away. Sophie mentions something to Oscar about a last minute team debrief before everyone leaves the track today before heading out the door.
Oscar makes no effort to get up and leave and you may have been packing up your things at a snail’s speed. Neither of you say anything, waiting for the other to be the first one to speak up. It’s not until the cameramen leave and you grab your bag to also leave that Oscar speaks up.
“Come to my parents for dinner tonight?”
You freeze, stunned at the words that come out of his mouth. The grip on your bag tightens and a tight lipped smile appears on your face. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got so much work to do tonight.” You had barely been able to handle seeing Oscar today, the idea of being back at the Piastri house with everyone again would be pushing yourself beyond your limits.
He knew he was pushing the envelope by asking you that and he knew your first response would be to decline, he can’t necessarily blame you, but he wasn’t going to give up without a fight. “Please. My Mum would love to see you, see both of us back at home for dinner. It would be like old times.”
That’s the problem you think… it would be like old times.
You open your mouth to decline once again, but Oscar beats you to it. “I also think we should talk. Just the two of us.”
There’s a million reasons you can think as to why you should not go to this dinner tonight, but you make the mistake of looking Oscar in the eyes and those damn eyes of his always have worked their magic on you. “Alright. I’ll be there.”
Oscar’s never looked more thrilled and he immediately pulls out his phone. “Great. I’ll text Mum and let her know you’re coming. She’ll be so happy.”
Well there’s no getting out of this now that Nicole has been informed.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The drive back to your apartment takes twice as long as it normally would– gotta love Melbourne this time of year. The only upside to this is that once you do get home you don’t have time to sit and turn yourself into an anxiety induced mess. You have just enough time to change your outfit and freshen up your hair and makeup before heading back out the door. The entire drive to the Piastri household is spent blaring music to try and distract you from how nauseous you feel. It doesn’t work and as you turn onto the street that held so many memories you swallow down the bile threatening to rise.
As you pull into the Piastri’s driveway you notice the lights are off at your childhood home. Which undoubtedly means your family is here too– great.
The five minute pep talk you give yourself as you sit in their driveway does nothing to calm your nerves, in fact the more you talk about not being nervous, the more nervous you get. You know you’ll be getting a text from someone soon asking where you are– that someone more than likely being Oscar and you don’t think you can handle him worrying about where you are at the monument. So you kill the engine, glance at yourself in the rearview mirror, take a deep breath, and force your legs to carry you to the front door.
Years ago you would have just walked right in, but things have changed and so you knock on the solid wood door. Hoping that maybe no one would answer and you could turn around, get back in your car, and be back at home in your pajamas. But of course you can hear the commotion already going on inside and in a few short seconds the door is opening. You don’t even think about the possibility of Oscar being the one to open the door and you pray to any god that’s listening that it isn’t him on the other side.
The sight of Hattie in front of you was proof at least someone was listening and your nerves subside for a moment. Grins adorn both of your faces as she pulls you into a bone crushing hug. The two of you hadn’t seen each other since last Christmas. Once you had moved out your communication with Oscar’s sisters had dwindled. Sure you guys kept in touch through social media and Hattie and you occasionally would text, but you think they all knew because of their brother they’d eventually see less of you. You loved all three of them like your own sisters, but they were all unfortunately victims of association to Oscar.
“Oh my god I’ve missed you!” She exclaims as she’s still holding you hostage in her arms. “Come on– come in. Everyone else is already here.”
The moment you step foot into the Piastri household a wave of nostalgia washes over you. This house held so many childhood memories that you would think it was your own home. The times you all would get yelled at for running around the house. The time you were playing hide and seek and Hattie got locked in the coat closet in the hall somehow. Or when Oscar and you somehow let a stray dog into the house– Nicole was beyond pissed about that.
You take it all in as you follow Hattie down the hall and into the kitchen, not much has changed since the last time you were here years ago.
As you make your grand entrance in the kitchen it feels even more like old times. Nicole and your Mum are sitting at the island– wine glasses in hand as surely chat about the latest neighborhood gossip. Your Dad and Oscar’s Dad Chris, are getting ready to throw something on the grill. Your sister Sam, Edie, and Mae are digging through the pantry, complaining about how long it’s taking for dinner to take. And Oscar– is nowhere to be found?
It’s at that moment that you remember one important detail about Oscar.
His girlfriend.
How could you forget about his girlfriend?
There’s no way she would miss his home race. They are probably up in his room right now.
Before you can spiral and think about how awkward this night is going to be and how you never should have agreed to come you hear your name being called and excited gasps echo through the kitchen.
“Y/N! Darling!” Nicole comes barrelling towards you, arms wide open as she pulls you into a hug. “When Oscar texted me earlier that you were coming for dinner I thought I was dreaming! It’s so nice to have everyone here all together again. Reminds me of old times.”
Mae and Edie are next in line to give you a hug and Chris says hello while chopping up some vegetables.
You move to linger near your Mum, hoping she’ll ease your nerves and of course like the Mother she is, she notices straight away. She wraps her arm around you and presses a light kiss to your temple. “Hi sweetie. I’m glad you came.”
Sam gives you a questioning look from across the kitchen island– a raised eyebrow thrown your way as she munches on some pretzels. You give her one back that says you’ll talk later–you’re sure there will be even more to unpack after tonight.
“Y/N honey would you like a glass of wine?” Nicole offers as she’s already grabbing a spare glass from the cabinet and popping the cork on a fresh bottle. You figure some wine might loosen you up– make this evening a little more bearable. So, you take her up on her offer and take a gulp of the sweet liquid.
A lull in the conversation allows for Sam to start talking about some crazy thing that happened at her job the other day and honestly you’re grateful to be able to just lean against the counter, sipping your wine, and not having all the attention on you.
Three Sam stories and a glass and a half of wine later you’re feeling more than comfortable. The wine and no sign of Oscar for the last hour has your nerves settled and your giggles echoing through the kitchen. Edie had brought up the time that Hattie and you thought it would be a good idea to try and dye her hair pink without Nicole knowing. Long story short the bathtub got stained pink and the dye didn’t even stay in Hattie’s hair.
“Don’t forget that Rosie somehow ended up with dye on her fur and that’s how Mum found out.”
The sound of Oscar’s voice behind you made you nearly jump out of your skin. You slowly turn around to see him standing in the doorway with a smug smile on his face as he stares directly at you.
You almost feel like your feet are cemented to the tile floor– like you’re frozen in place as you make eye contact with Oscar, like there was no one else in the room but the two of you. You pretend not to notice the little bit of relief that washes over you when you don’t see his girlfriend in tow, but you won’t hold your breath, she could show up at any minute.
“Oscar! Nice of you to finally join us now that the hard work is done and it’s time to eat.” Chris’s voice breaks you out of your trance and your eyes quickly flicker down to your glass. Your face feels hot and it’s totally because of the wine and not anything else– right?
You hear Oscar rattle off something about having to stay later at the track– last minute media duties as he helps his Dad carry the food to the table in the dining room.
The speed at which you hurry into the dining room and sandwich yourself between Mae and Sam so you don’t end up having to sit next to Oscar is slightly embarrassing. You watch as the other empty seats get filled one by one, but the one thing you don’t think about is who is going to sit across from you. Of course the final seat open is the one across from you and the one person left to sit down is Oscar.
Honestly you think it would have been better to sit next to him, you weren’t even thinking about him sitting across from you and how you’ll have to look at him the whole duration of the meal.
The beginning of dinner isn’t horrible per say, you focus on eating and trying to not make eye contact with Oscar. Everyone is mostly enjoying their food, not talking much, and you think maybe it might not be as bad as you fear. That is until Nicole asks a question that has everyone’s eyes darting towards you.
“So Y/N. We knew you went to school for journalism, but we didn’t know you were going to do sports journalism. According to Oscar you were at the track today and you guys did a little interview together? Does this mean we’ll be seeing you at all the races?”
You smile softly, embarrassed that the topic of conversation has turned towards you. “Um, yeah I hadn’t planned on doing sports journalism at all. I wanted to be in like war torn countries or reporting on major historical events. But I’m still considered new enough that I basically have to take what my boss gives me.” You push around the green beans on your plate as you talk, your eyes occasionally flickering around the table looking at each person.
“The Australian Grand Prix is a historical event.” Oscar chimes in with a teasing smile painted across his face.
Which makes you want to fling a green bean across the table at him.
Before you can make a smart ass comment back to him Nicole chimes back in. “Well I’d like to personally thank your boss for making you cover the race. I’ve missed having you around Y/N.” Nicole pauses a moment as she looks at you with the most sincere look you’ve seen from her. You watch as her eyes travel across the table and land on her son. “Missed having Oscar here– having both of you here.”
You think that if she could reach both of you she’d have you both wrapped up in her arms and you can see the raw emotion on her face as she keeps looking at both Oscar and you. There’s something inside of you that tells you to look at Oscar and when you work up the courage to direct your line of sight towards him you see those big brown eyes of his already staring into your soul.
Unbestowed to Oscar and you, everyone else at the table is witnessing the thing they knew would happen all along. Your Mum and Nicole share a knowing glance and your siblings try to stifle their giggles at how obvious it is.
When Oscar and you lock eyes it's truly like you both forget there are other people near you. There’s a connection that everyone else can see, but the both of you seem to be blind to it, or you’re just refusing to feel it. It’s been that way with you two for as long as anyone can remember and the fact that you guys haven’t seen each other in almost a decade and it’s still the same has both of your Mothers more than smug about how right they were about the two of you.
“Well dinner was delicious. Thank you for having us over.” You Dad is the one to break the silence and your eyes immediately dart away from Oscar, cheeks flushing as you realize that you’ve just gotten lost in Oscar’s eyes in front of everyone. You stare down at your mostly empty plate, moving around a stray green bean with your fork.
“Thank you, it was a lovely dinner. Like I said, it was just so nice to have us all here together again.” Nicole reiterates as she begins to gather empty plates from the table. “I also made tiramisu, so no one try and skip out early!”
You make quick work to start helping clear the table and even go as far as starting the dishes, anything to not have to face Oscar. Your cheeks are still hot as you scrub the dinner plates, your mind is anywhere but here at the monument and you don’t even realize you’ve been washing the same plate the whole time until you feel the touch of a gentle hand on your shoulder. You jump slightly, dropping the plate into the sink, not realizing how zoned out you really were. Turning slightly you see your Mum standing behind you, a look of concern and understanding painted across her face as she presses a hand towel towards you.
“Honey, why don’t you go out back, get some fresh air. Nicole and I will finish this up.”
Your Mum is a woman that you don’t want to argue with when she tells you to do something. So, you nod, knowing she knows how in your head you are and gladly take the towel from her– wiping the soap suds from your pruned fingers.
The sun is just starting to set as you step onto the back patio, the sliding door closing behind you. There’s a slight breeze in the air and the cooler evening weather is some relief to your rosy cheeks and clouded mind. You’re just about ready to take a seat on some of the patio furniture, when you hear a sound reminiscent of your childhood.
Towards the back of their property you spot a rusty old swing set– the breeze had caused the swings to move– loudly squeaking as they do. The once vibrant red swing now showed signs of weathering, rust peaking through where the paint had come off. It had provided years of entertainment and went through multiple children and even with it showing signs of wear, it still stood strong in their backyard.
A small smile finds its way onto your face as you make your way towards the swingset, memories replaying in your mind as you sit in one of the empty swings. The chains creak as you move your feet, making the swing go higher and higher. You watch as the sun sets and the sky paints a picture of pinks and oranges for you to admire. For a good while you feel a sense of peace wash over you, being out here alone, reconnecting with a part of you that you haven’t felt in a long time.
But all peaceful monuments eventually get ruined.
You hear the sound of the patio door sliding open and then close, you don’t even have to turn your head to know who's come to ruin your alone time. The sound of his footsteps feel like they are shaking the ground as he travels across the patio, down the steps, and onto the grass. You keep your eyes focused on the worn patch of grass below you– your sneakers scraping against the dirt as you slow down.
He passes in front of you and from the corner of your eye you see him sit down in the swing next to you. Silence hangs between the two of you for what seems like forever. The pretty painting in the sky has been replaced by stars and neither of you have spoken a single word– that is until Oscar finally plucks up the courage.
“I still can’t believe you’re a sports journalist now, specifically a F1 reporter. Never thought we’d reunite via interview.”
You scoff, slightly rolling your eyes while you still look at the ground. “Don’t worry this weekend is a one time thing– I won’t be at any of the other races.”
Oscar frowns slightly at your tone and how you’re implying that he wouldn’t love to see you in the media pen every race weekend. He in fact feels quite the opposite about having you around and your sour mood that is heavily radiating off you has him confused. Sure things were bound to be a little awkward between the two of you, how long had it been since you’d seen each other? But this was more than awkward, this was resentment and Oscar wonders how things could have done south so quickly since the interview.
Silence falls between you two again for a brief moment and you hope Oscar just gets the hint and heads back inside, but you should know that Oscar is a persistent man and the inevitable heartwrenching conversation is bound to happen.
“You alright?” Oscar pries, his head tilting towards you slightly, hoping that you’ll look over at him and not the ground for at least two seconds. “Did I do something? You seem a little off from earlier today.”
You want to tell him to fuck off and to just leave you out here– alone. The inevitable is going to happen if he stays out here and you really don’t have it in you tonight to have this conversation, to open that can of worms. You still needed time to process everything and you know if you start talking about the past your emotions are going to take over.
“I’m fine, just tired. Today was a lot.”
Oscar nods– he agrees that today was a lot, but he can’t help but feel like there's something deeper going on with you. Instead of bothering you some more he decides to switch the conversation to something more basic, but oh boy was he wrong to do that.
“God, I’m surprised this swing is still standing. How much time did we spend on this thing as kids? Seems like we were always out here, but I can’t remember the last time it was actually used.” Oscar states as he looks around at the rusty old swing set.
That comment. The nonchalantness in Oscar’s voice. It all makes something switch in you. You finally look up from the ground to find him already staring at you. There’s a blank expression on his face, like he didn’t just crack open your deepest wound. It fills you with even more rage. You knew as soon as you opened your mouth there was no going back and that in the end you might lose Oscar again, but the years of pent up emotions and hurt override every instinct for you to bite your tongue.
“Are you fucking kidding me Oscar?”
Your tone is harsh and cold and it makes Oscar flinch slightly, his hands gripping the chains of the swing tighter. He doesn’t even get the chance to reply before you’re opening your assault on him once again.
“You don’t remember the last time we were out here? When you ripped my heart out. When you told me you were leaving for England the following morning and you didn’t know when you’d be back. Cause I’ll sure as hell never forget it.”
You can feel the anger coursing through your veins, the years of acting like Oscar leaving and ghosting you didn’t absolutely kill you. Sure maybe bombarding him with this probably wasn’t the way to go about it, but you’ve held it in for so long and he unfortunately struck the wrong nerve tonight.
Oscar freezes– he can see how upset you are and he feels like a piece of shit. Never in a million years would he ever forget that night, it haunted him for years, and he realizes he really should have chosen his words more carefully moments ago. But he also wasn’t expecting the conversation to go south so quickly. Sure things were a little awkward between the two of you, but that interview went so well earlier and dinner was great, he never expected for the night to have ended up here.
“Y/N– I could never forget that night. That’s not what I was referring to. I still feel horrible about how I went about telling you that I was leaving. I should have gone about it differently, believe me, the guilt ate me alive over the years.” He was telling the truth, the hurt look on your face all those years ago killed him. He hurt the person that meant the most to him and lost you in the process of his own actions down the line.
And now it seems he’s going to be reliving that night almost ten years later.
Oscar can see the same hurt in your eyes as he did that night and he should have known that if he wanted to have you back in his life, that he was going to have to face what happened between the two of you.
“You say you’ll never forget that night, but you forgot me Oscar. Even that first year when you came back home it wasn’t the same, half of you was with me and the other half was back in England. God, you were everything to me and you just left me behind like I was some old toy.” You can feel the angry tears start to form and you try to blink them back, not wanting Oscar to see you cry.
Oscar feels somewhat cornered, sure he was a stupid fourteen year old and yes he fucked up, but he felt like you also forgot about him at the end of the day.
“I get I fucked up and I’ll own up to that, but the phone works two ways Y/N. You could have reached out to me too. Our falling out isn’t all on me.” He pauses, pondering if he should even say what else he is thinking, but he figures the way this conversation is going, what's a little more fuel to the fire? “I also don’t know where this hostile attitude is coming from either. I get things are going to be awkward between us, but my bad choice of words does not warrant this hostile attitude. I mean everything was great at the track and dinner was good so tell me what happened to that Y/N? Because this Y/N in front of me right now is not the Y/N I remember.”
You can see the anger starting to show on Oscar now too and you’re positive this isn’t going to end well.
“You’ve clearly never seen a reporter do their job before have you? It took every ounce of willpower to actually show up to the track today. To show up to your house and act like me not seeing your or talking to you in almost a decade didn’t fuck with me horribly. I knew seeing you again would bring up all these emotions I’ve pushed down over the years. I mean fuck Oscar the first chance I got to move out I took, I couldn’t even stand being near your family, your house, it all just reminded me of you and how the person who meant everything to me dropped me like an old toy they didn’t want anymore. ”
You pause for a moment, trying to collect yourself, but it’s becoming damn near impossible. “I stopped reaching out when you did. I wasn’t going to waste my time and make myself look desperate when you had stopped responding. You’d clearly made a life for yourself without me and all I was going to be was the girl you grew up with.”
A single tear finally breaks free and Oscar watches as you quickly wipe it away–turning your head away from him.
“And to answer your question–I guess I’m not the same person you remember, but that’s because of you Oscar.”
Oscar feels a pang shoot through his heart– to hear you say these things has his emotions going in every which direction. Never in a million years did he realize you had felt that way or been affected so deeply by him leaving. Sure he had gone through rough patches, especially in the beginning, but he had racing, new people in his life, and a million other things to distract him from the empty part of him that you once called home.
He doesn’t even know what to say to you, he wants to reassure you, to apologize for being such a fuck up all those years ago, but he thinks the thing that sticks with him more than the others is that you think that you’d just be a memory of his, someone he grew up with. Oscar always knew that eventually you two would find your way back to each other, he didn’t know when or where, but he knew what you two had, your connection was one that wasn’t meant to only last for such a small part of your lives. It was a connection that would span lifetimes and universes. Even if it didn’t seem like it right now.
“You know you’ll never just be the girl I grew up with Y/N.” Oscar’s voice is soft as he speaks and it makes even more tears start to fall.
You take a deep breath as you wipe away the tears with the sleeves of your shirt, debating on whether or not to bring up something else that happened when you two were fourteen, but then you figure you might as well just get everything else out in the open tonight.
“Do you remember what happened the week before you left? That night at Hannah Payne’s house?”
Oscar feels his heart skip a beat, he doesn’t even want to talk about this right now, it makes his choice of how he told you about him leaving seem like an even bigger asshole move.
“I do remember it.” Oscar says sheepishly.
You laugh dryly as you replay it all in your mind. “When you kissed me you fully knew you were going to leave that following week.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
How Oscar and you ended up at the most popular kid in your grade, Hannah Payne’s house that weekend was beyond both of you, but you were and you were both way out of your limit. A game of seven minutes in heaven gets brought up and you think you’re going to shit yourself. You’d never kissed anyone before and so you start to spiral from that, but then you think what if no one even wants to kiss you, so then you start to spiral even more.
Your mind is spinning as fast as the old coke bottle on the floor and when it’s finally your turn to go you have to stop your hand from shaking as you reach out and twist the bottle. You try to calculate who it might land on as it slows down, hoping it’s not the kid who used to eat his boogers when you were younger, but the person it comes to a halt in front of is somehow worse than the booger eater.
Teasing ohhhs and giggles echo through the basement as your eyes travel up from the bottle and land on Oscar. You see a blush creep onto his cheeks, but even with the teasing he quickly stands up from his spot on the floor and crosses the threshold to stand in front of you– hand outstretched for you to grab onto.
You intertwine your fingers with his as he pulls you up from the floor and you two make your way to the old storage closet in the corner.
If it was anyone else you wouldn’t be feeling like your heart is about ready to beat out of your chest as the closet door closes behind you, but it’s not anyone else, it’s Oscar.
Oscar.
Your person.
No big deal right?
You’ll just tell him that you guys can stand there chest to chest for seven minutes in silence and everything will be totally fine.
Except you never open your mouth– you stand there like an idiot.
Oscar doesn’t say anything either for the first few minutes, but then he breaks the silence. “Do you think anyone else did anything?”
You laugh a little, fully knowing Hannah for sure did with booger boy. “Oh without a doubt.”
Oscar pauses for a second and you can tell something is on the tip of his tongue, even in the dark. “Do you think we should do something?” He finally chokes out, his voice cracking at the end.
If there was ever a time in your life where you thought you were going crazy– it was this moment. You know you didn’t hear him correctly, there was no way he was asking what you thought he was asking. Your response seems to die in your throat every time you go to open your mouth. He was kidding right?
Oscar wasn’t asking to kiss you right?
You feel his hand cup your cheek and you realize this is definitely happening.
“Can I kiss you?”
There’s a brief moment where you think you blacked out, his words going in one ear and out the other. “You want to kiss me?” You barely squeak out.
You can sense the eye roll and smirk on Oscar’s face even in the dark. “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t want to Y/N.”
The boy in front of you has been your best friend since birth, he’s your other half, he’s your everything. One little kiss won’t drastically alter things will they? You’d be lying if you said there weren’t times where you felt like your connection with Oscar was more than friendly, but you were only fourteen. What the hell did you know?
“Well what are you waiting for?”
That night Oscar and you shared your first kiss with each other. Blushed cheeks and giddy smiles adorned both of your faces as you eventually exit the closet, but the next day the both of you act like nothing ever happened. Like that kiss hadn’t altered so many things for both of you.
You weren’t going to be one to bring it up to Oscar back then, especially if you didn’t know if he felt the same things you did, but then he goes and leaves you the following week. Which confirmed the fear that had been clouding your brain that whole week.
That Oscar really didn’t care about you and that him kissing you meant absolutely nothing– even though it meant everything to you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar had a handful of regrets in life and while some of them were not that big on the regrets scale– the two or he guesses he should say three involving you were the worst.
It’s no secret that he regrets leaving you or at least leaving you the way he did and then basically cutting contact with you after a year, but the one regret he really has is kissing you all those years ago.
He didn’t regret it in the way it sounds because truly he would have kissed you a million times over, but it’s the timing of it that he regrets.
You two were so young back then and he knows a first kiss is special and it eats at him the whole week leading up to him leaving. Knowing that you two had formed this even deeper bond now and that he was going to break it, but at the end of the day he was just a kid, and the consequences of his actions didn’t really resonate with him at that point in time.
“God Y/N we were fourteen– we were kids.” Oscar really doesn’t know what to say, because truly at the end of the day they were just kids back then and he was a kid who had fucked up. He wasn’t saying he didn’t, but he was asking for a little grace.
His response makes you even more angry, yes you understood you guys were young, but at that age when anything like that happens to you– it’s gonna leave a scar. “You were my first kiss Oscar. How do you think that made me feel at fourteen? To have the person who meant the most to you kiss you then leave you for a decade?”
Oscar in a somewhat opposite way has the same scar as you, but his is more self-inflicted, and if he could take it all back he could. If he could go back in time and fix everything then maybe this wouldn’t be happening right now. But he knows that’s not possible and that everything that’s happened to you two has happened for a reason and that you’re both here, in the backyard of his childhood home right now because the universe wants you to be.
Silence falls between the two of you as crickets and the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze fill the void. He doesn’t even know how long you guys have been out here, but he knows it’s been longer than he’d expect. He knows this conversation is just going to continue to go in circles and there would be no resolution worked out tonight.
“Y/N look at me.” He demands with a gentle voice.
Your head raises slowly and his heart breaks at just how wrecked you look. This conversation had clearly taken a toll on you and he hates that in the end it’s him who’s gotten you to this point.
“You know I regret how things turned out between us with every fiber of my being. I said it in the interview earlier and I’ve said it now. I fucked up and I’m owning that, but I don’t know what you want me to do to make this better. We were kids back then and now we’re adults and I get that you’ve been holding on to this for years, but we’ve got to work past this.”
He pauses briefly, trying to gauge how you're taking this. “You don’t understand how happy I was to see you today, to get to talk to you. I’ve got you back or at least I think I do and I’ll do whatever I need to to keep you, but you’ve got to give me some grace. I’m owning up to my fuckups, but if you want us back like old times you’ve got to tell me what you want out of this conversation.”
Your head is pounding and your eyes are still blurry with tears. You sit there and listen as Oscar talks to you and when he mentions old times you want to bash your head against one of the metal poles.
There’s never going to be a point where Oscar and you in any capacity will be together like old times. You can try and replicate it, try and do the same things, but the old times were in the past for a reason. Things change, life progresses, things will never stay the same forever no matter how hard you try to hold onto them.
And no matter what happens– things will never be like old times between Oscar and you.
“I don’t know what I wanted out of this conversation Oscar. I guess for you to finally see how fucked up I’ve been since you left. For you to see how pathetic I am that I can’t get over the kid I grew up with moving away over a decade ago. For you to hear that I’ve held on to this grudge and at times wished I’d never met you because even after all these years you have this hold over me and I hate it. You’ve dictated my life for years without even being in it Oscar and it drives me fucking nuts.”
You take a deep breath, leaning back to look up at the stars in the sky. “I don’t know if there is anything for us after this conversation is over. Do you really think I can get over all this resentment I’ve harbored towards you.” Your eyes glance over at Oscar and you swear you see a single tear roll down his cheek.
“Deep down, if you feel the same way as I do, then yes.”
The sound of the sliding door opening breaks you out of this bubble you’ve been in with Oscar and you hear Nicole holler from the patio. “I’ve saved you two some tiramisu. You better get in here and eat it– I don’t think I can hold Sam off much longer.”
Oscar hollers something back to her so she’ll go back inside and when you hear the door slide close you push yourself up out of the swing. This was your sign to go home– no tiramisu will be consumed tonight. All you wanted to do was crawl in bed and never leave it.
There are no goodbyes exchanged, just Oscar watching you leave, but when you reach the back gate he speaks up.
“I know you feel our connection, even if it’s deep down buried under a hundred other things. What we had or what we have doesn’t just go away Y/N.”
You pause, hand frozen on the latch, but you don’t acknowledge him, no matter how right he is. There’s nothing else left in you for tonight. So the gate latches closed behind you and a wave of deja vu washes over Oscar as he remains glued to the swing.
He hopes you’ll just stay at your old house for the night, thinking it might help for whatever reason, but then he hears your car start out front and sees the headlights light up the street as you leave him behind.
When he finally works up the courage to make his way back inside the get together is still in full swing. No one notices him come in except for your sister who he knows was probably peeking through the window at you two outside alongside his sisters. He acts like he doesn’t see Sam staring him down as he makes haste to head up to his room. The old stairs creak beneath his feet as he begins his ascent and he’s almost halfway up them when his Mum’s voice stops him dead in his tracks.
“Where’s Y/N? Did you guys eat dessert?”
“No–she went home. I’m going to bed.” Oscar’s voice is monotone as he gives his Mum a blunt and straightforward answer. He doesn’t even bother to turn around to look at her as he continues his journey up the stairs. He didn’t have it in him to be bombarded with questions about you right now and he knew his Mum meant well, but all he wanted to do was climb into his bed and sleep on this.
Not only did he have this conflict with you now, but he also had the race this weekend to take into account. He needed to have a clear head for this weekend, but his brain was just clouded with you.
He’s sure he’s tossed and turned in his bed about a million times, but sleep still won’t greet him with open arms. His mind won’t shut off and all he can think about is how broken you looked earlier and how it's his fault. He wants to make things right, wants you to be back in his life permanently, but he’s scared too much damage has been done and that you won’t ever be able to get over how things ended up between the two of you. Hell, he’d get on his knees and beg for you guys to even just have a fresh start, but he knows you’re always going to carry that emotional baggage with you, and that you undoubtedly have abandonment issues now.
Back then Oscar did struggle a lot with not having you around, but he had racing to distract him, new friends, and eventually a girlfriend. There wasn’t anything in England that reminded him of you but his memories, your contact in his phone, an occasional social media post, and the fact that his Mum mentioned you more than what was necessary. There were no ties to you and even the strongest bonds weaken over time. He never thought about how you felt, how everything back home would remind you of him, how almost every aspect of your life he’d somehow tainted. In
Australia he was everywhere without even being there and he realizes that's why you took the move so much harder. You never really could move on with your life when he loomed at every corner. England allowed Oscar to start a whole new chapter in his life– a chapter without you in it. You’ve been stuck in the same chapter ever since he left.
He should have known that Christmas he brought his girlfriend home, when you faked being sick, that things had shifted between the two of you. He knew as soon as his Mum told him that you wouldn’t be joining them because of some stomach bug that you were faking it. He knew you too well. Hell would have to freeze over for you to miss Christmas with everyone. He’d tried to reach out, wanting to see if you’d nibble on his texts, but you only doubled down on the being sick ploy.
It was a weird Christmas that year and it wasn’t that he didn’t love his girlfriend back then, but it felt weird to see her sit in the seat you always sat in at the table, and for them to make fun of the penis looking cookies your Mum would bake every year. It was like you were there, but you weren’t.
And that’s when he realizes after being with his girlfriend for almost five years– that he’d used her to replace you in his life. They’d broken up last year– a mutual break up that ended on decent terms, but it makes his stomach flip to come to terms with this after so long. He’d found someone that could fill the void of you in his life and so yes he missed you and looking back he felt horrible about what he did, but that’s why he didn’t necessarily take the ghosting as much to heart as you. He had someone and as far as he knew you’d never had a boyfriend.
He flips back over on his side, his eyes scanning the shelf along his wall that’s been illuminated by the moonlight. Trinkets from his childhood, racing mementos, and any other thing he thought deserved a home resided on that shelf. A glimmer reflecting from the shelf peaks his curiosity and it wasn’t like he was on the verge of sleep so he swings his legs out from under the covers and walks over to the shelf.
There sitting on the dusty old shelf was something Oscar thought he’d lost years ago.
The summer when Oscar and you were twelve your families went on a trip together to Italy and in some tourist trap shop you two had found some simple red threaded bracelets. You’d always wanted to have matching bracelets with Oscar, but he hated wearing them. Somehow you’d convinced him to get these, it was a simple string, barely anything to it, he probably wouldn’t even feel it on his wrist is what you’d told him. So you both walk up the counter and Oscar hands over some Euros hoping it will be enough to pay for them. The lady behind the counter smiles at the two young kids standing before her and when she sees what they are trying to buy she smiles even more, gently sliding the bracelets back towards the kids.
“Sono gratuiti.”
Oscar and you don’t know a lick worth of Italian besides the basics and so Oscar assumes he owes her more money, he can barely get the bill out of his pocket before the lady shakes her head and speaks in a thick accent.
“Free.”
You both look at each other, eyebrows raised, unsure if she’s actually saying what you think she said. “Free?”
The lady nods, pushing the bracelets even further towards the edge of the counter. Oscar and you decide to grab the bracelets and leave before she changed her mind.
Those bracelets left neither of your wrists for a good two years, but the month before Oscar left for England he’d lost it. He looked for it everywhere, distraught over not knowing what happened to it. He assumed it had broken and just fell off his wrist and he had no idea how he was going to tell you. Luckily for him he was able to keep it hidden, long sleeves were his best friend, and then when he left he assumed you’d eventually stop wearing it. He just never expected to find it sitting on his shelf in his room all these years later.
He grabbed the bracelet from the shelf wiping the dust bunnies from it before sliding it over his hand and tightening it around his wrist. As silly as it seemed, the moment he slipped the bracelet on he felt a sense of calm wash over him, like a piece of him that had been missing was put back into place. He twisted the red piece of thread around his wrist, feeling as it rubs against his skin. How such a simple thing held so much power he didn’t know, but if there was one thing he could take as a good sign from today– it was finding this bracelet.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The morning sun is a harsh wake up call as you peel your face from your desk. Instead of coming home last night and just going to bed you decide to pull an all nighter and work on the content you’d gotten from the day. Sure seeing Oscar’s face was like a punch to the gut everytime, but what went down last night was not going to stop you from doing your job. You were getting this promotion even if it caused you your sanity.
Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you grab your phone and when you see the time you surely think it’s wrong or you’re still half asleep. You rub your eyes even harder, but the time on your phone stays the same.
Fuck.
You should have been at the track thirty minutes ago.
Shit shit shit.
You somehow make yourself look presentable in under fifteen minutes and are out the door and on your way to Albert Park without thinking about having to face Oscar again today.
Traffic is horrendous per usual and by the time you make it to the track FP1 is set to start in about fifteen minutes. You’d missed out on any pre-practice content, but you’d be set for the post practice sessions.
You watch the practice session from one of the viewing areas and it’s surreal to see Oscar actually out there doing what he’d always dreamt of doing. No matter what had gone down last night there's still that part of you that cares about Oscar and you know just how much all of this means to him. You just wish you’d been there to support him through it all.
The practice sessions go by fairly fast and you head towards the media pen ready to face the impending doom of seeing Oscar for the first time since last night. You were confident enough yesterday to act like everything was peachy with him, but after you took off the mask last night you weren’t sure you could put it back on.
The first driver to come up to your spot is Carlos and he’s the perfect driver to help you get warmed up.
“Hi Carlos. So first two practice sessions in the books as Williams driver and you seem to already be in tune with the car. Great sessions from you today– does that make you feel hopeful for qualifying tomorrow?”
There’s not many people in the world who can make you nervous or make you blush just by looking at you, but good lord if Carlos Sainz wasn’t one of them. He definitely knew how to use those big brown eyes to his advantage and you have trouble trying to maintain your professional composure.
“You’re new aren’t you?” He asks– a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
“I am.”
“I was going to say– I definitely would have remembered you from previous seasons.” He pauses for a moment and you honestly don’t even know what to say to that, so you just smile and pray you’re not as red as a tomato right now. “But to answer your question, yes I’m feeling hopeful for quali tomorrow. The team has made some amazing developments over the winter and if I can bring these practice results over to quali and race results then it’s going to be an amazing season. So yeah I can’t wait to get out in the car tomorrow and see what I can do.”
“Thanks for your time Carlos, best of luck tomorrow.”
He nods smiling back at you and as he walks off you wonder if he’s like that with every reporter.
You’d interviewed a handful of other drivers after Carlos and how you’d yet to spot Oscar is beyond you. Maybe he’s avoiding you–which you aren’t complaining about. You got the one on one done yesterday so you weren’t obligated to get anything else from him from this weekend– barring that he wins.
There’s other people wrapping things up near you and you take that as a sign that it’s time to call it a day. You’re packing up your bag when you see a flash of McLaren papaya out of the corner of your eye and you immediately turn your back hoping it’s not Oscar and that it’s either an employee or his teammate. The sound of a British accent and the mention of the name Lando from the person next to you lets you know at least it’s not Oscar, but you don’t want to risk turning around and finding him standing there next to him, so you grab your bag and hightail it out of there.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
That night as you're sitting on the couch in your apartment, scrolling on your phone as some random reality tv show plays in the background, a call from your boss comes through that ultimately changes your life forever.
“Hello?”
“Y/N. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time, but I need to talk to you.”
You sit up from your slumped position on the couch as worry washes over you. Are you getting fired? Did the interview with Oscar tank, did your work from today not meet his standards? It was very unlike him to call you, especially this late at night. The idea that this could be a call with good news didn’t even register as a possibility in your mind.
“No, you’re fine. What’s going on?” You reply back timidly.
“Well as you know the interview with Oscar has been posted and all your reports from today as well…”
He’s dragging it along and you already knew your boss was a sadist, but this is just confirming it in your mind. “And?”
“And I know I said if you do well this weekend then you’d be getting that promotion– more traveling, deeper storylines to follow and all that good stuff.”
“There’s a but here isn’t there.” Your tone is already defeated, knowing that even if you had delivered some riveting journalism this weekend he still wasn’t going to give you that promotion.
“But– the weekend isn’t even over and you’ve already blown me away with the pieces you’ve put together. That interview with Oscar is trending worldwide, we’ve never had this much engagement on our socials before. I knew you’d do well with this Y/N, but I never thought you’d give us social media trending interviews. I’m proud of you.”
You sit frozen on the couch, you heard him correctly right? You pull your phone away from your ear and go to Youtube, searching for the interview with Oscar. Your eyes nearly pop out of your head when you see the view count on it.
1.2 million views and it was just posted this morning. You click on the comments and just about every other one is mentioning something about how Oscar is looking at you with heart eyes or how you two get on so well and then there’s one comment that throws you for a loop.
Someone was basically airing all your information and how you grew up with Oscar. People were beyond weird on the internet, but that does explain the amount of new followers you’ve gained on Instagram today. You assumed they were all bots– not Oscar Piastri fans.
“Y/N? Are you still there? Y/N? Hello?” The sound of your boss hollering your name through the speaker breaks you from your scrolling, but you just put him on speaker phone so you can continue reading the comments.
“Yeah, yeah I’m still here. I’m just surprised by how much this has blown up, it was just posted this morning.”
“You did great work kid and it shows. Connections will get you everywhere in life– keep that in mind.”
There’s no response from you– you’re still scrolling endlessly on your phone. Somehow someone had found an old picture Nicole had posted on Twitter and figured out you were the extra unknown person in the picture. You’d been tagged in it what seemed like a hundred times– was this going to be your life now? An extension of Oscar forever?
You were your own person at the end of the day and you weren’t going to let people start the narrative that you got to where you were in life because of Oscar, because that’s one big fat lie.
“Now– I was going to talk to you about this when you came back to the office next week, but I feel like the sooner we do the better– even if it is over the phone.” There is another pause and you swear if this isn’t him telling you you’ve got the promotion, especially after your privacy is currently being heavily invaded in a way because of him, then you might just quit on the spot. “That promotion. It’s yours.”
You feel the air escape your lungs and your heart is nearly beating out of your chest, you’d done everything to get to this moment and it all had finally paid off. That is until your boss continues speaking.
“Although it’s not what you’ve exactly been working towards. You’ll be traveling like you wanted, but not in the way you think. The sports division of the company was so impressed with your work that they are offering you a full time position as their main Formula 1 reporter. Which means you’d be going to every race this season to cover it.” He pauses letting you take this all in.
“It’s a one year contract and listen I know this isn’t what you really wanted, but Y/N you’ve got a real natural talent for this kind of reporting. I think you’d really excel in this division of the company and not to mention the pay increase you’d be getting. I know this isn’t the news you were expecting, but I really think you should take this opportunity.”
At first you’re pissed and rightfully so, you’d worked so hard to get this promotion and the one you’re offered isn’t even the one you wanted. But then the wheels in your brain start turning and you start to weigh your options. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t ever thought about doing sports journalism. It had crossed your mind multiple times during high school and college, but the only sport you’d ever found yourself knowledgeable on was Formula 1.
Sure, you could have done a little broadening of your horizons, but you’d only ever really loved F1 and that stemmed from Oscar, who you were trying to create a life without being reminded of him 24/7 and well look where that’s gotten you in the end. You knew this opportunity was one too good to pass up, but at the same time you were still passionate about the other form of journalism that you’d fallen in love with. If you took this job, would that eradicate the possibility of you ever being taken seriously in other kinds of journalism? You weren’t sure and it made your decision that much harder. Because in the end and Oscar issues aside you had genuinely enjoyed covering the events of the race weekend so far.
There were so many what ifs floating around in your brain you knew you couldn’t give your boss a sure thing answer right now. Could you handle seeing Oscar for however many weekends out of the year after not seeing him for almost a decade? You needed to talk to someone about this and get out of your brain, you just only hoped your boss would give you a couple days.
“Do I have time to think this over or not?”
“They want a decision by the time you come back to the office on Monday. Think it over, it is a big decision, and I’ll see you on Monday alright?”
“Okay thanks.”
The line disconnects and you’re stuck sitting there thinking– what the hell just happened?
You waste no time texting your sister an SOS text which means she’ll be over as soon as she can with a bottle of wine and some snacks.
It shouldn’t take her long to get to your apartment from her University, even with grand prix weekend traffic, but when you hear a knock at your door moments later you think she must have already been on her way over when you sent the text because there was no way she got here that fast.
When you swing open the door you're expecting to see your little sister standing there, wine bottle in hand with a bag full of goodies. Instead you’re met with the complete opposite.
Standing there with a bouquet of flowers in his hands, pink and white tulips to be exact, is Oscar. He’s got a sheepish smile on his face and the apples of his cheeks are flushed. He was the last person you expected to be standing behind that door.
“What are you doing here?” Your tone is harsher than expected, judging from the drop of emotion on Oscar’s face, but genuinely what the hell was he doing here?
His free hand awkwardly rubs the back of his neck as his eyes quickly dart in every direction but you. “Um- well I know last night was a rough night for both of us and I know showing up with flowers doesn’t change anything, but I’m hoping it’s a step in the right direction. I wanted to have a conversation with you, I wanted to talk now that everything from before is out in the open.”
Your grip on the door tightens, part of you wants to slam it in his face for showing up uninvited and thinking that after the night you two had that you’d want to see him so soon. But then there is that part of you that still cares about Oscar, still knows that connection is there deep down no matter how hard you want to push it down.
The two of you stand there for a moment in your doorway and then Oscar gives you that soft smile that’s always given you a funny feeling and slightly pushes the flowers towards you. “Please, just ten minutes and then I’ll leave.”
You grab the flowers from him, admiring them for a moment before looking back up at him. “You remembered?”
Oscar shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I remember everything about you Y/N.”
You want to hate how he’s breaking down your walls and you really do try and resist, but Oscar has always been your weakness. “Ten minutes Piastri that’s it.”
He slowly enters your apartment, glancing around at the various knick knacks placed around. Oscar doesn’t know what adult you is like, but from the little things that catch his eye around your apartment he sees parts of you that he knows. The record player in the corner with a massive music collection below it– you’d always been a music lover and Oscar can’t recall how many playlists you’d made for him on your old ipod.
The two of you would always be sharing a pair of earbuds instead of just playing the music outloud, you claimed it sounded better, even with just one ear hearing the music, while Oscar was just happy to be spending time with you. The snoopy plush sitting on the couch– every holiday season you’d force Oscar to watch the Charlie Brown movies with you and to this day if he sees anything snoopy related he always thinks of you.
Oscar watches as you pull out a vase from one of your cabinets and take the time to meticulously arrange the flowers in it. He’s trying not to stare, but there’s something about seeing you in such a natural state, your hair up and pajamas on, that makes him think you're the most beautiful girl in the world. He doesn’t want to seem like a creep and get caught staring so he sits on the couch next to Snoopy and waits for you to join him.
Meanwhile you’re moving at a snail's pace when it comes to putting these flowers in a vase. You don’t want to sit on the couch with Oscar and talk to him. There’s been no time for you to process anything and now you’ve got this promotion to think about– Oscar showing up tonight was the last thing you needed right now.
There’s a funny feeling you get in your gut when you glance up from the flowers to see Oscar sitting on your couch like he’s been here a million times before. It drives you crazy that even after all these years apart and how much you want to resent him that even if it’s tiny moments like this– there’s still that level of comfort and familiarity between the two of you. It’s something that will be there forever between the two of you. How deeply you’re ingrained into each other and it makes you want to throw up.
You’ve rearranged the flowers a dozen times by now and you know you’ve got to get this over with– you’ve got to be a big girl.
Oscar’s head turns at the sound of your slipper clad feet shuffling across the floor towards him. “Thanks for the flowers by the way. They’re lovely.”
He gives you that polite smile that he always does and tries to ignore the way his heart beats a little faster when you choose to sit next to him on the couch instead of the chair. “Of course. It’s the least I could do.”
Silence fills the space between you two– which is a common occurrence these days. Then you realize that he’s had to have asked someone where you live because you sure as hell didn’t mention it to him in the forty-eight hours since you two have reunited.
“How’d you figure out where I live?” You turn your body to face Oscar, your leg crossing under the other.
“Um I may have asked your Mum” He admits sheepishly.
Of course your Mum told him. You loved her and she understood you more than most people, but she also didn’t know that Oscar and you had gotten into that heated conversation last night or how much he really truly hurt you.
“Oscar, why are you here?” Your tone sounds defeated already and you’re afraid this is going to be a repeat of last night.
Oscar sighs deeply as he now finally turns to face you– mirroring your position on the couch. “I know last night was rough and if we are being honest with each other, it had to happen. We needed to get everything out in the open for us to even have a chance at getting back to how things used to be. And I know I’ve said this a ton, but I am so sorry about how things turned out between us, how I handled me moving away. It wasn’t fair to you. I got to go off and follow my dreams and while I did miss you it was easier for me I didn’t have any connections to anything in England.”
He hopes you’re really taking what he says to heart, but he wouldn’t blame you if you just ignored him either.
“I got to start fresh and build a whole new part of my life. I never thought about how you were stuck back in Australia with the old parts of me, stuck with memories and a life that involved me, but that I wasn’t there for. I abandoned you and I never meant to. But I think Y/N– I really truly think that maybe this was supposed to happen this is the universes fucked up plan for us and that we were meant to reconnect. I’d been thinking about you more this past year than ever since I moved and now this? It can’t be a coincidence. I know it will take some time, but I want you back in my life Y/N. Forever this time.”
A deep emotional breath rattles through your body as you process Oscar’s spiel. He says all this stuff, but does he really mean it? You’ve built up so many walls around yourself when it comes to Oscar you aren’t sure you can ever fully trust him again and if you do let him back in you think you might always be scared he’s going to leave again.
“You know Oscar for a while I had convinced myself that you were dead. It was easier for me to deal with the fact that you had stopped talking to me because your were dead rather than you not talking to me because you’d fucked off to England.”
Oscar can’t lie– that was a real punch to the gut to hear you say that. The more he chips away at you the more he learns just how much he hurt you and it fucking kills him.
The air is thick with tension and Oscar is afraid of what else is going to come out of your mouth. He watches as you chew at your bottom lip, a nervous habit you still haven’t kicked even after all these years. He knows the gears are turning in your head, knows there’s so much you want to say to him, but you’re scared.
You lean your head back, looking up at the ceiling as you try to conceal the emotions you’re feeling. You weren’t going to cry, not already.
“This is a lot Oscar it really is. We just saw each other for the first time in like a decade yesterday and you’re going on this big rant about how I was supposed to be put through some emotional warfare for us to be friends again in the future? I’ve got so much shit to work through when it comes to you and I mean why are you so adamant about me being in your life again? You’ve got everything you wanted without me– you’re a driver for a top team in F1, you’re rich, you’ve got a loving girlfriend–”
“I’m not with her anymore. We broke up last year.” Oscar interjects with a little more enthusiasm than you would think when talking about a break up of a long time partner.
The news of Oscar being a single man should not have much of an effect on your right? The weird feeling coursing through you right now is just surprise and nothing else. At least that’s what you tell yourself. The way he was so eager to tell you that she wasn’t in his life anymore meant nothing really. If anything he’s probably still in love with her, you don’t be with someone for that long and still not have lasting feelings.
“Oh, sorry to hear that.” Slips from your mouth, even though deep down you know you really don’t mean it.
He shrugs it off, acting like it was nothing.
“I’m so adamant about you being in my life again Y/N because I’ve realized there’s no one that compares to you– to the connection that we have. You’re my person and you always have been.”
“Oscar, this connection that you keep talking about, you’re thinking about what we used to have, back when we were kids. I mean you say this stuff but how can you be sure? What if things aren’t the same?”
He knows he’s got a long way to go with you, but he knows what he feels isn’t wrong. He just wishes you’d give him at least an inch to work with here.
“I know how I feel Y/N. What we had when we were kids was something beyond a normal friendship: we were an extension of one another– my other half. That doesn’t go away, no matter what has happened.”
He pauses for a moment as the two of you make eye contact and he can see how you want to trust him. He can see it in your eyes, but the walls you’ve built up are strong.
“I know you feel it too. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it even when you’re mad at me and you’ve got every wall you’ve ever built up, but there’s a little crack that light shines through and that light is the part of you that you’ve kept safe from the hurt. The part of you that is still connected to me.”
The tears that you’ve held back so well start to build up in your eyes and you hate that Oscar can read you so well still to this day. He’s right and you despise how right he is, but no matter how right he is and how you feel about him.
You’ve got to protect yourself at the end of the day.
“I can’t get hurt again Oscar. Say I let you back into my life, how will I know you won’t leave me again? I can’t handle that again. I mean fuck I’d dreamt about how it would be if we ever reconnected when I was younger, but older me has to protect the younger version of herself that’s still inside me. I don’t know what to do. My brain says one thing my heart says another. It’s all too much too fast. I want to believe you, I really do, but the hurt part of me and the fact that we just reconnected yesterday is throwing me all these red flags. You have to understand how I’m feeling Oscar.”
Oscar sees the first tear fall from your eye and without even thinking twice he reaches out and gently wipes it away from your cheek. “Y/N. I’m not going anywhere. I promise. If it takes the rest of my life for you to let me back in or for us to get back to how we used to be. I don’t care– I’ll still be here right by your side.”
Out of the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse of something on Oscar’s wrist as he moves his arm back into his personal space. Your breath catches in your throat and your stomach damn near falls out of your ass. You do a double take, thinking there is no way you’re seeing what you think you’re seeing. But you’d recognize that bracelet anywhere. The matching one was just in the other room, tucked away in a box of things from your adolescence. You were a hoarder of things that held memories so it was no surprise to anyone that you still had yours, but for Oscar to still have his and be wearing it? You were beyond shocked.
“You still have that?” You ask timidly, like it’s a weapon that’s going to hurt you, but honestly that bracelet could cause more damage to you than a gun right now.
Oscar’s eyes follow your line of sight and when they land on his bracelet clad wrist he instinctively reaches down to play with the excess string.
“Yeah. Found it in my old room last night, I thought I’d lost it right before I left for England.” He pauses, twisting the thin bracelet on his wrist. “If you ask me, it’s a sign. What are the chances of me finding half of our matching bracelets that I thought I lost years ago on the same day you came back into my life?”
You’re at a loss for words. Those bracelets meant everything to you back then and you’d still wore yours for a good year after Oscar left, even after seeing him not wearing it when he came home to visit. It meant more to you than it should have and to see him sitting here in your apartment with it on is throwing you for a loop.
“Um– am I interrupting something?”
Your little sister's voice snaps you out of whatever bubble Oscar and you had found yourself in and it’s times like this that you regret giving her a key. You quickly stand up acting like Oscar and you had just been caught having sex. “No, you’re not interrupting anything. Oscar was just getting ready to leave.” You ignore the little flash of hurt on his face, he really didn’t expect for you three to hang out did he?
“Um– yeah. I was getting ready to leave.” He stands up awkwardly from the couch, smoothing out his shirt as he heads towards the door. “Thanks for talking to me Y/N.” He looks back at you and you give him a small smile. “See ya Sam.” Oscar nods towards your sister as he walks past her.
The door closes behind him and you plop back down onto the couch with a loud sigh.
“Alright, spill the beans. What the hell is going on?” Sam demands before heading towards the kitchen to grab the wine opener and two glasses.
“Sam everything is so fucked up it’s not even funny.”
The two of you are up till the early morning as you tell your sister everything that had happened in the last 48 hours. There isn’t a detail you leave out and by the end of it you do feel better, but not 100% clear on what you should actually do. Unfortunately you don’t think you’ll ever be completely certain on things when it comes to Oscar or this job promotion, but if there was one thing Sam was good at, it was telling you how it was. She never sugar coated things– it was the little sister in her.
“You’re never going to know until you try. I know it’s scary and I know you don’t want to get hurt again, but I also grew up with Oscar and you’re literally my sister. I know you sometimes more than I think I know myself. You guys have always had this weird thing about you, like some connection that no one else can even compare to. And I think that if you don’t let Oscar back in you’re going to regret it thirty years from now and if you don’t take this job you’re going to regret it. Live a little Y/N. And if it all ends tits up again you can at least say you tried and I’ll be here as a shoulder to cry on before I go beat Piastri’s ass.”
“I’m scared.”
“That means you’re human.” She reaches out for your hand, squeezing it tightly in hers, a sign of reassurance. “Ultimately it’s up to you, but just know I’ll support you no matter what you decide– Oscar wise and job wise.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Probably be stuck in a perpetual 'what if’ that consumes your whole life.”
You roll your eyes at your younger sister. “Alright it’s time for bed.”
Sam crashes in your spare bedroom while you sit and contemplate life in yours. The box at the top of your closet is taunting you as you sit on your bed wide awake. The box that was home to that bracelet and so many other things. You sit and try and talk yourself out of getting it down, but it was no use, seconds later you’re on your tippy toes grabbing the tattered box from the shelf.
The box was practically a time capsule and when you opened it you were hit with a wave of nostalgia. Old pictures, concert tickets, trinkets, souvenirs from trips, and at the bottom of the box was that one thing you were looking for.
The bracelet was definitely looking worse for wear with some fraying thread and a little stain on one spot, but for being over a decade old you couldn’t complain. It held a special place in your heart and so you really didn’t care what it looked like.
You hold it in your hands, your fingers toying with it as you reminisce. Then without even thinking about it you slide it over your wrist. You weren’t sure what you were expecting when you put it on, maybe some giant explosion of feelings? A glowing sign in your mind that would tell you the right thing to do? It really lacked luster when you put it on, but it wasn’t about how it felt when you put it on, it was about knowing that Oscar had his on too. That you two were somehow connected again, even if it just was through a bracelet. It was something just for you two and that’s what made it special. A sign that maybe Oscar was right, maybe he was going to stick around this time.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The morning arrives way faster than you were expecting, but it had been a late night, a very late night. The reflection in the bathroom mirror is a rough one and when you go to try and tame your bed head you catch sight of the red string on your wrist. Your breath catches in your throat once again and everything from last night comes rushing back. Your head was already pounding from the wine you were drinking like juice last night. Then factor in your conversation with Oscar and your boss and it feels like your head is about ready to pop.
By the time you make it to the track your headache has subsided some thanks to tylenol and a greasy breakfast, but you can’t stop replaying the events of last night. You know you’ve got to push it all down and enter your work mode, but God if Oscar’s plan was to get into your head last night, then he had succeeded.
The last free practice session of the weekend has Oscar leading the times and it’s got you filled with hope for qualifying. You know practice sessions don’t mean everything, but you can’t help but feel like he’s going to put it on pole in a few short hours.
You’d never wanted him to come to the media pen in between sessions so badly up until now and of course he doesn’t. You just wanted to wish him good luck, give him a little reassurance, but you knew he was probably busy analysing data with his team and every other thing a Formula 1 driver does.
No matter how many demons you were fighting with right now when it came to Oscar you still cared and you were happy to see him do well.
Qualifying arrives before you know it and by the time the last laps start being ran in Q3 you think you’re not going to have any fingernails left. You want him to get pole so bad, it’s his home race, he’s dreamt about this since a kid. It’s been close between Lando and him the whole session and when Oscar crosses the finish line on his last effort his name goes to the top of the timing board– he’d done an extraordinary lap. But in a matter of seconds it’s taken right from underneath him by his teammate. Lando crosses the finish line and beats Oscar’s time by a hair.
You already know Oscar’s going to be beating himself up about this. You remember how he was in karting, always calm and collected in front of others, but when it was just the two of you or when he was around the people he cared about he’d finally let down his facade. P2 was still such a good spot to be starting from tomorrow, he was on the front row, but even without talking to Oscar for so long you know how badly he’s wanted this and you know he’ll be hurting deep down.
The media pen is in full swing by the time you spot Oscar walking in, race suit hanging low on his hips, cheeks flushed. You try not to stare, as he makes a b-line for you, not wanting him to know you spotted him as soon as he walked in.
You immediately switch into professional mode as he stands in front of the barrier that separates the two of you. “Hi Oscar.”
When Oscar walked into the media pen his eyes immediately scanned the area for you. He wanted you to be the first person he talked to– he needed to see your face. He spots you within seconds and makes haste to head towards you before another driver plants their feet in front of you. He finds it endearing how quickly you switch into your reporter mode and a small smile finds its way onto his face as you greet him. You ask him the expected questions about his quali session and he finds that it doesn’t hurt as bad to talk about losing pole with you than it would with anyone else.
Your right hand reaches up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear as you ask some question about his last sector in Q3 and that’s when Oscar sees it.
The red bracelet– on your wrist.
The question goes in one ear and out the other because all he can focus on is that damn bracelet. To see you wearing it, especially out in public, has Oscar feeling more than hopeful about finally breaking down your walls. He’s not getting too ahead of himself because he knows he still has a long way to go with you, but you deciding to look for that bracelet last night and then deciding to go ahead and wear it speaks volumes about how you are feeling towards him.
The disappointing loss of pole isn’t at the forefront of his brain right now– that’s something to rume about with the team later, right now he had this to enjoy.
“Oscar did you hear me?” Your voice breaks him out of his trance.
He smiles, cheeks getting red from embarrassment now rather than the exhausting quali session. “Sorry, yeah. It was a great last sector, just couldn’t extract that little extra bit that Lando did in the car. But I’m ready for tomorrow and see what I can do out on the track.”
That evening you get a text from Oscar that simply reads– nice bracelet.
It’s just a text that contains literally two words, you shouldn’t be smiling at your phone the way you are. Especially over something Oscar sent you, but you can’t help it. He’s being his old charming self and the walls you’ve built up are coming down like they’ve been built out of paper. It scares the shit out of you– how fast he’s worming his way back in and how you really aren’t putting up a fight. Although you guess those walls really never stood a chance when the person you’d built them against was the one who would always know how to break them down– no matter how long you’d been apart.
You consider not responding, but your fingers are typing before you even decide what to do.
Just something I found from ages ago.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The following day brings heartbreak.
You should have known that when you awoke to the sound of rain pelting against your windows that it was a bad sign, but you tried to remain positive, knowing that it would probably clear up by race time.
You were wrong.
The race had been going well for Oscar, considering the track conditions, and he was in the hunt for the win. You’d never been so anxious watching him race before and you knew it was because of your knowledge on how much winning his home race meant to Oscar. To start off the season with a win and it be his home race would be such a good start to what you knew was going to be an amazing season for him.
That is until lap 44.
The rain had started to come down faster and you could see the puddles starting to form on parts of the track. You can hear the murmurs of the other reporters around you questioning if race control is going to intervene or let fate decide the outcome of this race.
It’s not even ten seconds later that you hear hollers from the crowd and you know in your gut what’s happened before you even look up at the screen. The sight of Oscar’s McLaren stuck in the grass makes your stomach drop. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go for him. You can only imagine how his family is feeling right now and you wished you were with them right now instead of being stuck working.
The yellow flag graphic flashes on the screen where he’s gone off the track and you know it’s a matter of time before a safety car comes out. You aren’t even sure what to think at the moment, things were so weird right now between Oscar and you and hell you weren’t even really sure if there would be an Oscar and you again after this weekend was done. But right now you’re hurting for the little boy you once knew. The one who would drag you alongside him to the Grand Prix every year and when the winner would take the top step on the podium he’d always say that was going to be him one day. And now when he’s so close to making that dream a reality– it’s been ripped out of his hands.
The sound of the crowd is deafening and when the stream finally shows you what is happening you aren’t the least bit surprised. Oscar’s giving it everything he has to get that car out of the grass and after a few attempts he’s back on the track.
He wasn’t going down without a fight.
That was the Oscar you’d always known. Determined. Strongwilled.
Even if he’d place P20 he could at least say he finished the race and you knew he’d use this as fuel for the remainder of the season.
Your fingernails are practically gone by the time the checkered flag flies and Oscar has somehow finished in the points. It’s not the outcome anyone who supported him wanted, but given the circumstances he’d turned this shit situation into at least one with some points.
The media pen post race is of course in a frenzy, but there’s only one driver you want to talk to.
You spot him as soon as he walks in– looking disheveled and defeated. His PR training is already on display as soon as he knows the cameras are on him. He’s allowed to be upset, but not too upset. Don’t talk badly about the team or try to blame anyone else, but don’t be too self-depreciative. It’s been ingrained in him since his early days in Formula 1.
That all goes to shit as soon as he locks eyes with you.
His demeanor instantly softens when he sees you standing there. He’d just lost out on winning his home race, surely already getting slammed online and he knows there’s a handful of reporters waiting to rip into him, but none of that matters when he’s got you here, looking at him like it doesn’t matter that he spun out at his home race and almost had to retire, you’ll be here no matter what.
The moment you start speaking he goes on autopilot– the PR trained side of him taking over, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still here. Still seeing the way your eyes soften towards him or the way you’ve been saying nothing but positive things to him. Even after all these years of being apart you still know how to console Oscar after a shit race. Even if you’re limited with your words and actions.
Your free hand had been resting on the barrier between Oscar and you for the duration of the interview and you pretend not to notice Oscar’s hands that are also on the barrier and how his pinky finger keeps brushing against yours ever so often. The little sparks that radiate through you every time the tiniest square inch of your skin meets his is embarrassing.
What the hell was going on with you?
You should be prioritizing getting the most out of this interview with Oscar because at the end of the day you were here to work and your career came before anything that had to do with him. Yet you find yourself stumbling over your words when he hooks his pinky finger around yours, like he’s trying to find comfort in you while still remaining professional.
Oscar doesn’t even really realize he’s practically enveloping your hand until he’s finally being ushered on by Sophie to the next interview and he almost has to remove his hand from on top of yours. It’s something he’d always done with you, found comfort in physical contact. Oscar was never big on physical affection growing up, sure he hugged his family, but with you it was different. It was almost like second nature for the two of you to be in contact somehow.
Sure your parents joked about the two of you being attached at the hip, but sometimes it was like you really were. Personal space was not a word that Oscar and you were familiar with and it really resonated with how the two of you at one point in time felt like home to the other. That you were so in tune with each other that a simple touch could bring you a sense of comfort that nothing else in the world could.
As Oscar walks over to the next interview he realizes that apparently old habits do die hard.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It’s a busy afternoon as you finish up your work and send off everything to your boss for it to be finalized. You can’t believe the race weekend is over or that you reported on the whole weekend to begin with. Never in a million years would you think you would have ended up here in your career, yet here you are.
The promotion is still weighing heavy on your mind and honestly you had fun this weekend, but that doesn’t mean you’d enjoy doing this for every race right? You wouldn’t enjoy traveling the world on your employer's dime and having a career that thousands probably dream about having right? You’d have to see Oscar all the time and that’s certainly something you’re not sure you can handle– at least that’s what you’re telling yourself.
You decide to push the debating on the promotion to the back of your mind, you had until the morning to decide, and honestly you think you just might flip a coin to decide. Although sitting in your apartment just lets your brain think about it more so you decide to go for a drive, get some fresh air, and listen to some music. Sure the traffic will be horrendous, but you think anything will help you calm your brain more than just sitting in your apartment.
The Melbourne roads decide your journey for the night and you finally start to feel a little at ease as the fresh air billows through your car and your playlist fills your ears. Somehow you end up in your childhood neighborhood and your car somehow parks itself in your old driveway. You want to act like your car drove you here against your will, but you were turning the wheel, subconsciously wanting to come and see him.
He’s in the exact place you expect him to be when you glance into their backyard, the rusty swing giving away his location just from the sound alone. Your feet carry you up the driveway into your backyard, through the shared gate and into the Piastri’s backyard before you can talk yourself out of it. Deep down you knew he’d need you and even if you weren’t going to admit it you needed him just as badly.
His head is hung low as he sluggishly swings back and forth. It’s a sight to see really– a grown man on a swingset, but you join him looking as equally as ridiculous. Oscar’s head perks up at the sound of someone sitting in the swing next to him, but he already knew who it was before he looked up. He wasn’t trying to be out here throwing himself a pity party, but damn did today hurt. He knew he had it in him to win today, luck just wasn’t on his side.
“Hey.” You’re the first to speak up.
Oscar glances over at you and gives you a small smile. “Hey.”
You know he probably doesn’t want to talk about what happened today. He’s had to talk about it a million times, but on a personal level you want to check in with him.
“If you just want to put today behind you I get it, but if you want to vent, I’m here.”
Oscar shrugs, he doesn’t really know what else there is to say about what had happened. He wants to scream and say how unfair racing is, but that’s not going to do any good. He’s just got to channel how he’s feeling into the rest of this season, use this as fuel as what he's working towards. “It fucking sucks I’m not going to lie, but I’ve just got to move on and look forward to the rest of the season. Can’t change anything now. Even if I would have given anything to win today, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”
You nod in an understanding way. “One bad race, really means nothing right now. Which I really wouldn’t even say was that bad of a race. You went from almost being out to getting the car back onto the track and getting into the points. I know it wasn’t a win, but you still had a hell of a drive today Oscar. I’m still proud no matter what because I still remember the little boy who wanted to achieve this dream more than anything and look at where you are now.”
A brief moment of silence falls between the two of you as Oscar internalizes your words. It means more to him than you would think to hear you say that you’re proud of him. Even after how bad things ended up to hear you say that and for him to know you’re being sincere means more than a win to him at this point.
“You being here tonight with me means more than you’ll ever know. I know things are still a little weird between us, but sometimes I still need my best friend Y/N.”
This conversation was quickly turning away from the race today and into one about the two of you, which is how all of your conversations with Oscar seemed to end up these past couple of days. You feel the early stages of tears starting to well up in your eyes and you hate how emotional you can get.
All those years that you just needed your best friend start to replay in your mind. You needed him when you were fourteen and he’d just left for England. When you were sixteen with no date to homecoming. When you were eighteen and had just graduated. When you were twenty and feeling more than lost at University. And now at twenty-four you need him more than you’ll let yourself realize. Except this time he’s here and you don’t know how to fully let him back in. To dive back in without a life jacket.
“I needed my best friend I don’t know how many times Oscar and you weren’t there. I’m scared because I’m getting that feeling again like I need you and I’m so used to just dealing with things and experiencing things without you, but you’re here this time, and I don’t know what to do.”
Oscar frowns at your response, to hear you vocalize just how much hurt you’ve been dealing with kills him everytime. He wishes he could snap his fingers and everything would be alright, but he knows that can’t happen.
“This time I’m staying for good.” He wants to reach over and take your hand in his, intertwine your fingers and never let go, but he knows that would be too much. “What’s going on? Let me in Y/N– please.”
You want to trust him you really do, but god the trust issues you have are ridiculous. You don’t respond, you just look at him and he knows what you’re thinking. He knows this is going to take time.
The two of you sit in silence for a good while, staring up at the stars, until you finally bring up the thing that’s been drowning your thoughts since Friday night.
“My work is offering me a promotion.”
Oscar’s eyes light up for the first time tonight. “That’s amazing Y/N.”
You shake your head at his response, your eyes trained on your hands that have found a home in your lap. “It’s not the promotion I was expecting.” Osar furrows his eyebrows in confusion and you take his silence as a sign to continue. “I’ve always wanted to do high intensity journalism– war torn countries, national geographic stuff like that. But my boss called me the other night and said that our interview had gone so well and that my other content was so good that the sports division of the company is offering me the position to be their full time F1 journalist.”
Right off the bat Oscar’s first thought is for you to take the promotion. It’s selfish reasoning, but if you did he’d be able to see you so much more and that’s something he’s never going to say no to. But the rational side of him knows you’re probably at war with your mind right now and his selfish wants are not what you need to hear right now.
Although there isn’t a doubt in Oscar’s mind that you wouldn’t absolutely dominate this promotion if you accepted it. You were a pure natural this weekend and handled the hectic weekend better than some seasoned journalists. He knows deep down though that he’s one of the big reasons as to why you’re so hesitant to accept the offer and it kills him.
“I still think it’s amazing Y/N. It might not be exactly what you wanted, but I think it’s a good sign that you’re getting offered this after just one weekend. Imagine what your life could be like a year from now.”
You knew Oscar would be nothing but supportive of the idea of you taking this promotion, maybe you shouldn’t have come to him with this. “It’s not what I wanted though. I mean this weekend was great and everything just felt natural like I’d been doing this for years, but what if this is a one off thing. Like what if I get to the next race and it’s just a shit weekend for me?”
Oscar stifles a laugh, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve just described the life of a race car driver.”
An irritated eye roll is thrown in Oscar’s direction at his comment. “No but seriously Osc, I can’t deal with the what-ifs. I mean what if taking this eliminates my chances of doing other kinds of journalism?”
Oscar acts like hearing you call him Osc for the first time in over a decade doesn’t make his heart race. It was a slip of the tongue he’s sure– falling back into old habits. But he can’t help but feel like it’s a win for him, to have you reverting back to old nicknames so quickly. He’ll always be your Osc even when you're both old and grey.
He quickly brings himself back to reality and out of his dreamland, you needed him right now and he was going to be here to listen and tell you what you needed to hear. “But what if you don’t take it and you lose out on the opportunity of a lifetime?”
You don’t give an answer to his hypothetical scenario, choosing to anxiously pick at your fingernails instead.
“I honestly think you’ve already made up your mind Y/N. How many times did you mull over things as a child and make a big deal out of it? You’d have Sam and I going through every possible outcome and the whole time you’ve had your mind made up since the beginning. Go with your gut– take the risk or don’t. You always took what Sam and I said into consideration, but at the end of the day it’s your choice.”
Your front teeth tug at your bottom lip as you take in what Oscar’s told you. He wasn’t wrong. You’d been so caught up in the Oscar aspect of all of this that you were letting it cloud what this opportunity could do for you instead of take away. Deep down you knew you were leaning more towards taking the job.
The feeling you had this weekend was indescribable and to be that excited to do your job should be a good sign– at least you think it is. Oscar had just made everything more conflicting for you and you were able to find other things to pile on to not make it seem like it was just Oscar preventing you from taking this job.
How your life had been practically turned upside down in a matter of four days was beyond you, but you think maybe what Oscar has said the other night might have had a little truth to it. Maybe this all was meant to happen in the way it has. Maybe Oscar was supposed to come back to you and this was the plan for you two all along. Maybe it’s your way of coping with how fast everything seems to be moving or how you can’t seem to stop Oscar from just climbing back into his home behind your ribs no matter how hard you try.
You’re still hurt and mad at him from how things went down between the two of you, but god how you’ve missed having him around. You know there’s so much now that you don’t know about him, but there’s parts of him that are never going to change, the parts of him that you kept to yourself, the parts you held onto for safe keeping as the years without him passed.
You don’t want to get hurt again– you never want to feel the way you did all those years ago. And if you take this job you know it also means that you’re willing to fully let Oscar back in, maybe not right away, but you know you have a weakness when it comes to him and it’ll happen eventually. But you think you won’t ever find the connection you have with Oscar in someone else and if the universe is giving you guys another chance, then you’d be a fool not to take it.
“When do you think you’ll be back in Australia?” Your hands grip the metal chains of the swing tighter, scared of what his answer is going to be.
“Depends on if I get to see you or not. If I get to see you I’ll be home after China. If I don’t then probably not until the season’s summer break.” He’s teasing and you want to slap that stupid smirk that you secretly love off of his face.
“Well who knows if I’ll be around during your break so guess it’ll probably be a year from now until we see each other again.”
Oscar rolls his eyes at your dramatics before getting up from the swing and extending his hand out for you to take. “Come on, miss dramatic. It’s late and you’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow. You’re gonna need all the sleep you can get now, trust me the jet lag is killer.”
You take his hand and he pulls you up out of the swing. “I never said I was taking that promotion Oscar so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
An amused expression paints itself across Oscsar’s face as the two of you slowly walk back towards your car. You aren’t quite ready to leave and Oscar isn’t ready to go inside so the both of you linger by your car. It’s like a scene out of a movie– Oscar’s got his hands stuffed into his pockets while you lean against your car. The only thing that fills the air is the sound of a dog barking in the distance and the gentle night breeze. There’s a giddy feeling that radiates through you, that any normal person would call butterflies, but that’s totally not what you’re feeling right now– right?
Oscar gives you that shy little smile and you can sense him moving closer ever so often. The energy between the two of you is charged like a live wire and you can feel your heart beating in your ears. You know what’s about to happen, but this can’t be happening right now– it can’t be. This is your best friend that yes you kissed when you were fourteen but you were kids and this is way more serious this time around. Yet with all the panicking you find your heart overriding your mind and when Oscar cups your cheek with his hand you lean into his touch.
“Osc-”
He shakes his head not wanting to hear your protests. “Have you ever thought about what things might be like if I had never moved to England? Or maybe if I would have pulled my head out of my ass and kept in touch with you?” His voice is almost a whisper. His free hand lands gently on your hip and he’s practically got you caged against your car.
Oscar was so close you could count every individual eyelash that adorned his eyes. “All the time.”
“I’d like to think things would be different.”
You shake your head at him, there was no use dwelling on what could have been. “We’ll never know Oscar.”
“You never thought about what things would be like between us?”
You notice how his eyes flicker from your eyes then back down to your lips ever so often and it causes a shiver to run down your spine. “Us?”
Oscar nods and you can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows, nervous to hear your answer.
“Maybe when I was younger, especially after you kissed me at Hannah’s house, but Oscar we’re grown now. Any little feeling I’d had disappeared the moment you got with Lucy and god Oscar you were with her for so long. Those feelings don’t just go away just because you’ve broken up.”
“She never meant as much to me as you.”
You scoff and Oscar’s hand drops from your face, but moves to mirror the other on your hips. “Don’t say that. You were with her for five years, Oscar. Don’t put her down to try and suck up to me. If I really meant that much to you then you would have never gotten with her.”
“You know you’ve always been my person– my other half. There’s always been that connection between us Y/N.” Oscar knows he’s being pathetic and more than likely making a fool of himself, but in the heat of the moment he just turns feral and thinks that after four days of reuniting that it's a good idea to try and make a move on you.
“You’re talking about me like I’m your ex or the one that got away. Oscar, I'm your best friend. We’ve never been anything more and if this is the time you decide to tell me you’ve got feelings for me this is one hell of a time. I just got you back– don’t try and rush into something over all these heightened emotions.”
You push Oscar away as you come back to reality and realize this is not how you want this new chapter with Oscar to begin. You aren’t sure how you exactly feel about him, if it’s romantic or lust or just seeing someone you used to call home after so long. Everything is heightened at the moment and it’s like you’ve been running on adrenaline all weekend.
“You’re telling me you don’t feel the connection between the two of us?” Oscar asks, desperation laced in his voice.
The adrenaline you’ve been surviving off of is starting to wear off and you can feel the tiredness setting in, your brain is fried. “I don’t know how I feel Oscar. A couple weeks ago I would have never thought I’d be here right now with you. I was living my life without you and I was fine. Now I guess the universe thought we needed to reunite and you’ve come crashing back in head first. I can’t differentiate my mind from my heart half the time and I want to hate you so bad sometimes, but then I’m around you and things just feel right. So god forbid a girl wants some time to process things.”
Oscar can see how everything is really taking its toll on you and the regret starts to set in. He never meant to make things harder for you. He’d gotten way too ahead of himself and took things a little too far too fast. He’s just so scared to lose you again that he doesn’t realize he’s being a little overbearing. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve just gotten too wrapped up in having you back and trying to process how I’m also feeling.”
You can see the regret in his eyes and you never wanted Oscar to feel bad for expressing his feelings, but it’s too much for you right now. You’re still trying to work through trusting him on a friendship level and you hate to say it, but if he actually did have feelings for you romantically you think you might doubt that too.
Seeing a familiar person, a person you were once so comfortable with after so long and then add on that fact that he’s probably still not over Lucy. To you the only logical explanation is that he’s using you as a rebound. And that is not something you could handle on top of everything else. It’s best to nip that in the bud before you find yourself stumbling down that dark path that will eventually hurt you more than anything in the end.
You move to stand by your car door, initiating the end of this conversation for the night. “I care about you so deeply Oscar, even after all that’s happened, don’t think I don’t. I’ve just got shit I’ve got to work through. If the universe is giving us this second chance to have each other back in our lives, let’s try to not fuck it up again. I need my best friend first and if it ever gets to something beyond friends then okay, but we can’t rush into something we both aren’t ready for. Don’t ruin everything because we were caught up in the moment.”
He knows you’re right and he wants to kick himself for turning a decent night with you into this, but he guesses if he hadn’t then he would never know how you felt. “So much has happened I keep forgetting it’s only been four days since we reconnected.”
You just want to move on from this conversation, if you don’t it’s going to just keep going around in circles. “Well this season is gonna seem like an eternity if we keep the same timeline going.”
Oscar’s eyes widen and he cocks an eyebrow at you in question.
You open your car door, hesitating slightly before getting in. “I’ll see you in China, Piastri.”
Even with the news of you practically being with him for the whole year he’s still reeling from making a damn fool of himself moments ago. You can tell he’s in his head and maybe you were a little harsh with him, but he needed to know how you felt and if there was one thing you were going to be with Oscar it was honest.
“We’re gonna be okay. We’ve just gotta give each other time.” You reassure him before you leave Oscar standing in the driveway.
Oscar watches you the whole time and when he finally can’t see your car he then treks back inside.
God help him.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
As the season progresses you start to get into the groove of your new job and by the time summer break rolls around you’d never been happier that you made the decision to take that promotion. It just comes naturally to you and you’ve quickly made a name for yourself in the sports journalism world. Your work is thrilled with the pieces and content you’ve been turning out and you only wish you could have been doing this sooner.
As for Oscar and you– it’s been a journey. The first couple race weekends after Australia were a little weird considering the fact that the two of you almost kissed, but you two eventually got over it. As much as you wanted to keep those walls up, it was genuinely no use. The more you were around him the more you just opened up and at times it was like old times with Oscar. It was nice to just have your best friend back.
Although sometimes at night you’d dream of that moment in Australia when Oscar had you pressed up against your car. You’d wake up flushed and confused, wishing your mind would just let you be for five seconds. It made things harder for you because you wanted to focus on your friendship with him, but you couldn’t help but feel the ache in your chest when he’d look at you a certain way or your hands would brush against his as you walked side by side.
It didn’t help the stuff you’d see online about Oscar and you, people who knew nothing about either of you making outrageous claims. Sometimes though you can’t lie– you’d self indulge in the comment sections of posts.
It was particularly bad after Oscar and you teamed up to do a hot lap video during the Belgium Grand Prix. Of course you two shared your usual banter, but Oscar had decided to be a little shit at the beginning of the video. You’d begged him to not put the pedal to the floor right off the bat, but he’d just looked at you with that sly smirk of his, claiming all he knew how to do was go fast. His eyes never left you as he pressed on the gas, causing the car to go flying and you to let out a scream.
user1: god the way he looks at her when he presses on the gas…. I NEED THAT
user2: can’t lie i’m starting to see what people have been saying about these two. the childhood friends to lovers trope is so strong between them.
user3: heart eyes piastri strikes again and dare i say heart eyes y/n?
user4: i think oscar looked more at her than the road the whole video. he’s down bad fr
The comments have you blushing and you physically have to put your phone down on your hotel bed to calm yourself.
You might be fucked.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
If you would have asked yourself six months ago how do you feel about going on a trip with Oscar to Saint-Tropez and it just being the two of you— you would have said what the fuck why would I be doing that?
Flash forward to now and you find yourself sunbathing on a yacht in the French Riviera with Oscar next to you.
When he asked you a couple weeks ago if you wanted to go with him you’d hesitated– unsure if that was the right thing to do. Things were going well between the two of you, but going on vacation with just him was a whole different story. It was definitely way too soon for you guys to be doing stuff like this, but on the other hand there was a part of you that was giddy at the idea of having some one on one time with Oscar.
So against your better judgment you tell him yes.
Your days are spent lounging around on a yacht, enjoying decadent food, and most importantly realizing you’re in love with Oscar Piastri.
You know it seems fast to say you’re in love with him after only having him back in your life for half a year, and how resistant you were about letting him back in, but the thing is you’ve never not been in love with Oscar.
It’s something you come to terms with three days into the trip and it scares the shit out of you.
You’re out for dinner, some quaint place by the water that only seems to serve meals that you would call a snack, but nonetheless it's beautiful. The sun is setting along the coast and it’s a picturesque scene that Oscar insists you must pose in front of. His phone is pointed in your direction as you smile in front of the sherbert swirled sky.
“Beautiful.” He states as he swipes through the various photos he’d taken.
“Let me see!” You demand, trying to distract yourself from how a single word from Oscar has your cheeks heating up. If he asks at least you can blame it on the wine.
He locks his phone and sets it in his lap, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “No can do, these are for my eyes only.”
“Osc!”
A shake of the head and a smirk is all you get in response from him before the waitress comes over to the table. She’d been a little more friendly than necessary with Oscar all evening, while you’d been treated like dirt under her shoe
“Can I interest you in any dessert tonight?” She asks, looking directly at Oscar, not even bothering to shift her glance towards you. On the surface you're calm and collected, but deep down you want to kick the bitch in the shin. You’d been sitting here the whole evening and the only time she acknowledged you was when she came to the table the first time, after that she was laser focused on Oscar. The batting of the eyelashes, the giggling when all Oscar did was ask what she recommended, and the unnecessary reach across him to fill his wine glass you’d been able to just brush off, but the blatant rudeness of acting like you weren’t even sitting at the table with him about sent you over the edge.
Oscar looks at you from across the table, an eyebrow raised in question. He already knew what you wanted, but still gave you the option to choose.
“We’ll have the tiramisu.” You stick out the menu towards the waitress, tone more than shitty, but you didn’t care, she was being rude.
Her head swivels in your direction when she hears you speak and she almost looks stunned like she didn’t even know you could speak. She grabs the menus from you, but still has the nerve to hyper focus back on Oscar.
“Great. That’s my favorite– I’ll have that right out for you.”
A laugh escapes past your lips as she leaves, you just can’t help it, you’re dumbfounded at the lengths some people will go to try and get someone’s attention. You glance up at Oscar and see him staring back at you, a smirk splayed across his face.
“What?” You ask, suddenly defensive.
Oscar leans back in his chair, his arms crossed across his chest with that same shit eating grin on his face. “Oh nothing. I just think someone is a little jealous.”
“Jealous?!”
He nods, clearly amused at this whole situation. “Yes, don’t act like you haven’t been throwing the waitress daggers with your eyes all evening.”
You scoff as you mess with the edge of the linen table cloth, it was clearly more interesting than this conversation. “I have nothing to be jealous about Oscar so I don’t even know what you are talking about.”
Seconds later the waitress comes back with the dessert, making sure to set the plate directly in front of Oscar instead of in the middle of the table. ‘Let me know if you need anything else.”
Your grip on your spoon is so tight that it’s sure to leave an impression. How fucking rude could she be?
“We’ll just take the check.” Oscar states as he pushes the plate towards the middle of the table.
“Be right back!” She brushes her hand against Oscar’s shoulder as she leaves and you wish she’d never come back.
Oscar grabs his spoon and dives into the tiramisu with a smile never leaving his face. He can’t lie and say he wasn’t enjoying seeing you get so worked up over this. To see you so openly expressing your distaste for anyone to try and make a move on him. Even if you weren’t going to admit it– anyone with two working eyes could see it.
Your friendship while it was clearly back, it was still mending. Things had changed between the two of you and you both knew everything wasn’t going to be the same, but the gaps that existed in your friendship had allowed for another form of connection to flourish. The seedlings had always been there, buried deep from years of memories and the universe's divine intervention. The feelings had always peeked out at certain moments in your lives, but were never there long enough to alter your timelines. That is until now.
Oscar had somewhat always assumed that in the end you were going to be the one he’d eventually end up with. If not out of love, but perhaps out of convenience. Like if you were both thirty and still single then you’d get married kind of deal. You were always special to him– his person as he liked to say. And as horrible as it sounds, all the years he was with Lucy, he knew she wasn’t going to be the one he’d grow old and grey with.
So many people especially in the last year of their relationship had asked when he was going to pop the question and maybe he really should have broken it off way before it got to that point, but Lucy and him did make each other happy. And even though the two of you had no contact the whole time Lucy and him were together, there were parts of him that would always belong to you no matter what, and unfortunately Lucy just wasn’t you.
He’d thought about reaching out so many times, but it was never the right time. Racing was his whole life and it was the thing that took him away from you. So until he knew he’d be able to balance both you and racing he kept to himself. He knew you’d eventually come back to him, it was destined to happen. And when he saw you in that press conference in March he knew this was it. This was the universe putting the puzzle pieces together, but when he saw you there was something that came to light. That feeling he’d had many times before that he never could put a finger on, one that bloomed in his chest and traveled all the way throughout his body.
Love.
He was certain and there was absolutely nothing that could change his mind.
Oscar Piastri was in love with you.
He knew it would take you much longer than him to come to that realization, he’d put you through a lot, and he hated himself for it, but this time was different. He was here to stay and with time he knew you’d heal and the next chapter in the book of Y/N and Oscar could begin.
As the months passed he could see the little peaks of light breaking through, the little signs that you felt the same way as him, but he wasn’t going to press, when your heart was ready you’d let him know.
He just never thought the biggest crack would show over some waitress flirting with him.
To see someone angrily eat tiramisu is a sight to see, but Oscar thinks you still look breathtaking regardless of how hard you dig your spoon into it.
“I’m yours Y/N. Don’t worry.” His free hand reaches across the table to softly envelope yours, his fingers slightly toying with the red bracelet that still adorned your wrist. He sees how the blush on your cheeks deepens and how you seem to relax under his touch. Your actions only add fire to the fuel that is Oscar’s desire for you and he prays you come to your senses soon because he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold back how he truly feels.
The waitress comes back shortly after with the check and Oscar knows he’s got to put her in her place. He’d tried to be polite, but the blatant disrespect she had shown towards you was unacceptable in his book. Oscar hands her his card and when she goes to take it from him he holds onto it. She thinks he’s flirting and starts to laugh, but Oscar doesn’t find it funny one bit.
“I hope you don’t treat all of your customers like this– the amount of disrespect you’ve shown her.” Oscar points across the table at you. “The person I care very deeply about, it’s disgusting. You’ve dismissed her all evening and acted like she wasn’t even sitting at the table. She’s the most important person in my life and to see her get treated like that just does not fly with me. So if we could just get the receipt, we will be on our way.”
The waitress truly seems unaffected by Oscar’s reprimanding, you on the other hand are feeling more than flustered. To see him coming to your defense so publically has you hot all over. Oscar’s defended you before, especially when you were kids, but nothing to this extent. Nothing close to the language he had used just now. He was laying claim to you in multiple ways and you loved it.
Before you even work up the courage to look Oscar in the eye again the waitress is back with the receipt. “Have a lovely night.” Is all she says before moving along to one of her other tables.
Oscar scoffs as he tosses the receipt aimlessly onto the table. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, reaching for it to see what the reaction was for. The moment your eyes land on it you audibly laugh.
Call me 123-456-7890 ;)
“The fucking nerve.” You state as the two of you get up to leave. Oscar just leaves the receipt on the table before grabbing your hand in his to lead you out of the restaurant.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The walk back to the villa is slow and…. intimate?
Somehow you’ve got your arm wrapped around Oscar’s as you walk through the streets, the town is winding down for the night, but your mind is still going a hundred miles an hour. You can’t seem to get over that waitress. You don’t know why it bothered you so much. In fact, the majority of the time you enjoyed not being seen, you liked to blend in with the crowd, but the way she was acting towards Oscar, that is what really bothered you.
You realize that you actually may have been jealous.
When you were younger you really never had to share Oscar with anyone else– it was you two always. Sure your siblings were there, but that didn’t count. You both had other friends, but in all honesty you think everyone back then knew they had no chance in competing with what Oscar and you had. Everyone knew their place and it worked.
Then when Lucy came along Oscar wasn’t in your life at that point. You’d built up so many walls that any ill feelings you had were masked by your issues with Oscar leaving, not the fact that there was someone else in his life. You do guess there was that first Christmas he brought her home that you faked being sick, but you could also blame that on your Oscar issues at the time.
But now that you finally have him back, you’ve realized you don’t ever want to lose him again. You don’t like the idea of someone else being his person, of someone else possibly taking him away from you. The realization scares you, mainly because you’d been fighting how you really felt about Oscar since this past March.
You had wanted to kiss him so badly that night, but you didn’t, and you’re glad you didn’t because it was truly too soon, but you wished maybe you would have come to terms with everything a little sooner instead of pushing them down. Because now as you're walking the streets of Southern France on the arm of Oscar Piastri you’ve realized that you don’t want anyone else to be with him because you’re the one that wants to be with him.
You want Oscar all to yourself.
You wanted him on his worst days and his best days. You wanted to walk down any street with him and know that he’s yours and only yours.
You glance up at him, studying his side profile, his prominent jaw, the moles on his neck, his fluffy brown hair that’s tousled from the wind coming off water. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted. There is no one in this world that could compare to Oscar or the connection that you have with him. When you’re with him you feel at home– like he’s your missing puzzle piece.
Oscar can sense your eyes on him and when he glances down at you with his adoring big brown eyes. The same eyes that can bring you calm in the worst cases of chaos. Or the ones that sparkle like diamonds after a big win and you’re the first person he sees. The eyes that look at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars in the sky above.
The realization hits you like a freight train and you can feel the air escape your lungs. This feeling it’s been there all along, deep within your soul, interwoven in your DNA.
You’re in love with Oscar.
Your grip on his arm is a little tighter as you continue your walk, but your eyes never glance back up at him, afraid that if he looked at you again you’d confess your feelings right there in the middle of Saint-Tropez.
Oscar is oblivious to the mental turmoil you’re going through right now and he only finds comfort in the feeling of you pulling him closer. He wasn’t going to complain, any chance to be close to you Oscar was never going to pass up. So he smiles to himself as the two of you continue your stroll back to the villa, only hoping that soon enough you’d accept what the universe had placed in front of you. That you’d feel the same about him as he does you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
When Oscar decides to take a shower as soon as you get back to the villa you’re beyond grateful. As soon as the door clicks shut and you hear the water turn on you’re immediately running to your room and calling Sam.
“Hello?”
“Sam I am so fucked. Like fucked beyond belief.” Your whisper yelling, not wanting Oscar to hear, but wanting Sam to know it’s urgent.
“What’s wrong, are you in trouble? Do I need to come get you?”
You rub your forehead, you don’t even know if you can say this outloud. “No, no. It’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is going on?”
You decide to just rip the bandaid off. “I’m in love with Oscar.”
There’s silence on the line for a moment and you pull the phone away from your ear to make sure the line didn’t disconnect. Then you hear a laugh echo through the speaker.
“Yeah, no shit.”
“I just told you that I’m in love with Oscar and that’s all you can say? What the fuck Sam!”
You hear her sigh and that irritates you even more for a moment. “Y/N, you’ve always been in love with Oscar. It just took you twenty-four years to come to terms with it.”
“I haven’t always been in love with him.” You immediately protest.
“Yes you have. I know my big sister better than anyone. I mean you both have been in love with each other for as long as I can remember. Maybe when we were kids it wasn’t necessarily romantic love, but there’s always been something different about the two of you. How many times did you two get pretend married when we were little? Talk about predicting the future.”
“I said I had feelings for him, not that I was marrying him!”
“You actually said you were in love with him, not that you had feelings for him. That’s a big difference.”
“Sam! I’m spiraling right now and you are not helping me whatsoever!” You’re trying not to raise your voice, scared that Oscar would be able to hear you from the room over, but your little sister was being a pain in the ass right now.
“If I didn’t want to help you I wouldn’t have answered the phone at seven in the morning. Thank you very much.”
A grimace finds its way onto your face– you’d forgotten all about the time difference in your hectic frenzy to call her. “Sorry, I forgot about the time difference.”
You hear her sigh and then the sound of rustling, meaning she was probably getting up out of bed. “I know you’re freaking out, but Y/N this and I’m not even exaggerating when I saw this, your soulmate we are talking about. I mean fuck you’re literally on vacation with just him in the south of France– talk about romantic. Tell him how you feel, because I know he feels the same if not even more crazy about you. You deserve to be happy and as much as I wanted to kill Oscar all those years ago when he left, the progress the two of you have made to rekindle your connection in such a short amount of time, tells me that maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder. He looks at you like you're the center of his universe, put the poor guy out of his misery and tell him that you love him back. I know it’s scary to come to terms with all of this, especially after everything, but babe those feelings have been there the whole time. It’s always been Oscar and Y/N in this lifetime and everyone after that.”
Sam’s words weigh heavy on your mind as you pick at the frayed stitch on the duvet. “I guess I should tell you that we almost kissed back in March.”
“You guys almost kissed and you’re just now realizing you’ve got feelings for him?!”
“I don’t know! I thought back then it was because of just reuniting with him and emotions were heavy. We were caught up in the moment.” You pause briefly, that night replaying in your mind. “But thinking back to then, in his own way he did kind of admit to wanting to be with me, but we’d just met again a couple days before that and I just brushed it off as heightened emotions.”
Sam groans loudly. “I love you, but you’re literally the dumbest person I know right now. If you don’t go tell Oscar how you feel right now I’m gonna get on the earliest flight to you and force you two to admit your feelings.”
A sudden knock at your door causes you to jump, a small yelp escaping past your lips. “Sam I’ve got to go, I'll talk to you later!” You don’t even give her time to hang up, just ending the call and tossing your phone on the bed.
“Come in!” You holler with an unsteady voice and rapid heartbeat. God you pray Oscar hadn’t been eavesdropping the whole time.
The door slowly creaks open and Oscar peaks his head in. “Hey I was going to watch a movie, but the tv in my room isn’t working, and the couch in the living room was clearly not made for comfort. Do you want to watch one in here?”
Of course he’d want to watch a movie in your room, meaning it would be just the two of you, in your bed.
“Sure.” You barely croak out.
Oscar walks in and you have to hold back the groan that almost escapes past your lips. His hair is messy, not pushed back like normal and slightly down in his eyes. He’s got on a plain black t-shirt that’s so snug on his biceps you think it might bust and some grey sweatpants that are hanging dangerously low on his hips.
When he slides onto the bed next to you it’s like you’re frozen in place. His aftershave is drowning your senses and you know there is no way you can sit through a whole movie with him right next to you like this.
“What do you want to watch?” Oscar asks, grabbing the remote from the nightstand.
“I don’t care.” You lean back against the headboard, eyes straight ahead at the TV, not daring to look over at him.
Oscar eventually decides on some random Marvel movie and you’re too in your head to even know what’s going on, even though your eyes haven’t left the screen.
You haven’t dared to move an inch, you could feel the heat radiating off of him, hear his breathing. Hell if you tried hard enough you’d probably be able to hear his heart beat. Just the other day this wouldn’t have been a big deal, but things have clearly changed.
“Everything alright?” Oscar asks, his knee slightly bumping yours to get your attention.
“Just peachy. Why?” You reply, eyes still glued to the TV, body stiff as a board.
He furrows his eyebrows at you, he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye the whole time. You’d been acting like he was some stranger and he wondered if he’d done something wrong. He had you wrapped around his arm on the way home and now you were acting like he had the plague or something.
“You’re acting strange. You’re sitting here like a statue, like I’m some stranger. Did I do something wrong or?”
You shake your head, eyes still forward. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Osc.”
He’s not buying it one bit, he can see straight through your lies, you’ve never been a good liar. He reaches over– his hand settling on your thigh. The simple action makes every nerve in your body feel alive.
“Well something is wrong. You wouldn’t be acting like this if there wasn’t. Talk to me.”
He’s not going to drop it– you know Oscar too well. He’s going to sit here and bother you until you finally break down and talk to him, except this time your issue is him.
“It’s fine Oscar, I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now.”
The movie is paused before you know it and Oscar is scooching closer to you on the bed. If there was something going on he wanted to be here for you. “You know you’ll feel better if we talk about it.”
In any other situation he would be right, but this isn’t any other situation. You feel his fingers gently toying with the frayed strings of your bracelet and it makes your situation that much harder. Every little action of his is clouding your mind and you really need time to process everything without him right next to you, touching you, his warmth radiating around you.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath– trying to ground yourself. If you tell him how you feel this is going to change everything. You think that’s what scares you the most, the idea that maybe you’ve been reading everything wrong with Oscar and that he doesn’t feel the same way. That if you tell him that you’re in love with him he’s going to turn you down and you’re going to lose him again.
Or what if you guys do give it a shot and things don’t work out and you can’t even reconcile a friendship at the end? Everyone around you says you’re meant to be together, but only the universe can decide that, and leaving things up to fate makes your stomach churn.
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” His voice is soft and you feel his fingers hook under your chin, forcing you to look at him.
The moment you lock eyes with his big brown ones you know you’re a goner. Any instinct you had to wait and think on how you actually feel has vanished. You can’t help it, he makes you feel comfortable, he’s like home to you. You know there is no going back from this, but like Sam has told you, you’ll never know if you don’t try.
“You.”
Oscar feels his heart rate speed up a little, was this a good or bad response? He’s almost too afraid to ask.
“Did I do something? Was it dinner? I’m sorry I didn’t speak up sooner. I should have requested a new waitress.” He’s panicking slightly, worried that he’d fucked things up.
You gently shake your head at him, he thinks he’s fucked everything up, but it’s you that’s about to drop a bomb. “It was dinner, and the walk back from dinner, that night after the race in Australia, the tulips you gave me, that party at Hannah Payne’s house. “You pause, reaching out and looping your finger around the excess string of Oscar’s bracelet. “These bracelets that have withstood time, and god Oscar the way you look at me like I’m the center of your universe, how you’ve made these last six months the best months of my life. That's all I can think about. You’re all I can think about.”
He thinks he knows what you're alluding to, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself, he wants to hear you say it. Wants to hear you vocalize how he’s felt for what seems like an eternity.
His hand slowly reaches up to cup your face, his thumb gently rubbing across the apple of your cheek. “Say it– please say it.” His voice is laced with desperation, desire, everything he’s ever wanted is in the palm of his hand, but he’s got to hear you say it.
You close your eyes, leaning into Oscar’s touch. Blindly you reach for his free hand, lacing your fingers with his, and it’s like your hand is made to fit perfectly with his. When you open your eyes and see him looking at you with nothing but pure adoration, like he’d worship the ground you walk on, you know what you’re about to do is right. This is what is meant to happen. Oscar is yours and this time you’re not going to let him get away.
“I’m in love with you Oscar.”
If Oscar hadn’t known any better he would have thought he died and gone to heaven. To hear you say those words to him was like music to his ears. To get the confirmation that what he felt was mutual, but also that his inkling that you felt the same was true was a feeling he’d never felt before.
“Say it again.” Oscar asks, high on the feeling in his chest.
You smile, laughing a little at how giddy he was. “I love you.”
If Oscar could overdose on hearing you say that he might have to go to rehab, but for right now he’s going to savor this moment. He looks at you, hair still tousled from the wind at dinner, rosy cheeks, and a glimmer in your eye that Oscar thinks could make even the sourest man swoon. You were breathtaking in every way and he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks, his voice filled with desire.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
In a split second Oscar’s lips are on yours and you waste no time in kissing him back. You two were clearly making up for lost time. It was passionate and loving, like you both were trying to convey how you’d felt over the years. His hands cupped your jaw, deepening the kiss. If there was one thing you knew to be true it was that kissing Oscar Piastri was like nothing you’d experienced before. It was nothing like that night in that cramped closet. This kiss was real and filled with unspoken words.
You pull away reluctantly, your forehead resting against his as you both try to catch your breath. “I love you.” Oscar breaths out, a giddy smile on his face.
There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he didn’t feel the same now, but to hear him actually say it to you had your heart feeling like it was about ready to burst out of your chest. “Well I’d like to hope so.” You joke, smiling back equally as big at him.
Oscar lays down on the bed, his arms open as an invite, which you gladly accept. It’s crazy how it seems like Oscar and you were made for each other, how you just fit into his side like a missing puzzle piece, but you do and nothing in the world feels better than being in his arms. You can hear his heartbeat beating against his chest. It’s strong and steady, grounding you, bringing you back down from this la-la land of love you’re in.
You glance up at him and find him already looking at you. “Promise me you aren’t going to leave me again. I can’t go through that again Oscar, especially not now.” Even after all of this the fear of him leaving is still a demon you have to deal with.
He leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I promise. You’re stuck with me forever now.”
“Forever?”
Oscar reaches for your left hand, his fingers gently toying with your ring finger. “Forever.”
three years later
The Piastri household looks like a house straight out of a Christmas movie. Everyone has gathered for the yearly celebrations and after a delicious dinner and some gift giving the evening has started to wind down. Oscar and you are cuddled up on the couch, eating some of your Mum’s sugar cookies, penis shaped and all. You two have been waiting for everyone to gather in the living room for a game of pictionary, you’ve got something you’ve been wanting to announce, but Nicole is taking forever in the kitchen. After what seems like an eternity you see her walk in and you glance over at Oscar, who takes the hint to get everyone’s attention.
“Hey everyone!” The chatter stops and all eyes are focused on him. “So Y/N and I have been waiting until we were all together to tell you guys-” He looks back at you, his hand reaching out for you as you stand beside him. You’d taken the split second that all the attention was on Oscar to slip the ring that had been in your pocket all evening onto your ring finger. Both of your families are on the edge of their seats, the anticipation killing them. You look over at Oscar, who’s only smiling back at you with the biggest grin on his face.
You take a deep breath before quickly raising up your left hand and wiggling your ring finger towards everyone.
“Oh my god! You’re engaged?!” Sam yells, nearly breaking the sound barrier.
The room erupts into squeals and gasps, happy energy radiating all around.
“Well actually…” Oscar trails off.
“We’ve been married for a couple months.” You state, laughter lacing your words.
Even more gasps fill the room and Oscar and you just can’t help but laugh. It happened on a whim a couple months ago. There was a break in the racing schedule and Oscar and you took a trip to Lake Como. You know both of you knew you’d eventually get married, that was established pretty early on, but when you two have one of your late night deep conversations and the topic of why wait to get married got brought up, you both thought why are we waiting?
So the next day you got married in some little chapel and the rest was history. You had decided to keep it a little secret for a while, it was just something for Oscar and you to enjoy, but you knew you couldn’t hide it forever. So you both decided Christmas would be the best time to announce it.
Your Mum and sister are the first to come attack you with a hug, tears are streaming down your Mum’s face and all you can do is comfort her. “My baby, I can’t believe you’re married!”
“Don’t worry Mum, we’re going to have an actual wedding this summer.” You knew your family, well actually both of your families would want you guys to have an actual wedding. It was something Oscar and you had discussed beforehand. Deep down you wanted a wedding too, but you wanted to have that special moment that only Oscar and you shared also.
Sam hugs you tighter than you think is even humanly possible. “Told you you’ll never know until you try.”
“I know, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
One by one everyone comes to congratulate you and you can feel the tears starting to well up from the pure joy you’re feeling. To have not just your family love you, but also Oscar’s is the biggest blessing you could ever ask for. Nicole is the last person to come see Oscar and you and you can tell by the look on her face that she’s holding back tears. “I hope you know I always knew Oscar and you were going to end up together. Call it Mother’s intuition, but there’s no one else I could imagine my Oscar with. You’ve always been like a daughter to me, but now I get to actually call you one.”
You look over at the man you love– your husband and you feel nothing but pure adoration. He’s everything you could have asked for and more. It took some time and rough patches to get where you are, but you wouldn’t change it for the world. This is how your life is supposed to be and if you tried to change it, you don’t think you’d be standing here next to him right now, with this rock on your finger. Oscar has always been your person and now he always will be.
And you realize that Oscar Piastri was never just a chapter in your life– he’s the whole book.
Summary: you mistake an NHL captain for a sports store employee while panic-buying hockey gear for your six-year-old. He spends an hour helping you anyway. Then he pays. Then he shows up to her first practice. Then he- wait, why is Quinn Hughes in your kitchen eating pizza on a Wednesday? (A story about rocket feet, fresh starts, and falling in love with someone who sees you)
The Vancouver rain is a different beast entirely.
It isn’t the theatrical, angry downpour of a California thunderstorm, the kind that feels like the sky is throwing a tantrum. This is a persistent, quiet drizzle. A constant sigh. It’s been three months since you packed your entire life, and your daughter’s, into a U-Haul and drove north, chasing a job offer and escaping the ghost of a man who specialized in making you feel small.
Some days, the gray mist feels like a blanket, a safe, quiet place to start over. Other days, it just feels like … gray.
Today, however, the gray is being thoroughly obliterated by a six-year-old supernova of pure energy named Elsie.
“Mom, please? Please, please, please? Avery and Isla are on the Vipers and they said it’s the bestest thing in the whole world and Coach David lets them have two Timbits after practice if they listen good. Two, Mom!”
Elsie is bouncing on the balls of her feet on your worn-out living room rug, her hands clasped together under her chin in a pantomime of desperate prayer. Her pigtails, the same shade of brown as yours, are practically vibrating.
You press your fingers to your temple, feigning a headache that is rapidly becoming real. “Honey, I don’t know the first thing about hockey.”
“You don’t have to! I’ll know! I’ll be so good, you’ll see. I’ll be like … like …” She scrunches her face, searching for a name she’s heard on the playground. “Bo Horvat!”
You can’t help but smile. “He doesn’t even play here anymore, sweetie.”
“Quinn Hughes, then!” She declares, the name sounding triumphant. “Avery says he’s the captain and he skates like he has rockets on his feet. Vrooooom!” She demonstrates by skidding across the floor in her socks, nearly taking out a lamp.
You catch it just in time, your heart doing a familiar little lurch. A different voice, a ghost’s voice, echoes in your head. “Clumsy, Y/N. She gets it from you. Can’t you control your own kid?”
You shake it off, forcing the memory of Carl down, down, down until it’s just a dull pressure in your chest. You look at Elsie’s face, bright with a passion you haven’t seen since she discovered glitter glue. How can you say no? You came here for her. For this. For her to have a childhood filled with Timbits and rocket-feet dreams, not tiptoeing around a man’s moods.
“Okay,” you say, the word feeling momentous. “Okay, kiddo. Let’s do it.”
The shriek of joy is probably heard three apartments over.
***
Signing her up online is the easy part. A few clicks, a wince-inducing entry of your credit card information, and Elsie is officially a North Shore Winter Club Atom C3 Ice Cat.
The hard part is standing in the middle of a cavernous sporting goods store on a Tuesday afternoon, staring at what looks like a wall of medieval torture devices.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, clutching a printout of the ‘Required Equipment’ list. “Jock or Jill …”
“What’s a jill, Mom?” Elsie asks, popping up beside you after a full-speed lap around a display of goalie pads that were taller than her.
“I think it’s … protective underwear?” You guess, feeling your cheeks flush. “Let’s, uh, let’s start with skates. Skates seem manageable.”
You navigate the aisles, Elsie’s hand now firmly in yours to prevent further chaos. The place smells like rubber and new plastic. It’s overwhelming. You feel like a fraud, an imposter in this temple of Canadian identity. You find the wall of skates, a dizzying array of black, white, and silver boots with terrifyingly sharp-looking blades.
“Which ones?” Elsie asks, her voice full of awe.
“The … the right size ones?” You offer weakly.
You stand there for a solid five minutes, picking up boxes, reading technical jargon you don’t understand — T-blade, chassis, quarter package — and feeling more and more helpless. Elsie is starting to fidget, her earlier excitement curdling into the restlessness of a bored child.
You need help. You scan the store, looking for anyone in a red employee vest. You see a guy a few feet away, over by the hockey sticks. He’s not in a vest, but he’s wearing athletic pants and a hoodie, and he’s examining the curve on a stick with an intensity that suggests he knows what he’s doing. He’s focused, turning the stick over in his hands. He must work on commission.
Perfect.
You take a deep breath and approach him, pulling Elsie along with you.
“Excuse me?”
He looks up. His eyes are a warm, startling green. For a second, you forget what you were going to say. He’s younger than you expected, maybe mid-twenties, with an easy-going, friendly face.
“Hi,” you manage. “Sorry to bother you, but do you work here? I’m so lost.” You gesture vaguely at the entire store, a silent plea for help.
A small smile plays on his lips. He looks down at his plain gray hoodie, then back at you. “Uh, no. I don’t.”
Your face burns. Of course. The one competent-looking person. “Oh my god, I am so sorry. You just looked like you knew what you were looking at, and I’m … I’m clearly in over my head.”
He chuckles. It’s a nice sound. “No, don’t worry about it. What’re you looking for? Maybe I can help anyway.”
You hesitate. You don’t want to impose on a random stranger. “You don’t have to. It’s just … my daughter just joined a team.” You nudge Elsie forward slightly. “And I have this list, and I think it might as well be in another language.”
He crouches down a little, bringing himself closer to Elsie’s level. His whole demeanor softens. “Hey there. You starting hockey? That’s awesome.”
Elsie, who is usually shy with strangers, beams at him. “I’m gonna be an Ice Cat! And I’m gonna skate with rockets on my feet!”
He grins, a genuine, full-faced grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Rockets, huh? Well, you’re gonna need the right skates for that.” He looks back up at you. “Quinn.”
He offers a hand. You shift the list to your other hand and shake his. His grip is firm and warm.
“Y/N,” you say. “And this is Elsie.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Quinn says, his eyes lingering on yours for just a fraction of a second too long. “Alright, Y/N. Let’s see the list. We’ll get you sorted out.”
You hand him the crumpled paper, feeling a ridiculous wave of relief wash over you. He smooths it out, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Okay, standard stuff. Skates, helmet, shoulder pads, elbows, shins, pants, jill, neck guard, gloves … stick. Jersey and socks the team will probably provide.” He says it all so casually, as if he’s reading a grocery list.
“Right,” you say, trying to sound like you followed any of that. “Skates first?”
“Skates first,” he confirms. “Most important part. Can’t have rocket feet with bad skates.”
He leads you back to the wall of boots, and this time, he seems to know exactly what he’s looking for. He ignores the flashy, expensive-looking ones and pulls out a simple, sturdy-looking pair.
“These are good starter skates,” he explains, his voice low and easy to listen to. “Good support, but they’re not so stiff that she won’t be able to move. What size shoe is she?”
“A twelve,” you answer, amazed at your own competence in knowing your child’s shoe size. It feels like a small victory.
He finds the right box and kneels on the little sizing stool, right there in the middle of the aisle. “Okay, Elsie. Hop up.”
Elsie sits, and Quinn gently takes her foot, slipping off her sparkly pink sneaker. He slides her foot into the stiff new skate, his movements practiced and sure. You find yourself watching his hands. They’re strong, capable hands.
“How’s that feel?” He asks her. “Too tight anywhere?”
“It feels … hard,” Elsie says, wiggling her toes.
“That’s okay,” he says patiently. “We just need to make sure your toes aren’t all scrunched up at the end. Can you kick your heel back for me?” He taps the back of the skate. “You want your toe to just kinda brush the front cap. Now, stand up. Slowly.”
He holds her hands as she stands, a little wobbly on the foreign blades. You’re struck by how naturally he interacts with her, with a gentleness that sends a strange, unfamiliar pang through your chest. Carl was never like this. He was impatient, always treating Elsie’s childhood needs as an inconvenience.
“It feels weird,” Elsie announces.
“It’s supposed to,” Quinn says, smiling up at her. He presses his thumb against the side of the boot. “The fit looks pretty good. What you’ll want to do is get them baked.”
You blink. “Baked? Like … in an oven?”
He laughs, looking back over his shoulder at you. “Yeah, kinda. They have a special oven here. It heats up the boot so it molds to her foot perfectly. Prevents blisters. Big time.”
“Oh.” The word comes out small. Of course there’s an oven for shoes. Why wouldn’t there be?
“Don’t worry,” he says, as if sensing your bewilderment. “It’s all part of the process.”
He gets her other skate on, tying them with a practiced series of loops and pulls you know you’ll never be able to replicate. “Alright, Ice Cat. Skates are done.”
You feel a surge of gratitude so strong it’s almost overwhelming. “Thank you. Seriously. I would have been here for hours and probably bought her a pair of goalie skates by mistake.”
“No worries at all,” he says, standing up. He’s taller than you thought. “What’s next on the list of doom?”
You both laugh, and the sound is easy and natural. The tension in your shoulders, a permanent resident for the last few years, seems to loosen its grip just a little.
“Helmets, I think.”
“This way to head protection,” he says with a mock-serious tone, leading the way.
He helps you pick out a helmet, explaining the importance of the cage and how it should fit snugly without pinching. He has Elsie shake her head violently from side to side to test it, and she erupts in a fit of giggles. He moves on to the shoulder pads, which he calls ‘shouldies,’ and the shin pads, which he demonstrates how to tape on over his own athletic pants. He turns what felt like an insurmountable, anxiety-inducing task into … fun.
Elsie is completely enamored. She follows him around the store like a little duckling, asking him a million questions.
“Do you play hockey?” She asks, her eyes wide.
Quinn pauses in his examination of a pair of tiny hockey gloves. “Yeah, I do.”
“Are you good?”
He looks over at you, a playful glint in his eye. “I do okay.”
“My friend Avery says Quinn Hughes is the best. You have the same name,” she says matter-of-factly.
Quinn’s smile falters for just a second, a brief flicker of something you can’t quite read before it’s back, wider than before.
“Oh yeah?” He says, his voice a little strained. “Well, that’s nice of Avery.”
You’re only half-listening, trying to mentally calculate the cost of the mountain of gear now piling up in your shopping cart. It’s going to be a tight month. Maybe a tight two months. But seeing the pure, unadulterated joy on Elsie’s face as she tries on a pair of gloves that are too big for her makes it feel worth it.
“Okay, last thing,” Quinn says, steering you back towards the stick rack. “The weapon.”
He selects a few small, lightweight sticks. “You don’t want anything too heavy or too long. The rule is, on skates, it should come up to between her chin and her nose.” He hands one to Elsie. “How does that feel?”
Elsie grips it like it’s Excalibur. “It feels like I’m a real hockey player.”
“That’s because you are one now,” he says softly.
You look at the cart, a jumbled mess of black plastic, foam, and hope. “Okay. I think … I think that’s everything. I can’t thank you enough. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Honestly, it was fun,” he says, and you believe him. “It’s kinda cool, seeing someone get all their first gear.”
“Well, you saved this California girl from a total Canadian meltdown,” you say, pushing the overflowing cart towards the checkout. “I owe you one. A coffee, or … or something.” You feel bold saying it, but his kindness has unspooled something inside you.
“I might take you up on that,” he says, walking alongside you.
You arrive at the checkout, and a young kid with braces and a Canucks hat on backwards is manning the register. He’s humming to himself until he looks up and sees who you’re with.
His eyes go wide. His jaw literally drops.
“No way,” he breathes.
You look from the cashier to Quinn, confused. Quinn gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, but it’s too late.
“You’re … you’re Quinn Hughes,” the cashier stammers, fumbling with the scanner.
The name clicks. Quinn Hughes. The captain. The one Elsie had mentioned. The one who skates like he has rockets on his feet. You feel the blood drain from your face and then rush back with a vengeance. You mistook the captain of the Vancouver Canucks for a store employee. You made him spend the last hour personally shopping for your six-year-old.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, looking at him. Truly looking at him this time, seeing the familiar face from billboards and bus ads. “I am so, so sorry.”
He just offers a sheepish smile. “Told you I do okay.”
“Okay? You’re … him!” You say, gesturing uselessly.
The cashier is practically vibrating. “This is … wow. Just wow. Can I, uh, can I get a picture after?”
“Yeah, man, of course,” Quinn says easily, turning his attention back to the counter.
You start unloading the gear, your hands shaking slightly. The pile grows and grows. The helmet. The skates. The pads. The stick. The cashier rings it all up, his eyes still darting over to Quinn every few seconds.
The final total flashes on the screen. It’s a number that makes your stomach plummet to your shoes. $684.32.
You take a deep breath, reaching for your wallet. This is for Elsie. It’s fine. You’ll just eat ramen for a month. No big deal.
Before your fingers can even touch your debit card, a different card is slapped down on the counter. Quinn’s.
“I got this,” he says simply.
Your head snaps up. “What? No. Absolutely not.”
“I want to,” he says, his green eyes holding yours. “A welcome-to-hockey gift.”
“No,” you repeat, firmer this time. Your independence, the very thing you fought tooth and nail for, bristles at the offer. You’re not a charity case. You’re not someone who needs a man to pay for her things. The ghost of Carl sneers in your memory. See? You can’t even do this on your own.
“I can’t let you do that,” you say, your voice tight. “You’ve already done way too much.”
“It’s really not a big deal,” he insists, pushing his card a little closer to the machine. “Please. I want to.”
“Quinn, no,” you say, your hand hovering over his, a ridiculous standoff at the checkout counter.
The cashier, your unwilling audience, looks between the two of you, then lands on Quinn with hero-worship in his eyes. He makes a decision.
“You gotta Huggy get it,” the kid says to you, a conspiratorial grin on his face. “It’s, like, for the good of the team. For the next generation of players.”
He quickly takes Quinn’s card and taps it on the machine. The screen flashes green. APPROVED.
It happens so fast you can’t even protest. The receipt prints with a soft whir, sealing the transaction.
You are mortified. You’re grateful. You’re flustered. You feel a hundred conflicting emotions at once. You stare at him, speechless.
“Seriously,” he says, his voice dropping lower so only you can hear. “Don’t worry about it. Seeing her face when she held that stick? That was worth it.”
The cashier bags everything with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. He gets his picture, a shaky selfie with Quinn grinning and him looking like he’s about to pass out.
Quinn helps you get the two massive bags into your cart, and you walk towards the exit in a strange, charged silence. The automatic doors slide open, letting in a gust of cool, damp air.
You stop just outside, under the awning. The drizzle has picked up again.
“I …” you start, not knowing what to say. “I don’t know how to thank you. And I’m going to pay you back.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I do,” you insist, meeting his gaze. “I will. I’ll get your Venmo or … something.”
He shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “Tell you what. You want to pay me back?”
“Yes.”
“Let me know when her first practice is.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, a sudden shyness about him. “I’d, uh … I’d like to see how the rocket feet work out.”
Your breath catches. That’s not what you expected.
“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”
“And that coffee offer,” he adds, his confidence returning slightly. “Is that still on the table?”
“Yes,” you say, a real smile breaking through your embarrassment. “Yes, it is.”
“Cool.” He pulls out his phone. “Can I get your number?”
You give it to him, your fingers trembling slightly as you type it onto his screen. He texts you his name so you have his number. The whole exchange feels surreal, like something out of a movie.
“Well,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably … go.”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Thank you. For everything.”
“Anytime, Y/N.” He says your name like he’s known it for years. He gives Elsie a little wave. “See ya, Ice Cat. Work on your slapshot.”
“Okay!” She chirps, brandishing an imaginary stick.
And then he’s gone, jogging through the misty parking lot to a car that is, you notice with a detached sense of absurdity, a very nice-looking black SUV.
You stand there for a moment, the receipt for $684.32 clutched in your hand. A receipt you didn’t pay.
You load the gear into the trunk of your beat-up Honda Civic, your mind reeling. You buckle a chattering Elsie into her car seat.
“Mom, was that the real Quinn Hughes?” She asks as you pull out of the parking lot.
“Yeah, sweetie,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “That was him.”
“Wow,” she whispers from the back seat. “He’s nice.”
You look in the rearview mirror, at her wide, happy eyes, and then at your own reflection. You look tired, a little overwhelmed, but for the first time in a very long time, there’s a flicker of something else in your eyes. A tiny spark in the gray.
“Yeah, kiddo,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “He really is.”
***
The number sits in your phone like a secret.
Quinn Hughes.
It doesn’t look right, nestled between ‘Apartment Maintenance Service’ and ‘Elsie’s School Office’. It feels like a glitch in the matrix, a tiny, explosive piece of a different reality that has somehow landed in the middle of your very regular, very complicated life.
For five days, you do nothing.
You compose and delete at least a dozen different text messages.
Hey, it’s Y/N. Elsie’s first practice is Saturday at 8 am. (Too blunt. Sounds like a summons.)
Hi Quinn! Hope you’re having a good week. You really don’t have to come, but if you were serious, Elsie’s practice is Sat at 8. (Too wordy. The backtracking makes you sound insecure, which you are, but he doesn’t need to know that.)
This is Y/N (the crazy lady from the sports store). You are a ridiculously kind person, and I’m still planning on paying you back. Also, practice is Sat, 8 am, North Shore Winter Club. (Better, but still feels … off. Like you’re trying too hard to be cool about it.)
The truth is, you’re terrified. Carl’s voice is a venomous whisper in the back of your mind, a ghost you can’t seem to exorcise. “Someone like him? Don’t embarrass yourself, Y/N. He was just being polite. People with his kind of life don’t have time for … this.” He would gesture vaguely at your apartment, at your life, at you, as if you were something to be scraped off the bottom of a shoe.
So you don’t text. You convince yourself it’s the right thing to do. He’s a professional athlete. The captain of a goddamn NHL team. He has a life filled with things that are not you, not your daughter, not her first clumsy foray onto a sheet of ice. The encounter in the store was a fluke, a moment of kindness from a stranger who just happened to be famous. To text him would be to presume, to push, to ask for something you have no right to. It’s better this way. Safer.
You focus on the hockey. On Thursday night, you decide to do a practice run with the equipment.
“Okay, honey, let’s get you dressed,” you announce with a false cheerfulness that Elsie doesn’t seem to notice.
What follows is an hour of pure, unadulterated chaos.
You pull the ‘jill’ out of the bag and stare at it, turning it over and over. It looks like a bizarre diaper-thong hybrid.
“Does this go on the inside or the outside of the pants?” You wonder aloud.
“Inside!” Elsie says confidently, having no basis for this knowledge whatsoever.
You wrestle her into the shin pads, only to realize you’ve put them on backwards, the hard plastic shells facing her shins instead of outwards.
“Ow, Mom. That feels poky.”
“Right. Sorry. My bad.” You switch them around. Then come the hockey pants, which are stiff and ridiculously padded. Elsie looks like a tiny, Michelin Man version of herself. She can barely bend her legs.
“I can’t walk!” She giggles, waddling around the living room.
You get the shoulder pads on, then the elbow pads. You struggle with the straps, trying to get them snug but not too tight. Finally, the jersey. You bought her a simple, plain white practice jersey, and as you pull it over the mountain of padding, something shifts. She’s no longer just your little girl in oversized gear. She looks like a hockey player.
The helmet is last. You click the chinstrap into place and tighten the cage. Her small, determined face peers out at you from behind the bars.
“How do I look?” She asks, her voice slightly muffled.
You feel a lump form in your throat. You came here so she could have everything. So she could be anything she wanted to be. And right now, she wants to be this. A hockey player.
“You look,” you say, your voice thick with emotion, “like you’re ready to score a hundred goals.”
“A hundred?” Her eyes go wide.
“At least,” you confirm, blinking back tears.
****
Friday night. The night before the big day. You’re making pasta, trying to carb-load your child for her 8 a.m. athletic endeavor. You prop your phone up on the kitchen counter, a recipe for a simple marinara sauce glowing on the screen.
You’re stirring the sauce, lost in thought, when the water for the noodles suddenly boils over, hissing and spitting all over the stovetop.
“Shoot!” You grab the pot, move it off the burner, and frantically try to wipe up the mess with a dish towel. It takes a few minutes to get the situation under control, your attention completely diverted from everything else.
In those few minutes, Elsie, who is supposed to be setting the table with plastic forks and napkins, wanders over to the counter. She sees your phone. She knows this device. She uses it to FaceTime her grandma in California and to play her weirdly addictive penguin-stacking game.
She also knows how to use the little microphone button on the keyboard. It’s how she “texts” her grandma long, rambling stories about her day.
She picks up the phone. The screen is still on your text messages, the blank, unsent drafts to Quinn Hughes a testament to your anxiety. His name is right there at the top of the list. Quinn Hughes. She recognizes the name. The nice man from the store. The man who knew about rocket feet.
Her little finger presses the microphone icon. She holds the phone up to her mouth, just like she does with Grandma.
“Hi Quinn it’s me Elsie the Ice Cat my first hockey is on Saturday at the North Shore Winter Club at 8 in the morning AM that’s really early mom says but I’m gonna be so fast like vrooom okay see you there maybe bye!”
She hits send.
She puts the phone back on the counter, screen down, and goes back to her task of placing a single napkin at each place setting.
You return to the phone a moment later to check the cooking time for the pasta. And you see it. The blue bubble. The sent message. Your heart doesn't just drop. It ceases to exist for one full, horrifying second.
You read the transcribed message, a string of run-on words that perfectly captures your daughter’s chaotic energy. You feel a wave of nausea.
“Elsie!” You call out, your voice sharper than you intend. “Did you touch Mommy’s phone?”
She looks up, her eyes wide and innocent. “I texted Quinn to tell him about my hockey.”
“Honey, you can’t … you can’t just do that,” you stammer, running a hand through your hair. Oh god. He’s going to think you’re a lunatic. That you put your kid up to this.
You snatch up the phone, your thumb hovering over the message, as if you could physically unsend it through sheer force of will. Maybe you can delete it fast enough. Maybe he hasn’t seen it yet-
Your phone buzzes in your hand. A new message. From Quinn Hughes.
Your blood runs cold. You can’t look. You have to look.
You open it.
Vrooooom! Wouldn't miss it, Ice Cat. See you there. Tell your mom hi 🙂
The smiley face feels like a judgment. A polite, friendly judgment on your life, which is clearly so out of control that your six-year-old is now arranging your social calendar.
You sink onto a kitchen chair, the smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes filling the air. The pasta water is still bubbling. Elsie is humming to herself. Everything is normal, except for the fact that the captain of the Vancouver Canucks is now coming to your daughter’s first-ever hockey practice. Because your daughter invited him. Via a rogue voice-to-text.
You drop your head into your hands. This is a romantic comedy, you think with a sense of bleak irony. And you are the bumbling, flustered lead who is in way, way over her head.
***
Saturday morning arrives at an hour that should be illegal. 6:15 a.m. It’s pitch black outside, and the ever-present Vancouver drizzle is tapping against your windowpane.
Getting the gear on for real is even harder than the practice run. You’re clumsy with sleep, and the pressure of a real, actual timeline makes your fingers feel like sausages.
“Mom, the leg pad is on my arm,” Elsie points out helpfully.
“I know that,” you lie, quickly correcting your mistake. “Just testing you.”
By the time you have her fully suited up, you’re sweating. She looks impossibly small and brave, standing by the door with her new stick in hand and a giant gear bag at her feet. Your gear bag, really, since you’re the one who has to lug it.
The drive to the rink is a blur of dark streets and Elsie’s excited chatter. You, on the other hand, are a bundle of raw nerves. Your stomach is doing flips. He’s not going to show up, you tell yourself. He was just being nice. He had to say that. People don’t actually show up to things a stranger’s kid invites them to.
It’s a comforting thought. It’s also, you suspect, a complete lie. There was something in his text, something about the simple, direct ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ that felt sincere.
You pull into the parking lot of the North Shore Winter Club. It’s already bustling. Cars are pulling in and out, and small, padded figures are waddling towards the entrance, flanked by parents juggling giant bags and cups of coffee.
The moment you step inside the arena, the change in atmosphere is visceral. The air is cold, at least twenty degrees colder than outside, and it carries a distinct, clean smell of ice and wet steel. The acoustics are all echo and reverb — the distant scrape of skates, the sharp crack of a puck hitting the boards, the murmur of a hundred conversations bouncing off the concrete walls.
You find the right dressing room, a cramped, humid space that smells intensely of sweat and rubber. It’s filled with other little girls, all in various states of dress, and a handful of moms and dads expertly lacing up skates and tightening helmets. You feel a fresh wave of imposter syndrome. These parents all seem to know each other. They move with a confidence you completely lack.
You finally get Elsie’s skates on, your fingers fumbling with the laces.
“Have a good skate, sweetie,” you say, kissing the top of her helmet. “Listen to your coach and have fun.”
“I will!” She says, and then she’s gone, waddling out of the dressing room and towards the ice with the rest of her team.
You make your way out to the stands, a disposable cup of surprisingly decent coffee in your hand. The bleachers are cold and hard. You find a spot midway up, giving you a good view of the ice.
The practice starts. It is, without a doubt, the most adorable and chaotic thing you have ever witnessed. Twenty little girls in helmets and oversized jerseys, swarming after a single puck like a school of fish. Most of them can barely stand on their skates. They spend more time falling than skating, picking themselves up with grim determination only to topple over again two seconds later.
Elsie is one of them. She’s all legs and arms, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. But she’s smiling. You can see it even through the cage of her helmet. She falls, she gets up. She chases the puck with a singular focus. Your heart swells with a fierce, protective pride.
You’re so engrossed in watching her that you don’t notice the shift in the stands at first. It starts as a low murmur, a ripple of whispers that travels through the rows of parents. You see a few people pull out their phones, not pointing them at the ice, but towards the entrance at the top of the stairs.
You follow their gaze.
And your heart stops. Again.
He’s here.
He’s trying to be low-key, wearing a dark beanie pulled down low and a simple black jacket, but it’s useless. You can’t hide that kind of fame. You can’t hide that face. It’s Quinn Hughes. And he’s looking for someone.
Before he can take two steps, he’s intercepted. A dad in a Canucks jacket claps him on the shoulder, says something that makes Quinn smile politely. Then another parent approaches, then a teenager from the team on the other rink. A small crowd forms around him, a quiet, reverent-but-insistent mob.
You instinctively shrink down in your seat, pulling your jacket tighter around you. This is a nightmare. This is a five-alarm fire of social awkwardness. He’s a public figure, and you, through your daughter’s technological meddling, have summoned him here, into the den of his most ardent fans.
You watch, half-horrified, half-fascinated, as he handles it. He is endlessly gracious. He listens to the dad tell a long-winded story about the ‘94 playoffs. He signs a napkin for a star-struck mom. He poses for a selfie with the teenager, crouching down to fit in the frame. He never once looks annoyed or impatient. He smiles, he nods, he makes eye contact with every single person who talks to him.
And all the while, his eyes are scanning the bleachers.
You know the exact moment he finds you. His eyes meet yours across the fifty feet of tiered seating. A look of genuine relief washes over his face, and his polite public smile transforms into the real, crinkle-eyed grin you remember from the store.
He says something to the group, a quiet apology, and starts making his way towards you. The crowd parts for him like the Red Sea.
Every parent on the bleachers turns to watch his progression. They watch him climb the cold metal steps, his gaze locked on you. You can feel their eyes on you, their unspoken questions hanging in the cold air. Who is she?
You feel your cheeks burn. You wish a hole would open up in the bleachers and swallow you whole.
He reaches your row and stops.
“Is this seat taken?” He asks, his voice a low, warm rumble that is somehow audible over the rink noise.
You shake your head, unable to form words. He slides in next to you, leaving a respectable but not-too-distant space between you. He smells faintly of coffee and cold air.
“You actually came,” you whisper, the words coming out breathlessly.
He turns to you, his green eyes bright and amused. “Of course I came. An Ice Cat summoned me. It was a direct order.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, burying your face in your hands for a second. “I am so, so, so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I was making dinner, the water boiled over, and she just … she knows how to use the voice text to call my mom and she just-”
“Hey,” he says, his voice soft, cutting through your panicked rambling. “Y/N. It’s okay. Seriously.” You look up. He’s smiling. “It was the best text I got all week. Way better than the ones from my agent.”
The sincerity in his eyes makes you believe him. You let out a shaky breath. “Well. I’m glad my parental negligence could be a bright spot in your week.”
He chuckles. “I wouldn’t call it that. I’d call it … efficient.” He nods towards the ice. “Which one is she?”
“Number twelve,” you say, pointing. “The one who just tripped over the blue line.”
As if on cue, Elsie, who had been skating with surprising stability for a full minute, catches an edge and goes down in a heap.
“Ah, a classic fall,” Quinn says with the authority of an expert. “Ten out of ten. Great form.”
Elsie scrambles back to her feet, unfazed, and immediately rejoins the drill.
“She’s tough,” he notes, a hint of admiration in his voice.
“She’s determined,” you agree, a wave of pride washing over you again.
You both sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the chaotic ballet on the ice. The other parents are pointedly not looking at you now, trying to give you privacy, but you can feel the weight of their curiosity.
“So,” you say, deciding to just address the other elephant in the room. “About the gear. I’m serious, Quinn. I want to pay you back. You can’t just buy my kid a full set of hockey equipment.”
He turns on the bleacher to face you more directly. “Why not?”
The question is so simple, so direct, it catches you off guard. “Well, because … because people don’t do that. It was too much. It was an incredibly nice gesture, but it makes me feel …” You trail off, not wanting to say ‘like a charity case.’
“Like what?” He presses gently.
You sigh, looking down at your coffee cup. “Like I can’t provide for my own kid. Which I can. It’s just … it’s been a little tight since the move.”
“I get that,” he says. “But I didn’t do it because I thought you couldn’t. I did it because I wanted to. There’s a difference.” He leans in a little, his voice dropping. “I make a pretty stupid amount of money to play a game. Every once in a while, it’s nice to use it for something that actually feels good. And seeing how excited she was? That felt good. So please, just let it be a gift. No strings attached.”
You look at him. There’s no pity in his eyes. Just honesty. You feel the tight knot of pride in your chest loosen just a little.
“Okay,” you whisper. “But the coffee offer still stands. And I’m buying.”
He grins. “Deal.”
He turns his attention back to the ice, and you fall into an easy rhythm. He points out little things you would never have noticed.
“See how she’s bending her knees when she pushes off? That’s really good. Most kids skate standing straight up.”
A few minutes later, he says, “Her stick’s a little long. After practice, we can grab a saw from the pro shop and take an inch off. It’ll make it easier for her to handle the puck.”
He’s not mansplaining. He’s just sharing. He’s including you in this world that felt so intimidating an hour ago. He makes you feel less like an outsider.
“So you’re from California, right?” He asks, changing the subject. “Big move.”
“Yeah,” you say, taking a sip of coffee. “New job. I work in marketing for a software company downtown. They have a new office here.”
“You like it so far? The city, I mean. Besides the rain.”
“I do,” you say, and you’re surprised to find you mean it. “It’s beautiful. And people are nice.” You glance at him. “Almost suspiciously nice.”
He laughs. “We lure you in with kindness, then trap you with the real estate prices.”
“I’m learning that,” you say wryly.
“So you moved up here by yourself? With Elsie?” The question is casual, but you know it’s not. He’s asking if there’s a dad in the picture.
You hesitate for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. Just us. It’s, um, it’s a fresh start.”
The phrase hangs in the air. It’s all you’re willing to give, and he seems to understand that. He doesn’t push. He just nods.
“Well,” he says softly. “Welcome to Vancouver.”
A whistle blows on the ice, and one of the coaches sets up a net for a shooting drill. The kids line up, each with a puck. It’s their chance to be a hero.
Elsie is fourth in line. She pushes her puck forward, her movements still awkward but full of intention. She winds up, a comically small wind-up, and swings her stick. It connects with a clumsy thwack.
The puck wobbles, slides, and trickles slowly over the goal line.
A goal.
You gasp, a surge of pure joy lighting you up from the inside. You let out a whoop without even thinking about it. “Yeah, Elsie!”
Beside you, Quinn is grinning. “Look at that! A natural goal scorer!”
You’re both beaming, two adults on a cold metal bleacher, celebrating the smallest of victories. It’s a shared moment, perfect and unscripted. You look at him, at his genuine, happy smile, and you feel something shift inside you. The fear, the anxiety, the ghost of Carl’s voice — it all recedes, replaced by a tentative, flickering warmth.
The practice ends a few minutes later. The kids swarm off the ice, exhausted and happy. You head down to the glass to wait for Elsie. Quinn follows.
The other parents give you a wide berth, stealing curious glances. You try to ignore them, focusing only on the dressing room door.
It swings open, and Elsie waddles out, her face flushed and her hair damp with sweat. She’s searching the crowd of parents for you.
“Mommy!” She yells when she spots you.
Then her eyes move to the man standing next to you. Her jaw drops.
“Quinn!” She shrieks, her voice echoing in the lobby. “You came! You came to see my rocket feet!”
She barrels towards him, her hard plastic gear making it an awkward, clanking run.
Quinn crouches down instantly, bringing himself to her level. He doesn't seem to care that they’re the center of attention.
“I did,” he says, his voice full of warmth. “And they were awesome. I even saw you score a goal.”
“I did!” She says, puffing out her chest. “Coach David said I have good listening ears!”
“That’s the most important thing,” Quinn says seriously.
You watch them, a lump forming in your throat again. He is so effortlessly good with her. So kind.
You spend another twenty minutes in the humid dressing room, wrestling Elsie out of her gear. By the time you emerge, the lobby has cleared out a little. Quinn is leaning against a wall, scrolling on his phone, but he looks up the second you appear. He kept his promise to wait.
“Hey,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Ready to go?”
“Ready,” you confirm, hoisting the now-stinky bag over your shoulder.
You walk out of the arena together, a strange little trio. Elsie is skipping between the two of you, still high on adrenaline and post-hockey praise.
In the cool, gray light of the morning, the spell of the rink seems to break a little. The awkwardness creeps back in. What now? Do you just say goodbye?
Quinn seems to be having the same thought. He stops by your car, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“So …” he starts, shoving his hands in his pockets. “All that gear needs to be properly broken in. And I’m guessing that goal scorer is pretty hungry after her first skate.”
You look at Elsie, who is already starting to droop, her energy crashing. “That’s a safe bet.”
“I know a great pancake place not too far from here,” he says, his gaze meeting yours. It’s not just a casual suggestion. It’s an invitation. “My treat. And,” he adds, holding up a hand before you can protest, “this part is completely non-negotiable.”
You look at him, at this kind, famous, impossibly genuine man who showed up to a six-year-old’s hockey practice because she sent him a garbled text message. You think of the lonely breakfasts you and Elsie have had for the last three months. You think of how easy it was to sit next to him, how normal it felt.
The fear is still there, a faint tremor in the background. But for the first time, it’s overshadowed by something else. Hope.
You smile. A real, genuine smile that reaches your eyes.
“Okay, Captain,” you say. “You lead the way.”
***
Three months pass in a blur of scraped knees, forgotten homework, and the surprisingly pungent smell of a hockey bag left in a warm car. The Vancouver rain has settled into a familiar rhythm, a constant companion to your new life. It’s a life that now, improbably, includes Quinn.
He is … something.
He’s the text you wake up to in the morning. Morning. Hope the Ice Cat is ready to dominate today.
He’s the familiar face that appears at your door on a Wednesday night, holding pizza boxes and looking endearingly out of place in your small, cluttered apartment. He’ll sit on the floor with Elsie, helping her build a lopsided Lego castle, his long legs folded uncomfortably beneath him.
“The structural integrity of this tower is questionable,” he’ll say with mock seriousness, placing a pink brick on top.
“It needs more glitter,” Elsie will reply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
He’s the person you call when your car makes a weird noise, and while he knows as little about engines as you do, he’ll stay on the phone with you while you wait for the tow truck, telling you bad jokes to keep your spirits up.
He is woven into the fabric of your days in a way that is both thrilling and terrifying. You are happy. Genuinely, truly happy in a way you had forgotten was possible. But you keep the happiness in a little glass box, afraid to examine it too closely, afraid it might shatter. You haven’t defined what you are. The words ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ hang in the air between you, unspoken and immense. He’s the Captain of the Canucks, and you’re … you. A single mom from California who still gets lost on the SkyTrain. It feels like two different universes, and you’re just waiting for the laws of physics to correct themselves.
One evening in late November, as a cold wind rattles the windowpane, your phone buzzes. It’s him.
Hey. Got a game Saturday against the Kraken. A big one. I want you guys to come.
You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the screen. You’ve watched all his games on TV, Elsie pointing and yelling “There’s Quinn!” every time he touches the puck. But going to the arena feels different. Bigger. More real.
Your reply is cautious. Are you sure? It’ll be a madhouse.
His response is immediate. That’s the point. I want to show you guys what I do. I want Elsie to see it for real. I’ll leave tickets at will call. Best seats in the house.
A second text follows before you can even process the first.
And during warmups, come down to the glass. Right by the home bench. Promise me.
***
Saturday night arrives, electric and cold. Rogers Arena rises out of the downtown core like a spaceship, glowing with blue and green light. The energy on the street is a palpable thing, a current of excitement that pulls you along with the crowd.
Elsie is vibrating next to you, clutching your hand so tightly her knuckles are white. “Is this where Quinn plays hockey for real?” She asks, her voice filled with awe as she stares up at the massive building.
“This is it, sweetie,” you say, your own heart thrumming with a nervous rhythm.
Inside, it’s a sensory explosion. The roar of twenty thousand people, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs, the dazzling sea of Canucks jerseys. It’s a world away from the quiet, chilly community rink where your hockey journey began.
The tickets are exactly where he said they’d be, and when the usher leads you to your seats, you have to stop yourself from gasping out loud. They aren’t just good seats. They are the seats. First row, right against the glass, a few feet from the players’ bench. You can see the fine scratches on the plexiglass, feel the faint chill coming off the ice.
“We’re inside the TV!” Elsie whispers, pressing her face against the cool surface.
You feel a thousand pairs of eyes on you. Who is this woman and her little girl, sitting in seats clearly meant for high rollers or VIPs? You feel like a fraud, a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s shoes. You pull your coat tighter around yourself.
Then, the lights go down for the pre-game show, and the roar of the crowd swallows your anxiety whole. Music blares, a light show dances across the ice, and when the team is introduced, the noise is so loud it feels like a physical force. Elsie is screaming with delight, completely swept up in the spectacle.
As the team streams onto the ice for warmups, you remember his instruction. Your stomach does a little flip.
“Come on, honey,” you say, taking Elsie’s hand. “Let’s go stand by the glass.”
You make your way to the edge of the rink, right beside the Canucks bench. The players are a blur of motion, skating in elegant, powerful loops, firing pucks that crash against the boards with the sound of a gunshot. They are bigger, faster, and more intimidating up close than you could have ever imagined.
You scan the ice, looking for number 43.
And then you see him. He’s skating near the blue line, talking to one of his teammates. He looks over towards the bench, and his eyes find you instantly.
His expression softens. In the middle of this roaring arena, surrounded by his teammates and thousands of fans, he smiles. And the smile is just for you. It’s a private, intimate thing in the most public of places.
He skates over, gliding to a stop directly in front of you. The inches of plexiglass between you feel charged with electricity. He’s in his full gear, helmet on, and he looks like a superhero. He winks at you.
Then, he crouches down slightly to look at Elsie. He taps the glass with his glove, right in front of her face. She giggles and puts her hand up to the spot.
He straightens up, catches your eye again, and mouths the words, “Watch this.”
He skates away a few feet, scoops up a stray puck with his stick, and with a casual, almost imperceptible flick of his wrists, he sends it sailing through the air. It arcs perfectly over the top of the glass, a black spinning saucer against the bright lights.
Instinctively, you put your hands out. You don’t need to. The puck lands with a soft thump directly in Elsie’s waiting hands, as if guided by a magnet.
It happens so fast. For a second, there’s a stunned silence in your little section of the crowd. Then, a collective groan of jealousy rises up from the kids and adults around you. A father a few feet away lets out a good-natured, “Are you kidding me?”
Quinn just grins, taps his stick on the ice in a little salute to Elsie, and skates off to join the drills.
Elsie stares at the puck in her hands as if it’s the holy grail. It’s heavy, cold, and stamped with the official NHL logo.
“Mom,” she breathes, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. “He gave it to me.”
You look from your daughter’s ecstatic face to Quinn’s back as he skates away, the number 43 looking bigger and brighter than ever. Your heart is doing something wild and untamable in your chest. He didn’t just give her a souvenir. He singled you out. In front of everyone, in his world, he chose you.
The game itself is a blur of speed and controlled violence. You find yourself screaming at the referees, cheering at goals, and understanding, for the first time, the passionate, tribal devotion of sports fans. You see Quinn in his element, a quarterback on ice, directing traffic, leading his team. You see the C on his jersey, and you understand what it means. It’s not just a letter. It’s a weight he carries with grace and power.
They win. A hard-fought 3-2 victory. Minutes after the final horn sounded and the team mobbed their goalie, you feel a ridiculous, overwhelming sense of pride. Your phone buzzes in your pocket.
Did the Ice Cat approve?
You look down at Elsie, who is clutching her puck and babbling a mile a minute about a slapshot she saw. You smile and type your reply.
The Ice Cat is officially a Canucks fan for life. And her mom might be, too. You were amazing.
***
A week later, Quinn is over for dinner. The game puck has a place of honor on Elsie’s dresser. You’re clearing the plates when he speaks, his tone casual, but with an undercurrent of something serious.
“Hey, there’s another game I want to take you guys to this weekend.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Another one? Don’t you think you’re spoiling her a little?”
“Maybe,” he admits with a smile. “But this one’s different. It’s more important.”
He pulls out his phone and shows you the screen. It’s a schedule for the new PWHL team. The Vancouver expansion team, their inaugural season just underway.
“I want to take Elsie to see them play,” he says, his gaze steady and earnest. “I want her to see them.”
Your breath catches in your throat. You think of Carl, of the countless times he’d scoffed at women’s sports, dismissing it as a lesser version of the real thing. “It’s cute,” he would say, the word dripping with condescension.
And here is Quinn. This man at the absolute pinnacle of his sport, telling you that this game, a women’s game, is more important.
“Why?” You ask, even though you already know the answer. Your voice is barely a whisper.
“Because,” he says, his eyes finding yours. “I want her to know that those women on the ice are every bit the athletes that I am. I want her to see that her dream doesn’t have to have a ceiling. I want her to see women being strong and fast and fierce, and to know that there’s a place for her at the highest level if she wants it.” He pauses, his expression softening. “I want her to see heroes that look like her.”
The glass box around your heart doesn’t just shatter. It evaporates. The cautious, protected happiness you’ve been hoarding inside you floods out, warm and overwhelming. You’re looking at him, really looking at him, and all the fear, all the doubt, all the whispers of your past just … disappear. They’re no match for the man sitting at your kitchen table.
You can’t speak. You just nod, a lump forming in your throat.
He reaches across the small table and takes your hand. His thumb gently strokes the back of it. “So, what do you say? You guys in?”
“We’re in,” you manage to say, your voice thick with unshed tears.
***
The atmosphere at the PWHL game is completely different from the Canucks game. The arena is smaller, more intimate, but the energy is just as potent. It’s a different kind of energy, though. It’s less about corporate spectacle and more about pure, unadulterated passion. The crowd is full of families, of young girls in hockey jerseys, their faces painted, their eyes shining with excitement.
You don’t have glass seats this time. You’re just part of the crowd, and it feels wonderful. Elsie is practically bouncing in her seat, her eyes glued to the ice during warmups.
“She’s so fast!” Elsie exclaims, pointing at a player who streaks by. “Is she faster than you, Quinn?”
Quinn, sitting beside her with a bucket of popcorn, laughs. “Honestly? Yeah, Elsie, she might be. Her first three steps are explosive. She’s incredible.” He speaks about the players with genuine respect and admiration, pointing out a defenseman’s smart stick work or a forward’s creative passing.
He’s not just here to make a point. He’s a fan.
The game is a revelation. It’s fast, skilled, and incredibly tough. There’s a beauty to it, a flow and creativity that you didn’t see in the men’s game. Elsie is mesmerized. She doesn’t just see hockey players. She sees her future. She sees possibility.
During the second intermission, you turn to him, the noise of the arena fading into a dull hum.
“Thank you for this,” you say, your voice full of an emotion you can’t quite name. “This … this is one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me. For her.”
He just shakes his head, as if it’s nothing. “I told you. This is the important stuff.”
After the game — a thrilling overtime win for the home team — the crowd streams out, buzzing with excitement. But Quinn leads you in a different direction. Down a series of concrete corridors, past security guards who nod at him respectfully.
“Where are we going?” You ask, your heart starting to beat a little faster.
“Just a little surprise,” he says with a grin.
He pushes open a heavy door, and you’re hit with a wave of noise and the smell of sweat and victory. You’re in the hallway just outside the locker room. Players are milling about, laughing, their faces flushed, their hair matted with sweat.
A woman with a warm, familiar smile and a captain’s C on her jersey turns as you enter. It’s Sarah Nurse. A Canadian icon. An Olympic hero.
Quinn smiles. “Sarah, hey. Great game.”
“Hughes! What are you doing slumming it over here?” She says, her voice friendly and teasing. She gives him a quick hug.
“I’m scouting for the competition,” he jokes. “Listen, I wanted to introduce you to someone. This is my friend, Y/N. And this,” he says, placing a gentle hand on Elsie’s shoulder, “is Elsie. She’s an Ice Cat, and she’s your newest and biggest fan.”
Sarah’s famous smile turns to your daughter. All the intensity from the game melts away, replaced by a genuine warmth. She crouches down so she’s eye-to-eye with Elsie.
“An Ice Cat, huh?” She says. “I’ve heard you guys are tough. I saw you watching from the stands. You’ve got a good cheering voice.”
Elsie is completely star-struck, her mouth slightly agape. She just nods, clutching the strap of her little purse.
“You keep working on that skating,” Sarah says, tapping Elsie lightly on the nose. “It’s the most important part. You work on that, and you can do anything.” She straightens up and looks around, grabbing a stick that’s leaning against the wall. She takes a silver sharpie from a trainer. “How do you spell your name, Ice Cat?”
You spell it out for your speechless daughter, voice sounding distant to your own ears. Sarah signs the blade of the stick. To Elsie. Dream big. Skate hard. - Sarah Nurse
She hands the stick to Elsie, whose eyes look like they are about to pop out of her head.
You watch this scene unfold. You see Quinn in the background, not seeking any of the spotlight, just watching with a proud, happy smile on his face. You see this incredible, powerful athlete taking the time to make your daughter feel like the most important person in the world. You see Elsie, holding a stick signed by her new hero, her world cracked wide open, her future suddenly limitless.
Everything inside you clicks into place. All the fear, all the hesitation, all the baggage from your past that you’ve been dragging behind you for years, feels suddenly weightless. It all just floats away.
All that’s left is this. This man. This moment. This feeling of a love so profound and so real it takes your breath away.
***
The drive home is quiet. Elsie is in the back seat, fast asleep, the signed hockey stick lying carefully across her lap. The city lights blur past the car windows, painting streaks of color in the rain-slicked darkness.
The silence isn’t awkward. It’s full. It’s brimming with the unsaid emotions of the night.
You pull up to your apartment building, and Quinn puts the car in park. He kills the engine, and the only sound is the soft drumming of the rain on the roof.
You turn to him. “Quinn.”
“Yeah?” He says, his voice soft.
“What you did tonight …” you start, your voice trembling slightly. “For her. Showing her all of that … I don’t even have the words to thank you.”
He looks over at you, his face illuminated by the dim glow of a streetlight. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“Yes, I do,” you insist, tears welling in your eyes. “Because it’s not just about hockey. It’s … you see her. And you see me. In a way that I don’t think anyone ever has before.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his gaze searching yours. When he speaks, his voice is low and steady. “Y/N, from that first day in the sports store, when you thought I was a sales clerk and your daughter told me she had rocket feet … I knew.”
He reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. His thumb brushes away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.
“This isn’t just a casual thing for me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m not just hanging out. I haven’t known how to say it, because your life is complicated, and my life is crazy, and I didn’t want to push.”
He takes a deep breath. “But I can’t not say it anymore. I love you. I’m completely in love with you. And I’m in love with your loud, funny, brilliant little Ice Cat, too.”
The words you’ve been so afraid of, the feelings you’ve kept locked away, come tumbling out. “I love you, too,” you sob, a laugh catching in your throat. “I love you so much.”
“I’m all in,” he says, his voice firm, a promise. “Whatever this is, whatever this becomes. I am all in. With you, with Elsie. If you’ll have me.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “Always, yes.”
He leans across the console, and he kisses you. It’s not a frantic, passionate kiss. It’s a kiss of arrival. It’s a kiss that feels like coming home. It’s full of relief and certainty and the quiet, breathtaking promise of a future you had stopped letting yourself dream of.
He helps you carry a sleeping Elsie upstairs. You lay her in her bed, and he gently leans the signed stick against her nightstand, right next to the Canucks puck. They look like trophies from a life you never could have imagined.
He tucks her in, his movements sure and gentle. He kisses her forehead.
He turns to you in the dim light of the hallway, and he pulls you into his arms, holding you tight. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.
Outside, the Vancouver rain falls, washing the city clean. But it’s not just a gray drizzle anymore. It’s the sound of a new beginning. Not a frantic, running-away fresh start, but a real one. A quiet, beautiful, start of a life. With him.
“So,” he whispers into your hair. “What are we doing tomorrow?”
You smile into his shirt, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.
“Anything,” you whisper back. “As long as we’re doing it together.”
summary: oscar piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis. oscar piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year. oscar piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.
contains: university au, swimming team captain!reader, pre-med student!reader, cricket team captain!oscar, engineering student!oscar, rivals to lovers, fake dating, a lot of cursing, suggestive themes, slight angst with a happy ending, use of y/n and l/n (sparingly)
word count: 15k!! + social media au.
a/n: I have no idea how university sports actually work in other countries so just bear with me here I just made it up okay. also the BIGGEST thanks to @starry-132173 for reading this first, hearing me yap about this fic for WEEKS and contributing with GREAT ideas <3 lots of love
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"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"
"I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend until the season ends."
You're sure he hit his head really hard. He must have a concussion. He must have.
"Piastri, no one's going to believe that."
"Not with that attitude, they won't."
You scoff, staring at him in disbelief.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Oscar Piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year, when both of you joined your respective teams.
Oscar Piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.
What the actual fuck?
"Did you hit your head?" You finally ask, leaning closer to look at him across the cafeteria table, eyebrows furrowed with confusion and a hint of worry. "Are you okay? Are you maybe hallucinating right now?"
He rolls those brown eyes of his as if you're the one suggesting the craziest thing the whole campus has ever heard.
"Look, I just need the guys to get off my back. I need them to stop saying I'm married to cricket, you need the band, why not?"
"Why not?!" You repeat, still checking his face for any concussion signs. "Piastri, if you just need your stupid friends to stop commenting on the fact that you're a virgin, maybe just go ahead and fuck someone," your voice turns bitter as you hiss out the next words, "I'm pretty sure any girl from the stupid band you keep stealing from me would be up for the challenge."
"First of all, I'm not a virgin," he glares at you when you snort, "second of all, I don't want a relationship. I want to focus on my degree and on the cricket team. That's the point of getting a fake girlfriend, I don't have to put any effort into it."
You wonder if he'd let you do a quick examination to make sure he's actually not concussed. He must be.
"No one's going to believe that," you shake your head, repeating your words from before, "it makes absolutely no sense for us to start dating out of nowhere. We can barely stand each other."
"Well, why would anyone think we're fake dating in the first place? It's not exactly common."
"Yes, because it's fucking insane," you lean even more towards him, still shaking your head in denial, "and why me, of all people? We're not friends. Why the fuck would you want to fake date me?"
"Because I'll definitely not put any effort into it if it's you, so it's not going to affect my real priorities."
You're not offended.
Okay, maybe a little bit.
"No."
He furrows his eyebrows, and you wonder how the fuck he has the nerve to look confused, "no?"
"For half the band? For one competition? No. That's not worth it."
He blinks.
"Okay. The entire band."
"No," you cross your arms and lean back against your chair, eyebrows rising as you stare at him, unimpressed, "I've done most competitions without them. It'll suck, yes, but still not worth it."
Piastri pauses. The air between the two of you is filled with tension, as it usually is. It feels like a battle, and the two of you bargain like politicians like you always have.
"Every competition for the rest of the season."
That grabs your attention.
"Every competition?" He nods and your eyes narrow with suspicion. "Every competition? Every round through nationals? Every single one?"
He nods again.
"Even if there's an important cricket game on the same day?"
His nose twitches in annoyance at the question. "If we get through the quarter and semifinals and the finals are on the same day, we split the band."
You stare at him. Wonder for the fifth time if he's having some sort of psychological crisis. If he's concussed.
The band for every competition for the rest of the season.
You see, getting the band to play at a game or a competition is a privilege team captais fight tooth and nail for. It boosts morale, hypes up the teams, and usually makes the opponent feel a little more tense.
If there were two games or competitions in the same day, fucking Charles Leclerc, who all the team captains jokingly called band captain, liked to say it was first come, first served.
And you and Oscar Piastri had been fighting over the university band ever since you got into college — and God, was it a losing game for you.
Sure, there's a slight chance other teams may need the band on the same days the two of you did, but it never usually happens. Other sports have games and competitions on other days of the week.
Cricket and swimming are the ones that share Sundays.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
"So we get the entire band for the rest of the season and split the band if you guys get to the finals."
"We will get to the finals, but yes."
There's a quiet beat as you just look at him, thinking, pondering.
"And we just have to date until the season ends?" You uncross your arms slowly.
"Fake date."
"Don't get technical on me now, Piastri."
You think you see a shadow of smile on his lips before it disappears.
"Yes, just for the next two months or so, and then you're rid of me. We can act like none of this ever happened."
"Okay," he perks up at the word, but you shoot his hope down quickly, "I'll think about it," he deflates, "I can give you an answer on Thursday."
He lifts one of his eyebrows at you.
"Charles won't like it if he has to change plans for the band too close to Sunday."
You stand from your chair, already grabbing your backpack from the floor while he watches you. You look down at him.
"That's Leclerc's problem. Thursday, Piastri."
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liked by alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes and 1,478 others
yourusername practice day❤️
tagged: alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes
kikagomes love youuu ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux ay ay captain 🫡🫡🫡 ♡ liked by yourusername
freshman1 sooo cool!!
freshman2 YESSSS
pierregasly amazing work from our girls!!!
↳ kikagomes darling don't say it like that it sounds weird af ♡ liked by yourusername
francolapinto I leave early ONE DAY and you post pictures without me. I see how it is.
↳ yourusername yes that's exactly how it is!!!!!
liked by landonorris, olliebearman and 3,214 others
oscarpiastri Good work today as always, keep pushing
"Okay, so we need to set some ground rules," you tell Piastri later that evening, when you meet at the campus café to discuss the details of this mess you've gotten into. "And we can't be long, because I have to be up at 5 for tomorrow's practice, so try not to waste too much of my time."
"You know, if you're going to be my fake girlfriend, I think you'll need to be a little nicer to me," he raises his eyebrows at you, crossing his arms and watching quietly as you order a cappuccino at the counter.
"Alright, I'll be nicer to you in public," you answer when the barista starts making your order, turning your body away from the counter and towards him, "what else?"
His eyes narrow in suspicion.
"You're serious about setting rules."
"Obviously," you roll your eyes, "I'm not letting you just do and say whatever you want about this fake relationship of ours, Piastri. I don't trust you like that."
He hums in acknowledgement, the quiet whirring of the coffee machine comfortable inside the warm establishment.
"Fine. You can't tell your swimming friends the relationship is fake."
Your eyes widen. "Piastri, I can't keep that from them. This is for your friends, not for mine, and those guys see me basically every day and know me better than everyone, even the freshmen — they're not gonna believe me if I say we just started dating out of nowhere.”
"We’ll make up a love story, I don't know," he shrugs, "but they can't know. Alexandra would tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone, and then my plan would be ruined."
You sigh deeply before nodding, uncertain. You’re not sure how you feel about lying to your swimming friends — your best friends.
… but he is right. Alex would definitely tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone.
"Okay. Alright, okay. I'll figure it out."
The barista calls out your name and you turn to grab your hot drink, smiling at the barista before turning to Piastri again.
"Aren't you gonna get anything?"
He shakes his head. "I don't drink coffee."
"You engineering freak," is your muttered answer, moving towards one of the small tables and immediately sitting down, watching him as he sits across from you. "Anything else?"
He seems to think it over for a second, gaze going from you to the coffee machine behind the counter and then back to you again.
"If any of my game dates don't match yours, you'll have to go watch me play. Supportive girlfriend and all."
"Well, only if you watch my swimming competitions as well," you twitch your nose at him, bringing the mug to your lips, "supportive boyfriend and all."
You don't notice the way his eyes focus on your mouth as you take a long sip. Piastri clears his throat loudly, looking away. You don't notice how a light flush paints his cheeks either.
"Sure, I can do that," he nods, clearing his throat again before his tone takes a condescending turn, "what about you? No rules?"
"Oh, I've got many rules," your smile is so forced even the barista, from the other side of the café, can see through it, "first things first, I want flowers. Once a month, at least."
His eyebrows shoot up.
"I told you I didn't want to put in any effort."
"I literally couldn't give less of a shit," you take another sip, clearly unimpressed, "I told you you're not going to be a deadbeat fake boyfriend. There's only a couple of months until the season ends, you can do flowers."
He sighs loudly, leaning his back against the chair and staring at the ceiling.
"Of course you'd be a high maintenance fake girlfriend."
"Don't piss me off, everyone knows I wouldn't have a disinterested boyfriend," your eyes are filled with amusement, "you have to make me swoon, Piastri. I wouldn't date someone that isn't willing to sweep me off my feet."
"Sweep you off your feet, got it," his eyes lingered on the curve of your smile, "go on."
"Okay," you set the mug down, "you have to pick me up from swimming practice every morning."
"Are you serious?" He all but moans, staring at you in disbelief. "You guys practice at the crack of dawn."
"It's called discipline," you snap back, "yes, I'm serious.”
He groans.
“Fine.”
“And you have to post me somewhat regularly. I'm not willing to be someone's secret fake girlfriend."
He sighs again, but nods in agreement.
"And you can't fuck anyone while we're doing this. I mean, not that I think you're capable of fucking anyone, but I don't want any gossip about getting cheated on."
He scoffs at the insult, but doesn't seem too offended.
"I wouldn't do that to you," he rolls his eyes, "obviously."
Piastri watches surprise flicker through your features.
You’re vaguely aware that Piastri isn’t devil on Earth, much less that bad of a guy. Still, you don’t expect the readiness of it — the obviously, the consideration. It sends a tingle through your chest.
You elect to ignore it.
"You have to volunteer at my lab."
"What?"
"We don't have enough volunteers for our current research," you shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, taking another sip from your drink, "I'd clearly make my boyfriend do that for me. It's nothing much, we'll just make you run and do a few exercises. You'll be fine. And, at last — no kissing."
Piastri lifts his eyebrows.
"No kissing?"
"Oh, don't look at me like that," you kick him beneath the table, rolling your eyes when he glares at you, "I don't want to kiss you, period."
"That's gonna ruin our plan," he shakes his head, brow furrowed, "what, I win a game and don't kiss my girlfriend in celebration? That's ridiculous."
You ponder it for a second. A slight breeze comes through the window and you sigh at the feeling. Piastri watches it carefully.
"Okay," you concede, "you can kiss me after the finals, if you win and I'm there."
"That's ridiculous," he repeats. "Just the finals?"
You nod.
"Just the finals."
He sighs tiredly, running a hand through his hair.
"Fine, okay. But you have to be nice and affectionate with me when we're in public, even if we don't kiss. Hold hands, hugs, all that stuff."
"You're really greedy for someone who didn't want to put in effort, you know?" You lean forward slightly, eyes focusing on his.
"Aren't you the one who wants to be swooned?" There's no friendliness in his teasing, and you roll your eyes again.
"Oh, you're not gonna swoon me. You'll just act like you can, Piastri."
He scoffs.
"I guess we'll see about that."
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"You know, you have a pretty nice car."
He does. The seat is cushioned to no end, the drive is almost silent, and, even though the music volume is low, you can tell the sound is insanely good.
You wouldn't be able to say what car it is, but it did make your eyes widen when it stopped by the pool's entrance, and the silence is so awkward you can barely handle it.
Not that you feel any joy in talking to Piastri, of course. Still, the discomfort of it all is getting to you.
"Thanks," his tone is dry, but you can hear the hint of confusion in his voice.
Maybe he's as surprised as you are that you're trying to, what? Start conversation with Oscar Piastri of all people?
"How was practice?"
Your eyebrows shoot up at the question. His furrow. Neither of you expected him to keep the conversation going either.
"It was okay," you answer carefully. It feels weird to talk to him without trying to start a fight. "We're taking a rest day tomorrow so we aren't too tired for the competition on Sunday."
"Cricket takes two rest days before games," he mutters, eyes on the road.
"Are you trying to compete with me over rest days, Piastri? I didn't ask."
Well, there goes not trying to start a fight.
You're not sure why you do it. He's being exceptionally polite, and he got out of the car to open the door for you even though no one could see it, which was, perhaps, the weirdest thing that had ever happened to you.
He'd actually shown up, as well. Right on time as practice ended. You don't even think you told him what time you'd be done with swimming for the morning.
Maybe you just feel defensive. Maybe you just don't know how to act in this situation, don't know how to talk to him.
His gaze flies towards you for a mere second before focusing on the campus streets again.
"You're insane," his expression doesn't even change when he says it, and somehow that makes it worse.
Well. You started conversation and then immediately shut him out the moment he tried to keep it going.
Maybe you are insane, and you definitely feel a little bad about it, but not enough to apologize or say anything else.
The last minutes of the ride are spent in that same awkward silence. When he stops the car, you move to open the door on the passenger side, but he moves quicker — in a couple of seconds, he gets out the car, around it, and opens the door for you.
You gape at him like a fish out of water as you slowly get out the car, his hand still firmly gripping the handle.
You look around. He drove you back to your dorm building as you had asked, and only a few students walk nearby, most of them not even noticing the two of you. Some stare.
He closes the door as you sling your backpack over your shoulder.
"You don't need to do that everytime," you mutter awkwardly, feeling heat creep up your cheeks, "I can open the door by myself."
Once more, Piastri is quicker than you. He leans down and plants a quick kiss on your warm cheek, ignoring the surprised gasp that leaves your lips.
"You're insane, but you also prohibited me from being a deadbeat fake boyfriend," he shrugs, but you see the way his mouth curves in a smirk at your startled reaction. "Have a good day."
And, in a second, he's back in his car and driving away.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Opening doors and kissing your cheek.
A sophomore you're pretty sure plays in the university band flashes you a smile as she walks by, but you don't acknowledge it nor do you move. You just watch his car get smaller and smaller as he drives it away.
God, you should not have agreed to this.
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You're very particular about competition days.
You joined the swimming team mere months after you started university, and it felt like a much needed outlet for any frustration you felt towards everything else going on in your life. Pre-med was no joke, and you were known for being either at the pool, at the library, or at the PT research lab.
Married to swimming and school work, just like Piastri's friends say he's married to cricket. You try not to dwell on that similarity.
Swimming is where you feel most at ease — it's where you can finally breathe, funnily enough, and mornings feel incomplete without it.
Of course you're passionate about the sport. More than passionate, if your frequent angry outbursts at Charles Leclerc are anything to go by.
You see, it isn't always Piastri's fault that the band doesn't show up to swimming competitions. The cricket and swimming calendars don't always align and, even though they do align enough to annoy the shit out of you, you have to admit Piastri can't take the blame every single time.
Sometimes they have to be somewhere else, sometimes they have their own competitions, and there was even a time or two when the university dean asked them to play at a board event. It all culminates in the fact the band hasn't shown up to any swimming competitions all season, which pisses you off to no end.
The swimming team has never gotten this close to nationals, at least not in recent history. This might be the most important competition day ever since you joined the team, bright-eyed, shy, excited.
You take your breakfast like you always do — not too light to be hungry, not too heavy to vomit into the pool, a lesson freshman you had to learn the hard way. You stretch before you even leave your dorm and you check your backpack a thousand times to be sure you haven't forgotten anything, rechecking for your lucky swimming cap a thousand times more.
When you finally meet the rest of the team at the state pool, your hands are trembling more than a captain's hands should. Alex and Kika are bursting with energy, and Franco all but jumps in his own spot. The new freshmen look ready to throw up.
"Okay," you clear your throat when your voice cracks, nerves fighting to get the best of you, "this is our most important competition to date."
"Damn, no pressure," Franco mutters, shrugging when you glare his way. For a semi-freshman, you're always surprised by how much shit he says.
"If we win, we go to nationals. The band is here," you wave towards the bleachers by the side of the pool, directly next to the other teams, which you suppose is purposeful, "and everyone expects us to do at least somewhat well."
"Again, no pressure," Kika rolls her eyes with amusement and directs a soft smile to the freshmen, "we'll just do our best."
"No," you shake your head, tightening your fists to stop their trembling, looking at each and every person in your team with determination as you take in a deep breath, pushing away your anxiety, even if you still feel it, "we'll do more than our best, and we'll win. We're fast as fuck and the best swimmers in the world and this competition will be a breeze. Leclerc will play trumpets on their ears and they'll be no match for us."
Alex lets out a laugh at that, but some of the freshmen puff out their chests.
"I believe in each and every one of you," you nod. "Don't let me down, and I won't let you down either. Now, let's get ready to win."
The team lets out cheers, clapping as they start moving toward their spots around the pool, some stretching, others sighing and trying to shake out the nervousness.
"That's why she's the captain," you hear someone mumble, and feel almost guilty over how untrue that sounds.
Saying it is one thing, believing it is entirely another.
If there's someone feeling the pressure, it's you. You, who committed to being team captain before you were even a senior. You, who pushed every teammate to their limit during pratice every morning. You, who agreed to fake date your archnemesis to make sure you'd have a supportive audience at this pool.
Minutes later, the whistle sounds.
You can still hear the band with your head underwater.
✶✶✶
liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 9,987 others
swimteam Congratulations to all of our athletes for absolutely DOMINATING all swimming categories on the state competition today and therefore qualifying to NATIONALS!
And shout out to our captain @.yourusername for setting the new state record for the 800m front crawl category ❤️
yourusername FUCKING LOVE YOU GUYS I'M SO HAPPY!!!!!!! ♡ liked by swimteam
oscarpiastri What a great job from the team! ♡ liked by swimteam
↳ kikagomes 👀
francolapinto first full season and already going to nationals maybe i'm a good luck charm? ♡ liked by swimteam
pierregasly YESSSSSSS ♡ liked by swimteam
charles_leclerc Congratulations to the team! I'm so grateful I was there to witness this ♡ liked by swimteam
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liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 5,321 others
yourusername feeling actually insane. what a crazy fucking weekend. thank you guys for everything @.swimteam ❤️ WE'RE FUCKING GOING TO NATIONALS
also thank you @.charles_leclerc and the whole band for being there, couldn't have done it without you
kikagomes BEST CAPTAIN THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEEEEEEEEEN ♡ liked by yourusername
freshman1 you are THE GOAT ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux OH HELLO STATE RECORD HOLDER ♡ liked by yourusername
oscarpiastri Beautiful work babe ❤️
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↳ alexandrasaintmleux hmmm hi?
↳ landonorris mate???
↳ yourusername ❤️
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✶✶✶
When you leave the pool on Tuesday, Alex and Kika walking beside you, Piastri is already waiting outside.
Piastri is waiting outside with flowers.
You stop dead in place at the sight, gaping at him as you hear Alex and Kika gasp.
Not any flowers, either. Pink camellias and a few white gardenias, all wrapped up in brown paper and a nice white bow. He smiles at you so wide when he sees you that you feel your cheeks grow warm.
"There's my girl!" He walks towards you in wide strides, immediately leaning down to kiss your face. You just stare as he puts the delicate flowers into your hands and turns his head toward your friends. "You guys did great on Sunday. Are you excited to go to nationals?"
Alex and Kika can't seem to speak, staring at him in utter shock as you look down at your flowers.
You suppose you did ask for it, yes. You didn't expect him to deliver, though, at least not like this. Perhaps some simple roses. Maybe daisies.
The silence stretches. Piastri clears his throat.
"Well. Should we... Go?" He looks at you when he asks it, uncertain, but you just look down at the pretty bouquet sitting between your hands.
He says your name quietly and that's what snaps you back into reality.
"Yes. Yes, of course," you shoot a smile to your friends, barely registering their shocked glances to each other, "I'll see you tomorrow, guys!"
The girls watch as he opens the door for you and walks around the front of the car to get into the driver's seat, waving at them before closing his own door.
"So," the car starts to move, "how was practice?"
You blink down at the flowers, and then back up at him.
"You got me flowers."
"Yes, I did," he nods and glances at you, "I didn't know which ones you liked, so I just picked the ones I thought looked nicer. Are they okay?"
You look down at the flowers again. Beautiful, fresh, colorful, staring up at you brightly.
"You could've just gotten roses or something."
"Nah," Piastri shakes his head, eyes focusing on the road, "roses are too basic, and we've already come to the conclusion that you're high maintenance."
"That's..." you open your mouth to speak and find yourself at a loss for words, "thank you?"
"Don't thank me yet," he glances at you again, "I have a favor to ask you."
You groan, setting the flowers down on your lap as your stare at him, grateful for the sudden annoyance that can distract you from how fucking flustered you are.
"Another one, Piastri?"
"Look, Lando is throwing a party this weekend to celebrate our quarter finals, since we couldn't celebrate on Sunday after getting the news that Jack won't be able to play for the rest of the season. I've told him I'm seeing someone, so they said I should bring you."
"Someone? You haven't told them it's me?" Your eyes narrow at him, gripping the flower stems a little tighter.
"No, I thought you'd prefer it if we told people on your terms," he glances at you again, "hence why the party could be a good place for it."
For what feels like the thousandth time during this car ride, you blink at him.
"That's surprisingly considerate."
He rolls his eyes.
"I am considerate, just like I am nice," you watch as he sighs, "you can invite the swimming team if you want."
"I never took you for a party guy," your eyes turn to your flowers again, chest tightening at how lovely they look, at how the colors complement each other.
"I'm not," Piastri agrees, and your focus moves to the way his hands turn the steering wheel, taking a right, "but it'd be awkward if the team captain doesn't go to the team's celebration party, you know? And, again, it'd be a good place for us to make it official."
"Make it fake official," you mutter, forcing yourself to look back at the flowers.
You don't miss the way his lips curl into a teasing smile. You hate the way your face tingles with warmth.
"Don't get technical on me now, L/N."
A chuckle escapes you, and his smile grows wider. He turns a left and you notice you're on your street.
"Fine," you sigh tiredly, "but you're picking me up for that too."
He laughs back and, for some reason, you hate it.
"Of course."
✶✶✶
✶✶✶
"You know, you could've just said we needed to meet to align what story we're telling everyone, you didn't need to scare the crap out of me."
"Oh, don't be so dramatic."
You throw a pillow at Piastri, who sits on your desk on the other side of your room, chair moved so he can look at you. You huff when he catches it.
"Besides, if it was something worth getting worried about, you're not exactly the person I'd be texting. We're not close like that."
You think you see hurt flicker through his expression, but it's gone before you can be sure.
Piastri has never been in your dorm room before.
Your roommate is out for the day, and never in his life did Piastri think he'd ever be alone in your room with you.
The dorm is surprisingly untidy. For all your talk of discipline, there's clothes hanging from the desk chair, a little pile of shoes on the floor. Your desk table is a complete mess — papers everywhere, books on top of each other, your sunglasses too close to the edge. By the desk, there's a duffle bag filled to the top with clothes, a couple of swimming goggles, a clean swimsuit, and an assortment of swimming caps.
"The party is tomorrow night," you remind him, "I won't be able to escape Alex and Kika there. What are we gonna tell them?"
"Well, I don't know," he crosses his arms, not a hint of emotion on his tone, "maybe you just fell for my crazy charm and begged to go out with me?"
You laugh so loudly the sound rings in his ears, and Piastri can't help but smirk.
"No one is going to believe that," you shake your head and he doesn't take it personally, "we need to think of something better."
There's a beat of silence as the two of you try to think of a good story to explain how, miraculously, you got together.
You and Oscar Piastri. Well, that would be hard to explain, wouldn't it? You hadn't liked him for years now, and what could have possibly changed that?
"Maybe we kissed at Gasly's party a month ago," he suggests, and you arch your eyebrow.
"The one where you looked uncomfortable the entire time and left early?"
He tilts his head in surprise. "You noticed?"
"I mean—not like that," you roll your eyes, but there's no denying the warmth on your face, "I just saw you a couple of times, that's all."
There's another beat of silence, and you wonder if you can swallow back your words and choke on them.
"Okay," he nods slowly. "Maybe you saw me leaving, went after me to see if I was okay, and we kissed."
"Why would I check up on you?" You blurt out and immediately wish you could swallow those words, as well.
"Because you're nice to people," he says quietly, looking away from you, "so maybe you were just being nice."
It's stupid, but you feel a pang on the left side of your chest.
"Yeah, okay. That seems fair," you swallow, and your throat hurts, "I was drunk and you looked sad and pitiful, so I kissed you."
There's a slight lilt to his lips. "You kissed me?"
"Obviously," you match his small smile, "I wear the fake pants in this fake relationship, Piastri. I kissed you."
He lets out a snort and your smile widens.
"Sure, okay. What then? You asked me out?"
"No, I didn't," you lean back against your bedrest, head turned to look at him, "I kissed you and you were so overwhelmed with joy that you asked me out on the spot."
Piastri really laughs this time, and you allow yourself to grin at him. He notices and grins back.
"Did you say yes?"
You shrug, but the smile stays on your face. "If you looked pitiful enough, I might have."
"Oh, so you only accepted because I looked pitiful?" The teasing tone to his voice sounds nice. You've never heard it from him, not without any annoyance behind it.
"Obviously," you throw another pillow at him and he catches it again, "I have a soft spot for sad men."
He throws the pillow back and you catch it clumsily. He shakes his head and lets out another chuckle. "Of course you do."
"We hung out in secret for a while," you keep the story going, resting your chin on your hands as you look at him, thoughtful, "I wasn't sure if it was serious or not, and you're married to cricket."
He nods, still smiling. The flowers he gave you on Tuesday are on top of your bedside table, he notices, inside a jar filled with water and still holding up. They bring some color to the space. He feels flattered you actually still have them.
"Maybe—" he hesitates, face falling, and you gesture for him to continue. He clears his throat, "maybe that day when you messaged me about the band, my favor was for you to be my girlfriend officially."
You study him for a second. The deep brown eyes, his strong jaw, his lips no longer forming that smile you were growing to enjoy. He looks a little embarrassed, a little uncomfortable, just like he had that night at Gasly's party. Some strange part of you wants to see him grin at you again.
"That's a good idea," you nod slowly. "Would make the timeline add up."
"Exactly," he nods back.
That awkward silence settles in again, the one that fills his car when he drives you back to your dorm, the one that swims between your text messages.
You don't know what it is. There are times when you talk and laugh and chat like normal people — acquaintances, at least. Other times, it seems you've never met before, like you just have no idea how to act with each other.
You don't know how to act with each other. It's been years of angry glances, sarcastic answers, underhanded compliments. Mainly from your part, you realize, even though you know for certain that he has gone after his way to get the band when he knew you wanted it for a swimming competition.
Even then, is that sufficient reason for the weird relationship you two have always had?
Piastri seems to be asking himself the same questions, because the next words out of his mouth are, "why do you hate me so much?"
You blink at him, surprised by the question.
"I don't hate you, Piastri."
"I mean, you sort of do," he crosses his arms again, almost as if trying to make himself smaller, "I know you're... Intense, but you don't seem to have this much of a problem with other people."
You think it over for a few seconds. It's true. While you've had issues with almost everyone in the student athletic association and in band, with Piastri it's always been personal — it's not just sports and business like it is with others.
"I mean, you do make it your mission to steal band from me all the time."
He shakes his head, "you know it's more than that. Yes, I do try to steal band from you every Sunday. I know how much you like the band, and in a selfish way I guess I want to upset you in the same way you upset me by— I don't know, just being mad at me all the time."
Your eyebrows furrow and your voice goes a little quieter. "It upsets you?"
"Of course it does."
You look at him closely, his arms still crossed, clearly uncomfortable sitting in your dorm, asking you questions that haunted him since freshman year.
"It's stupid," you murmur, and he immediately leans forward to listen, interested, "you pranked me in freshman year."
Piastri looks at your startled, eyebrows shooting up. "What?"
"When we started university," you start, feeling so embarrassed you wish you could bury yourself in a hole, "I met you at one of those welcome cocktails, do you remember?"
He nods, confused.
"Well, we talked a bunch that night. I had a lot of fun. I thought you were really cute, too," you look away, the embarrassment increasing tenfold as you avoid his gaze, cheeks glowing red, "so I asked for your number, and you gave me a fake one. I tried to text you and it just didn't exist. Never felt that humiliated in my life," you laugh humorlessly, "I know it's stupid, but I just could never really like you after that. It was awful because you were always so nice to everyone, and I didn't understand why you did that. You could've just said no, you know? And then the following year I became more involved with the swimming team and you were just a dick about the band. So yeah, I guess that's how it started."
When you finally gather the courage to glance at Piastri again, you don't think you've ever seen him look this confused in his life. It makes you feel even more embarrassed, the way his eyebrows furrow with no understanding.
"I remember that night," he concedes, and then shakes his head in denial. "We talked, and I gave you my phone number and you never reached out until sophomore year, when we started talking—well, when we started fighting over the band."
It's your turn to look confused.
"No, you didn't give me a real number, Piastri. I had to get your number from someone else later."
"I did not give you a fake number," his voice is solid, firm, and he stares at you with certainty. "Maybe you heard one of the numbers wrong due to the party noise, or I mixed something up, I had just changed numbers at the time. But I did not give you a fake number. I wanted to talk to you."
You stare back at him, unsure on how to answer. You weren't hurt by that anymore — it happened years ago and, at this point, you didn't care. But it was the starting point of your distaste towards him, and it had tainted the first following interactions. The image of him that stuck with you had been that one — smiling Piastri, sweet and polite, giving you hope and butterflies and a fake number, a dead end.
Polite enough to not be cruel to your face, to let you feel the humiliation and embarrassment on your own on the next day, seeing every message refuse to go through.
And to know that that wasn't what had happened? That maybe it had all been a silly misunderstanding, and you held a grudge over nothing?
Well, that was awkward.
"I—well, it doesn't matter," you try to shift the topic, letting out an uneasy chuckle, "it was years ago, and it's not like I'm still upset at you because of that. Nowadays, my only issue with you is the band and the fact that you're always a little shit about it."
"It does matter," he presses, and you notice the way his finger grip the edges of your desk chair so tight his knuckles go white, "it matters to me. I did not give you a fake number. It wasn't a prank."
"Piastri—"
"I promise you I didn't. I wouldn't have done that, even if I didn't want you to have my number, and I did."
"Piastri, it's fine," you insist, still avoiding his gaze, "I can promise you I'm over something that happened when we were 18." You pause. "But it's good to know you didn't do it on purpose. Makes it a little less embarrassing, I think."
He doesn't answer, just studies you quietly. Maybe he's waiting for something. You're not sure what it is. Your heart beats loudly inside your chest. You suppose this shouldn't change anything, but it does.
Not the fact that he didn't mean to give you the wrong number, no, but the fact he cares so much about it. About you knowing he wanted to talk to you, that he gave you the right number, that he waited for you to text him.
"So," you clear your throat, face flaming red, "the party this weekend."
✶✶✶
liked by yourusername, landonorris and 3,215 others
oscarpiastri incredible night out with my girlfriend, the state record holder for 800m front crawl
tagged: yourusername
yourusername LMAOOOO
yourusername looking good piastri ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
↳ landonorris dating the guy and still calling him by his last name my man can never win
↳↳ yourusername it's my brand at this point
francolapinto still can't believe you refused to kiss for the camera i just wanted to capture this monumental moment
↳ yourusername weirdo
username1 can i say that as a fellow colleague i ALWAYS thought you guys would look cute together ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
kikagomes CUTIESSSSS ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 2,741 others
yourusername coffee date
tagged: oscarpiastri
kikagomes the hard launch i can't ♡ liked by yourusername
kimiantonelli you guys are like parents to me ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux did you guys go grab coffee immediately after the party 😭😭😭
↳ yourusername perhaps
oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername ❤️❤️❤️
username1 power couple ❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername
landonorris i can't believe you guys are really dating we thought he was lying ♡ liked by yourusername
✶✶✶
A week later, Piastri waits for you to get ready for lab after bringing you to your dorm.
"I said I'd volunteer to help with your research," he explains when you stare at him quizzically, shruging as if it's just obvious.
And you guess it is. He did say he'd do it.
Besides, getting a ride to lab does feel quite nice. The awkwardness and silences from that first week seem to be dissipating slowly after you two managed to actually enjoy being together at Lando's party, even if you didn't do much besides dance with your friends and let him put his arm around your back a few times. You ask about cricket, he asks about swimming. He tells you about his engineering degree and how excited he is to get a job in the market, and you tell him all about doing physical therapy as pre-med and about how much work you're putting into it. He listens. He asks questions.
You find yourself enjoying those few minutes between the pool and your dorm more than you ever did. Worst of all, you find yourself looking forward to the way he laughs.
You're not friends, per se. You barely text outside of quick "I'm here" or "waiting for you" messages when he comes to pick you up, and your conversations don't ever stray much from your sports and your classes.
But it's nice to talk to him normally, to talk without feeling like there's a ticking bomb waiting for you to start an argument. You don't even feel angry or irritated at him anymore, not even when he jokes around too much or says something stupid.
When you arrive, your colleagues are absolutely ecstatic that you’ve brought them what is, essentially, a lab rat. Piastri barely introduces himself before they have him hooked up to a bunch of wires, monitoring his body’s responses as they make him jump, run, and do a thousand little exercises, moving his arms this or that way, flexing his legs.
You have to admit his calm demeanor and politeness are somewhat captivating. He’s extremely nice to everyone in your lab, and he asks them for details and information on your research, which, as everyone knows, is enough to make any academic’s heart soar.
Oscar smiles softly at you whenever you’re the one to come check on his wires, tell him to move in a specific manner. He obeys solemnly, calling you “doctor” and chuckling when you roll your eyes at him, unable to mask your grin.
Your colleagues make him promise to come back in the following week. He laughs and agrees, planting a kiss on the top of your head and telling you to text him when you get home before leaving.
You still have a smile on your face after he's gone, making notes and studying the data with a lightness on your chest. When your professor clears her throat and your eyes meet hers, your face is bright.
"So, that was your boyfriend, huh?" She smiles knowingly, looking you up and down.
"Yeah," you smile back, glancing back at the numbers and lines on the lab computer, "you know me, I had to force him to volunteer."
She chuckles at your answer, leaning her hip against your work desk.
"I can tell he really likes you," you turn your face towards her again, "just by the way he looks at you. You've got that man hooked, Ms. L/N." She claps your shoulder. "Good luck with that data, let me know when you're done so I can look it over."
You try to smile back, try to take it in stride. She gives you a wink before walking away, asking someone else a question and leaving as if your heart wasn't breaking a little bit.
Oscar must be good at this pretending thing, if even your lab professor thinks he's in love with you. You do nothing but smile a little more at him and actually look him in the eye, while he's the one giving you cheek kisses, opening doors for you, and laughing at every joke you make.
You're not sure why it bothers you, but it does. A lot.
✶✶✶
Another week later, you're preparing for the first round of nationals.
And Oscar has started to visit your dorm.
The first time it happens, it's a Monday. During the ride back from the pool, he asks if it'd be a good day for him to volunteer at the lab again, because he did promise he'd come back and he isn't sure if he'll be able to do it another time. You tell him he can wait for you to get ready inside your dorm instead of outside, in the car. Your roommate is leaving for her morning classes when the two of you arrive and shoots you a knowing look when she closes the door behind her, but doesn't say anything.
You don't say anything either. You just let him into the messy room, let him sit on top of your bed and between your pillows, let him ask questions about some of the books on your desk.
He keeps coming back, starts coming in after swimming practice and driving you from your dorm to the physical therapy building as well. You start asking questions back. What's his favorite book, is his dorm also a little untidy, who's his favorite teacher.
You tell him about your lucky swimming cap — the only one you wear during tournaments, the one you can't compete without, the one you check your duffle bag for a million times before leaving your dorm on competition days.
He tells you he has a lucky pair of socks for cricket games.
"Do you wash them?" You ask him then, wrinkling your nose, a smirk on your lips.
"Only when we lose," an amused grin covers his face, and it opens up with laughter as you gag, throwing a pillow at him that he quickly catches.
"You're nasty," your whole face scrunches up with disgust, shaking your head as if trying to shake the information away.
"Hey!" He objects between chuckles, smile bright. "If it works, it works."
Around the same time, the lingering touches start. You suppose it makes sense, considering the fact you're technically dating.
Oscar starts sitting with you on the cafeteria, holding your hand on top of the table, leaning his shoulder into yours. The tender kisses don't stop, they increase in frequency — on your cheek while he waits for you to get into the car, on your forehead when he leaves you after lunch, on the top of your head while you're hanging out with others.
You don't go out on dates. You don't have to — everyone knows how busy your lives are, so no one questions the way you're never seen out for dinner. Even then, it feels adequate. You're seen together everywhere, and you actually show up to one or two cricket team night practices to watch them play and wait for him before he drives you back to your dorm after a hard day.
Neither of you mention the way his hand sometimes searches for yours while he drives. Neither of you mention the fact he kisses your cheek even when there's no one around.
You're not sure when Oscar Piastri went from your archnemesis to your sort of touchy friend. You're not sure when you started texting him about annoying teachers, boring assignments, muscle aches from swimming. But you do, and he answers every time — he entertains you, makes jokes, asks questions, complains about his own classes.
Oscar Piastri becomes your friend.
And he isn't there during the first round of nationals because the cricket team has a friendly game to practice for the semifinals in the following week, but he texts you a string of four-leaf clover emojis for good luck and asks you to send him a picture wearing your lucky cap, which you do with a big smile on your face.
Oscar is nice, and considerate, and funny, and charming. He's more on the quiet side, yes, but he's so expressive and attentive that you just can't help but think that, if he didn't steal the band so often and you hadn't developed a grudge from a misunderstanding, maybe you could've been friends through the entirety of your graduation years.
Maybe this could've been real.
You try not to dwell on these thoughts, but it's impossible. You can't stop yourself from looking forward to the small kisses, the hand holding, the hugs, the car rides, the lunches, the talking in your dorm. The lines become blurry — how much are you really friends, and how much is it just pretending?
✶✶✶
"So, you and Piastri, huh?"
You look up from your duffle bag, hair still dripping wet with pool water.
Alexandra stares at you from a few feet away inside the locker room, drying herself calmly. Some of the other girls chat, energized from a productive practice and the good results from the first round of nationals, and none of them pay attention to you.
You clear your throat.
"Yeah," you look back down, trying to find the clean shirt you know is somewhere among the mess of your belongings, "Piastri and me."
Alex closes her locker carefully before walking closer to you, tone careful.
"Why didn't you tell me anything? I mean, you're my best friend, and I never thought—" she furrows her eyebrows in something between frustration and confusion, "I guess I just didn't see it coming."
"Oh, come on," you try to smile it off, finally picking up your shirt and standing straight to look back at her again. Your chest clenches for a reason you can't quite explain, "why are you asking me that now? We've been together for, what, a month?"
"I have to admit I thought it was a joke," she crosses her arms, "you've never liked the guy, and you didn't mention it even once."
"Of course it's not a joke. I mean, if it was, why wouldn't I tell you?" You cross your arms again, feeling strangely defensive even though you knew from the start that it would be difficult to hide the truth from Alex and Kika, specially Alex.
They knew everything about you. Why didn't they know you had been apparently seeing Oscar Piastri for an entire month before the two of you were officially dating? You didn't have an answer for that. They would've known if it was real.
"I don't know. Why didn't you tell me you were going out with him?" Her eyebrows furrow further, asking the exact question you don't kno how to answer. "I just don't understand why you kept it a secret. It's not like I would judge you or tell anyone or anything. You know that, right?"
"Of course I know that," your fingers tighten over the shirt they're holding, "I—it was just complicated. I didn't know if it was just a casual thing, you know?" You lean into the excuse you and Oscar had thought of weeks ago. "And he was too preoccupied with his degree and cricket and everything. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it if it wasn't anything serious."
"Oh, please," Alex rolls her eyes, "are you kidding? If you guys have always looked at each other the way you do, there's no way you thought it could be casual."
For a second, your entire body tenses, brain sending out sirens inside your head. You blink, and Alex looks at you expectantly.
"I—hum—what do you mean?" is all you can muster, feeling your face grow warm.
"You're joking, right?" She stares at you like you're stupid. You feel like it. "That man looks at you as if you hung the sun, the moon, and the stars in the sky. Whenever he has lunch with us, he just has eyes for you the entire time. Even when other people are speaking, he just keeps stealing glances at you. And you may not even notice, but he goes bright red whenever you smile at him. And the door opening? The cheek kisses? You cannot fool me into thinking you ever thought it could be casual when he's clearly head over heels for you."
A beat passes by. You just stare.
"And that's not even mentioning the way you look at him," she continues pointedly, "it's like he's the funniest, most brilliant person in the world, when, come on, he's nice, but he's still just Piastri."
"Oscar doesn't look at me like that," you answer late, mouth not quite catching up with your thoughts.
But did he? You never noticed. Did he look at you like that? Was he looking at you like that the whole time?
Was it even real? Did he look at you like that because he's supposed to be your boyfriend or because he actually couldn't help it?
No, it had to be because of your whole scheme. Oscar—Oscar was just now becoming your friend, he didn't—he couldn't—
Despite her growing irritation, Alex couldn't help but smile softly.
"He's really got you hooked, huh? I didn't think you'd ever be able to actually call him by his name."
Oh.
When did you start calling him Oscar? When did he become Oscar in your thoughts, and not just Piastri?
Did you look at him like that?
As if sensing your trouble, your phone starts to buzz. When you look down at it, laying on top of your open bag, his name pops up.
"He's... waiting for me outside," you stare up at Alex again. "I need to change and go."
"Look, you're my best friend," she repeats, small smile falling, "I just feel like there's something weird in all this, and I want you to know you can count on me, okay? I wanna hear all about this love story of yours. I just—I'm just really confused, honestly. Why didn't you say anything before you two started dating?"
Your phone buzzes again. You lean down to grab your bag, gesturing randomly towards the door.
"I'm gonna go change. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Why are you leaving like this?" She calls out, but you're already moving.
"I'm not," you call back, walking backwards so you can look at her, "I just can't do this right now."
You disappear before you can hear her response.
Ten minutes later, you're inside Oscar's car. He looks you up and down, your hair still dripping wet after running out without properly drying it, your eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, your mouth a straight line.
"Is everything okay?" He asks as he closes his door and starts the car.
"Alex cornered me to ask why I kept our relationship a secret from her."
You watch the way Oscar tenses.
"What did you say?"
"I didn't say anything," you shrug, looking out the window, "I sort of just ran away and left her at the locker room."
He snorts at that, and even though you still feel tense, you can't help but smile at the sound.
"Why would you run away?" He asks with amusement, shaking his head.
"I didn't know what to say!" You throw your arms up and, despite yourself, you feel the panic and discomfort from the conversation with Alex wash away in his presence, smile lingering on your lips.
"You could just tell her what sounds more believable," he suggests, but the smirk on his lips makes your eyes narrow teasingly, "that you fell for my unbelievable charm."
You laugh and he grins, glancing at you from the driver's seat.
"Oscar, no one would ever believe that."
You move your eyes from the window to his face, finding his own eyes mid-glance towards you. He sees your smile.
For the first time, you notice the way his cheeks turn pink.
✶✶✶
✶✶✶
When Oscar parks his car in front of your dorm building on Saturday, you’re already waiting for him, face warm as you watch him grab his phone to text you, barely aware of your figure standing outside. He’s usually the one who waits for you.
You watch him look towards the sidewalk lazily. You notice that he’s already in his cricket uniform, shoulders straight, ready for the game. His demeanor is calm, but you’ve heard him grumble enough to know how important this is to him — how much he wants to win.
The moment his eyes meet yours, you watch him blank, skin growing impossibly red as he looks you up and down.
You’re wearing his jersey. His number. His name on your back.
The moment Oscar sees you, he’s usually out of the car, opening the passenger door. This time, he stares. You almost feel self-conscious under his wide gaze, his mouth open, expression painted with surprise and something you can’t quite read.
For a moment, you think it’s awe.
You aren’t sure that's not just wishful thinking.
He snaps out of it when you start walking towards the car, stumbling over himself as he climbs out of the driver’s seat to open your door. His fingers touch the small of your back as you turn it to him while you get inside, and it sends an electric current through your spine. He closes the car door and walks over to get into his seat.
Oscar sits down, turns his head to stare at you again, skin bright red, eyes wide. You feel yourself shrink under his intense gaze.
“Do you… not like it?”
His eyes widen even further.
“What? No, I—hum—you—that’s my—hum—” somehow, his face grows even redder, and he clears his throat before speaking again, finally taking his stare away from you. “You look great. I’m—yeah. I love it,” he starts the engine and grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Your eyebrows furrow slightly, but a feeling akin to amusement starts to crawl up your throat, warmth creeping up your chest. “How—where—”
“I asked Norris if you guys had a spare jersey so I could surprise you,” you answer calmly, watching the way his jaw works, the way he stares straight ahead as the car starts to move. “He told me he had the perfect one.”
He looks flustered.
And, God, you enjoy it. You savor it. It makes your heart soar.
Oscar Piastri is gripping the wheel, deep scarlet, stumbling over his words because of you.
You don’t dwell on what it means. You try not to think too hard about it or about how much you like it. But you notice the way he keeps stealing glances, the way his neck burns red whenever he looks at you, the way he can barely speak the entire drive.
Oscar Piastri is your archnemesis.
“Beautiful, loving, and supportive girlfriend, huh?” You tease after a couple of minutes, turning your head to look at him. Somehow, his face turns an even deeper red.
“Shut up,” he mumbles in response, unable to hide his sheepish grin when you cackle at his answer.
And it's at that moment that you realize it, sitting on the passenger seat, watching him grin, wearing his colors, his jersey, his number, wishing he had his hand on your thigh the same way he did when the two of you gave Kika a ride after practice on Wednesday.
That moment while he groans something about annoying swimmer getting on my nerves and glances your way just to find you already studying him, while his fingers flex against the steering wheel, while he looks you up and down and blushes again at the sight.
It hits you hard, makes your breath catch, turns the corners of your vision fuzzy.
You're not sure when it happened, you're not sure how. You could barely stand him and, a month later, he's the one who makes you laugh, who gets you to relax after tense days with a cheek kiss and the sound of his voice as he drives you around. A month ago he was just Piastri.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Oscar Piastri, who has pissed you off at every given opportunity since freshman year, who stole band every Sunday, who was never anything but annoying.
Oscar Piastri, who sits on the desk chair inside your dorm and catches every pillow you throw at him.
Oscar Piastri, who the colleagues in your lab adore and call their favorite volunteer.
Oscar Piastri, who smiles at you and lets his hand linger on the small of your back and kisses your forehead to say goodbye — never your mouth, because you told him not to. Never your mouth, and he still manages to make the soft kisses against your temple feel more intimate than any make out session you've ever had.
Fucking Oscar Piastri. Just Oscar.
You're not faking anymore.
✶✶✶
liked by oscarpiastri, kikagomes and 987 others
yourusername MY BOY IS GOING TO FINALS BABYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY (still unsure how this sport works tbh)
tagged: oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri thank you so much for being there ♡ liked by yourusername
oscarpiastri literal good luck charm ♡ liked by yourusername
oscarpiastri YOUR TURN TOMORROW ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ kimiantonelli hoping the swimming gods listen to you
kikagomes CUTIESSSS OMG OMG OMG ♡ liked by yourusername
✶✶✶
You're very particular about competition days, and Oscar Piastri being attached to your hip feels like the weirdest and most welcomed disruption in the entire world.
He carries your bag for you while you find the rest of your team, cleans your swimming goggles when you aren't looking, kisses the top of your head softly before you put your lucky cap on, squeezes your hand when he finally has to leave your side.
None of it feels fake and most of it happens when you're sure no one else is looking. None of Oscar's friends are here to take note of how kind and caring he is towards you, except Charles and Pierre, who are both too busy with their own girlfriends.
It makes the soft spot he's been carving for himself inside you bigger.
The band is there, yes, but his cheering is the loudest thing you hear whenever your head comes up for air.
He doesn't need to do all of that. He does it anyway.
You don't dominate — the team does well enough, managing a few podiums, but no wins.
It's not the best prospect for the final round. You know so. The team knows so. You speak briefly about it, tell them it was good enough, that you'll train harder and do better next round.
Even then, Oscar hugs you close when you can finally go up to him, already out of your swimsuit and into warm clothes, pressing a kiss against your temple, and you feel any worry in your body melt away.
"You guys did amazing," he reassures as he holds you close, and you snort.
"You don't know much about swimming," you retort, but there's no bite to it.
"Well, I know the front crawl categories are only in the final round, and that's your specialty, right?"
You smile softly against his shoulder, breathing him in for a second before taking a step back.
"We'll see," you sigh as his hands linger on your arms, thumbs circling slightly, "it's a shame you won't be there. You were almost louder than the band."
Oscar chuckles at your teasing, and you almost miss the way his skin turns pink as he looks away from you, putting his hand on your back and starting to guide you towards the exist.
"About that, there's been talk about bringing the cricket finals forward by a week or so. I'd be—well, I'd be free to come, then."
You blink at him, but his eyes stay straight ahead.
"What? Isn't that really uncommon? Why would they do that? Did something happen?"
He clears his throat.
"I asked."
You blink at him again, stopping right in place. He takes a single step before he notices and turns to you.
"You asked?" You repeat, eyebrows furrowing, heartbeat skyrocketing.
"I did," he answers sheepishly, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck, "I just—I'd like to be there. For the final round. And I'd like you to be there for the cricket finals as well."
You feel the air leave your lungs, heart ramming against your ribcage. He finally meets your gaze, and the look in his eyes is so intense you feel worried your legs might give out underneath you.
"Why?" Your voice cracks in the middle of the word, and his eyes turn impossibly soft. The sight makes your heart flip inside your chest, fingers trembling.
"You know why," is his quiet answer, hand reaching out so his fingertips touch yours, sending an electric current through your body while he keeps looking at you like that — like there's no one else in the entire world, like this is the most important thing ever, like this is real.
You open your mouth to speak when Franco calls your name from a couple of feet away.
The two of you look towards the sound to see Franco, Kimi, Alex, and Charles walking your way. You ignore the way Alex's eyes narrow, try not to remember she can probably read your expression like a book.
"Captain!" Kimi smiles as the four of them come to a halt in front of the two of your, "the band invited us to grab a bite together after this. Do you wanna come? Piastri too, obviously."
"I—yeah, sure, why not," you let out a breathy laugh, chest feeling impossibly tight. You can't get yourself to look at him properly, body tingling at the way you can feel him stare at you. "Oscar?"
He clears his throat again, but his voice comes out raspy. "Yeah, yeah, of course."
If anyone notices the tension between you, they don't mention it. Kimi asks if Oscar could give him and some of the other freshmen a ride, and you don't say anything while your fake boyfriend, who apparently asked the cricket organization to reschedule the final game's date for you, drives you and a bunch of freshmen to a restaurant nearby.
Neither of you mention it afterwards either, when he drives you home and the two of you are quiet for the entire drive.
You don't let him open the door for you when he parks in front of your dorm building — you almost throw yourself out of the car, ignoring the way he calls your name as you grab your duffle bag and speedwalk to your building.
You don't go straight to your dorm. Your mind is racing and you don't want to interact with your roommate right now, so you sit down in the building's empty lobby and breathe.
And then you do something you don't expect yourself to do.
You call Alexandra.
✶✶✶
"Why the fuck would he ask you to fake date him?"
"I don't know!" You throw your hands in the air, hair still sticky with pool water as Alex stares at you from the other side of the screen, shaking her head in disbelief. "He said he wanted his friends to stop annoying him about being married to cricket or something like that."
"I don't buy that for a second," she rolls her eyes, "why would he ask you of all people? No offense, but it's not like you guys had a good relationship or anything."
"I don't know, okay?" You repeat, throwing yourself back on the lobby's couch. "I don't know. I just wanted the damn band, and then he had to—I don't know, open every door for me and kiss my cheek. I don't know."
"Okay," you can hear her breathe deeply, "okay. I guess the reasoning behind it doesn't matter anymore. You're in love with him."
Your cheeks grow warm.
"I think 'love' is too strong a word, Alex."
"Is it now?" She rolls her eyes again. "If it's just a crush or whatever, why are you freaking out?"
"I'm not freaking out."
"Sure."
A quiet beat passes by.
"What are you gonna do?"
You sigh, closing your eyes tightly, hand coming up to your forehead.
What are you going to do?
"I don't know. Maybe I should call it off?"
"Maybe you should tell him."
Your eyes open wide and you sit up on the couch, glaring at the image of Alexandra on your screen.
"Are you insane? I can never do that."
You watch her shrug.
"Why not?"
"It's all fake, Alexandra," you answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "he's gonna think I'm fucking crazy."
"You are fucking crazy," she points out, not even reacting to the way you huff, "you accepted to fake date a guy you couldn't stand just for band privilege and then proceeded to fall in love with him. That's fucking crazy."
"Thanks," your tone is bitter, but she takes it in stride.
"But he's even crazier for asking you in the first place, for doing all of this. I think you should tell him."
You sigh again.
"I don't know. He's become sort of a friend, you know? I don't want to make things weird as fuck."
"Things will be weird as fuck regardless when you fake break up. Things are already weird as fuck now," you chuckle humorlessly, and her voice softens, "look, I told you that day in the locker room—he looks at you like you're the only person in the whole world. You're telling me he's changing game dates for you when you know doing that is a pain in the ass—for fuck's sake, he probably likes you too and this hasn't been fake for a while."
Another quiet beat passes by as you roll her words over inside your head.
“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” She finally asks when you don’t answer, a hint of hurt on her tone.
“Oscar said you’d probably tell Charles, and Charles would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone. Afterwards, everything felt too complicated.”
Alex offers you a sad chuckle.
“I—well—maybe.” She sighs. “I won’t tell anyone now, though. Not when I know what you actually feel for him.”
You sigh back.
“Thank you.”
✶✶✶
You don’t tell him.
You can't. Whenever you try, his eyes meet yours, and it feels like throwing a rock on a dormant volcano, like taking something good and staining it.
You don’t tell him on Tuesday, when he picks you up after swimming practice and the two of you have gone back to sharing awkward silences. He doesn’t come up to your dorm when he drops you off. You don’t ask him to.
You don’t tell him the following days, when he tries to start a conversation and every one of your answers feel hollow, even when you don’t mean them to.
You have a couple of weeks before the season is over and this scheme ends. The thought hits you like a truck, almost harder than the realization that you had feelings for him in the first place — how is it gonna be after it’s done? Are you supposed to pretend it never happened? To act like friends? To act like it hadn’t become real for you? How would you tell your friends that things between the two of you are done? How would you tell yourself?
These questions haunt your every waking moment to the point you can barely look at him.
So you don’t tell him. And you just hum in acknowledgement when he mentions that they did bring the cricket finals forward, so he’ll be able to watch you swim during the final round of nationals, and you keep not inviting him up to your dorm and slipping out of the car before he can react.
And it's supposed to be fine, right? Because you couldn't stand him before, and it's all fake, and it's stupid to be upset by it.
Except you are upset, and none of it feels fake, and you actually miss the fragile friendship you were building before everything seemed to go wrong.
(And was it even fragile, really? It didn't feel fragile when he made you laugh so much your eyes got teary, when you smiled at each other inside his car, when he held your hand, when he kissed your face, when he spent time with you in your dorm, in the lab, around campus. Was all of that fragile? You aren't sure.)
What you don't expect is for Oscar to be waiting for you with a bouquet of baby's breath and red tulips, feet tapping against the concrete as he stands next to his car when he shows up to pick you up for the cricket finals.
"Oscar..." you sigh deeply at the sight, and your chest clenches when his face falls at your tone.
You’re wearing his jersey again, his name hanging from your back like it means something. It does mean something.
He notices it immediately — eyes traveling up and down your figure, face growing pink despite the awkwardness of it all. He clears his throat before speaking, arm already moving to open the passenger door for you.
“Ready?”
You swallow dryly before nodding.
Less than a couple of minutes later, the two of you sit in dead silence as he starts the car. You look down at your flowers.
Baby's breath and red tulips. You can't help but notice that, once again, he didn't go for plain roses — which would've been fine and were just what you expected. You didn't even expect him to actually meet your "flowers once per month" requirement.
But, God, he met every requirement and then some.
“So,” Oscar clears his throat again, bringing your attention back to him, “are you excited?”
You hum. “I—yeah. Are you?”
“Yes,” he nods with so much intensity you can’t stop a small smile from forming on your lips, “We have worked really hard to get here.”
“You have,” and it’s so awkward it pains you after an entire month of easy conversation, exchanged smiles, loud laughing. “You’ll do great.”
“Are you okay?” The words blurt out of him as if they’ve been lodged in his throat for a week, which they probably have been. “You’ve—you’ve been… Distant. All week.”
“I’m fine,” is your firm answer, leaving so little room for question that Oscar only manages to glance at you before focusing back on the road.
The rest of the drive is spent in awkward, awful silence. You study your flowers — fresh, bright, sweet, beautiful, so much more than you ever expected. He studies you — wearing his jersey, so close yet so far away, quiet in a way you haven’t been in weeks.
When you arrive at the cricket field, he opens your door for you and tells you to leave the flowers inside the car so you don’t have to carry them around. You place them down carefully, trying not to damage the petals or the leaves, and you walk side by side until you have to part ways — Oscar, towards the rest of his team, you, towards the bleachers.
As usual, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek as goodbye. There’s no one there to see it. Your hand reaches out for his.
“Good luck,” you say quietly, squeezing his fingers against yours, “you’ll do great.”
He nods once, game nerves starting to build underneath his skin. He kisses your forehead this time. There’s still no one there to see it.
“I’ll see you after the game.”
“Okay,” you hum, pulling him for a quick hug before you slip away towards the stands.
The match starts less than half an hour later. You sit close to the band, so low on the stands you’re basically level with the field, a couple of feet away from the grass. You wave to Leclerc before leaning forward as the game starts.
Oscar and the others start fielding, which you’ve learned means they need to keep the other team from scoring. Oscar yells out orders and directions as they move across the field — you watched him do it during the semifinals, and it still feels weird to see him change like that. Your soft-spoken Oscar, taking command of the team with so much naturality no one can even question it.
When it’s finally their turn to bat, your body is so tense from the expectation you can barely breathe. You know Oscar tends to be one of the last few batters, but even from the bench he calls out to his teammates, cheering when they bat well, cheering when they score another run.
You find yourself cheering as well, singing alongside the band, rooting as Lando manages to score 4 runs and Ollie scores 3. There are a few times when Oscar turns to look at the stands from his spot on the bench. You meet his gaze and he smiles, nervous but excited.
It takes quite a few minutes before Oscar gets back on the field. He’s wearing a jersey that looks exactly like yours, helmet well positioned on top of his head. You cheer louder when he steps on the grass, and he turns to look back at you. You shoot him a thumbs up and, even though everything is weird and awkward, he still grins.
And you still cheer.
His teammate bats first. The two of them manage to cross each other 3 times before the other guy gets bowled out, and your eyes keep traveling to the scoreboard.
As well as the team has done, they’re still outscored by 5 runs. As Oscar prepares to bat, you hold your breath. You’re already rolling the motivational speech inside your head — you guys did great, second place is still amazing, you’ll get it next year — when Oscar hits the ball.
And it flies outside of the oval field.
You don’t know much about cricket. You know it has some similarities to baseball. And you know what a fucking home run looks like.
You’re already screaming when the bench and the bleachers explode in cheers, the six points effectively winning Oscar the cricket championship.
It takes a couple of minutes before the referee declares the end of the match, and you watch with a grin as the players on the bench run towards the field, jumping on top of each other as they celebrate the win. The band claps and cheers beside you, and you glance at them before looking back towards the field and seeing Oscar running straight towards you.
Your heartbeat picks up immediately, and you’re already standing up, already leaning on the barrier that separates the audience from the cricket field when he reaches you, hands coming up to your waist as he pulls you towards him, hugging you tight.
His uniform is damp with sweat, and he holds you for a few seconds before jumping over the barrier, getting dangerously close, fingers reaching up towards your jaw, eyes looking down at your mouth before looking back up into your eyes.
You expect him to just do it. You told him he could, right at the start of this mess, if they won the championship. When they won, he had corrected you.
Instead, he whispers, out of air, his breath caressing your lips, “can I?”
The question undoes you in a way you could never prepare yourself for. It makes your heart burn, your skin flush, your body tingle, and you barely feel yourself moving — you just watch it happen. Your hands come up to the collar of his jersey, and, in a second, you’re pulling him in, shoving your mouth against his with an urgency you’ve never felt before in your life.
The world melts away. You can only feel Oscar’s hands on your jaw, then on your waist, then tangling in your hair. His firm body presses against yours, and he tastes of salt and sweat, and you don’t want it to end.
It lasts a second, a minute, an hour. Either way, it’s not enough.
When he pulls away, your lips follow, chasing his. It’s the cheering from the team that snaps you back into reality, the hoots and delighted laughs that make your cheeks burn red as the boys start clapping each other on the back, throwing cricket balls at Oscar in celebration.
You let out a laugh that comes out like a breath, and he grins boyishly at you in a way that turns everything around you golden — his hair, his eyes, the sky, the feeling in your chest. He kisses your cheek tenderly before turning towards the team, jumping the barrier again and throwing himself at them. You smile as they all bump into each other, jumping in place and cheering.
After that, time stretches. You chat with Charles as the boys go into their locker rooms to shower and change, and, when they come out, you hear them talk about throwing a celebration party next Friday, about Instagram posts and trophies and the next season.
Oscar smiles warmly at you when he reaches you again, pulling you against his side as he says goodbye to the others and starts guiding you towards his car, hand lingering on the small of your back.
The flowers are still waiting for you on the passenger seat when he opens your door. You take them carefully, placing them on your lap as he walks around the car, slips in, and starts the engine.
He starts speaking as soon as the car starts, going nonstop about the game and how fun it was and how happy he is that they won, that you were there, that the band was there, that they’re the cricket champions. You smile brightly at his enthusiasm, but then something inside you dims.
The season is over.
He doesn’t notice the change in you until he parks the car right by your dorm building. When he does, he seems to quiet down as well, studying you hesitantly before asking for the first time since you stopped inviting him, “can I go up with you?”
You release a tired sigh, unable to look at him, focusing on the flowers on your lap.
“You don’t have to, Oscar,” your voice is quiet, sorrowful, “the season is over.”
It hits him at that moment, his face falling before his eyebrows furrow in confusion.
“No, it’s not. You still have the final round of nationals next weekend.”
“Oscar,” it sounds like begging, but you don’t know how else to say it, “the deal was for you. The season ended for you. We don’t need to drag this for another week,” your eyes sting, “it’s over.”
An awful silence takes over the car. The two of you just sit there, and you feel something like grief settle in your chest.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet, tentative. “It doesn’t have to be.”
Your head snaps up to look at him, face contorting with warning. “Oscar.”
"Can we talk? Upstairs?"
His words sound so raw, so vulnerable, that it makes something inside you break.
"Please?" He adds, and it just makes everything worse.
You sigh again, voice as quiet as his.
"Okay."
Tension builds between the two of you during the elevator ride up to your dorm, and you let out a relieved sigh when you see your roommate isn’t home for the day, leaving the small room empty.
You're still holding onto your flowers as you sit down on your bed, side by side, your fingers gripping the green stems as he turns his head to look at you.
"So," he starts after a few seconds of awkward quiet, "what's up with you?"
You blink at the question.
"Nothing," you answer, and you can taste the lie on your tongue.
"No, it's not nothing," he shakes his head in denial, eyebrows furrowing, studying you intently — the way your body is tense, the way your knuckles hold the flowers, the way you keep avoiding his gaze. "We were doing fine, and now you can't even look at me. Back there — we kissed, and for a second it felt like everything was fine and we could be friends, at least, and then you start talking about ending things and being distant again. What's wrong? I feel like I'm dating a ghost."
"Well, except you're not dating anyone, right? Maybe that's the problem."
Oscar blinks down at you.
"What?"
"We're not dating," you answer, gripping the stems so tight you can feel its ridges marking your palm and fingers, "that's the problem. I—," you stop yourself, face growing hot with embarrassment.
In a moment, his entire demeanor changes. His body tenses up, his fingers flex against his thighs.
"Why?" He leans towards you with so much intensity you can't help but meet his stare, heartbeat picking up at his eagerness, the way his expression seems to beg for something you can barely understand. His voice is low, and it sends a pleasant shiver through your spine. "Why is that the problem?"
"You know why," your voice cracks right down the middle, and you swallow dryly, "you know why," you repeat, clearly this time, breath hitching as he leans even closer.
"I—," he answers quietly, and you can't take your eyes away from him, from the way he looks back at you. He clears his throat, "don't do this to me."
"Don't do what?" You whisper in return, suddenly hyper aware of how close he is.
"Don't— don't make it sound—," Oscar shakes his head almost as if he's waking himself up, leaning away from you. You let out a breath as space grows between you. "Why haven't you been talking to me? Why have you been ignoring me for the entire week?"
You sigh deeply, finally able to look the other way.
"I got too attached," you admit, hands fidgeting with the flowers before you sigh again and stand up to lay the bouquet on your desk. "I didn't—I don't know how to deal with that."
You left the bed hoping it would help with the weird tension hovering around the room. It doesn't.
He stands up, following you around the dorm, and, when you turn your back to your desk, he's right there, arms crossed, looking down at you. He's not as close as he was before, but he's close enough to make your heartbeat skyrocket again.
"And why didn't you say anything? Why did you let me kiss you like that if you—if that’s how you feel?"
"You know why," you say for the third time, fingers gripping the edge of your desk table. "I didn’t want to ruin it when it’s so close to ending. I didn't want to—"
"Admit it wasn't fake anymore?"
You stop. You stare at him. He stares back.
"Yeah."
He lets out a shaky breath.
"You mean that?"
He looks uncertain, almost hopeful. Something about it makes your heart burn inside your chest, quiet but insistent. It feels like it's meant to happen — like every road, every argument, every smile, every touch, every laugh led to this, to this moment, to the way Oscar stares at you as if you're holding his heart in your palm, as if he's begging you not to crush it.
And he's holding yours in his.
"Yes," your answer comes out like a prayer, airy and fearful, "I haven't been faking it for a while."
He chuckles quietly, and the sound turns your insides molten. His hand comes up to your jaw just like it had in the cricket field, and he cradles your face hesitantly, afraid of being pushed away.
"I don't think I was ever faking it at all," he confesses, and your breath hitches when his nose touches yours, "I think I've been in love with you since freshman year, when we talked at that cocktail party and I spent weeks wishing for you to call."
You watch him intently. He breathes in deeply.
"You swept me off my feet the day we met and I just couldn't get over it, even when we didn't get along well. I guess the reason I even asked you to pretend to be my girlfriend is because I couldn't imagine even pretending to have feelings for someone else."
You smile softly and watch the way his cheeks turn pink at the sight. It immediately weakens any resolve you might have, any doubt, any fear.
"Good", is all you whisper in return, and then you slot your lips against his once more.
This time, it isn’t urgent, quick, or rushed. Oscar sighs into your mouth, and the feeling sends sparks down your spine and up your neck, something hot and sweet running through your veins.
He hums when your fingers come up to tangle themselves in his hair, and the hand that isn't holding your jaw moves to your waist, gripping you firmly but delicately, strongly but carefully.
His lips travel down to your neck, leaving a burning trail on their wake, and you tug at his hair lightly, making him sigh again.
"So much for 'no kissing', huh?" He mumbles against your neck, and you can't help the snort that leaves you before your hands move to his collar, pulling him away from your neck so you can look at him.
"Shut the fuck up, Piastri," and then your mouth is on his again, feeling the way he smiles cheekily against you and then feeling the way his smile dissolves as your tongue touches his lip.
He sighs once more when your tongue touches his, arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. Your bodies collide, and you can feel every inch of your skin burning.
You kiss him again and again and again until both your lips are red and swollen, until his hands travel under your shirt, until his hair sticks up in five different directions.
You can't stop yourself. You don't want to.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Oscar Piastri, in love with you since freshman year.
Oscar Piastri, kissing the air out of your lungs, holding you close, sending sparks through your body.
Oh, you're in too deep.
✶✶✶
liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 1,024
yourusername no but like it's FOR REAL this time
tagged: oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri truly swept you off your feet, huh? ♡ liked by yourusername
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oscarpiastri ❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux CALL ME RIGHT NOW? ♡ liked by yourusername
landonorris what's that caption about
liked by yourusername, landonorris and 1,101 others
oscarpiastri well to ME it was real all along
tagged: yourusername
kikagomes even his ig posts are looking like yours.... you got him good @.yourusername
↳ oscarpiastri she really does!
kimiantonelli literally my parents please give me more rides after competitions dad ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
yourusername well i DID kiss you first in the end ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
↳ oscarpiastri did i look pitiful at the time?
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THIS TOOK ME A LIFETIME OMGGGG I'M SO GLAD SHE'S OUT IN THE WORLD <3 really hope you guys enjoyed, likes and reblogs are always appreciated :)
Summary: you run into Quinn with a clothing rack on move-in day — all pink everything and chaos and plans. He looks terrified of life itself. You decide he’s your new project. (Turns out falling in love with Quinn Hughes is the one thing you can’t color-code or schedule. Turns out he’s been yours since that first collision. Turns out the boy who seemed horrified by everything isn’t scared of loving you.)
Based on this request
Quinn stands in front of East Quad with a box of hockey equipment digging into his forearms, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to drop it directly onto his foot. His mom is fussing with something in the car. His dad is already halfway to the building with another load. Jack and Luke are arguing about whether the dining hall will have chicken tenders.
“It’s a college,” Jack says, supremely confident for someone who’s still in high school. “They definitely have chicken tenders.”
“That’s not a guarantee,” Luke argues back.
Quinn adjusts his grip on the box and tries not to think about the fact that he’s here, really here, at the University of Michigan, and NHL scouts are going to be watching his every move and-
“Oh my GOD, I’m so sorry!”
The voice arrives before he even sees what’s happening. Then there’s a blur of pink — like, aggressive pink, the kind that makes his eyes hurt in the August sunlight — and suddenly someone’s backing into him with what appears to be a rolling rack of clothes.
The box slips. He catches it. Barely.
“I’m so sorry,” you say again, spinning around, and Quinn gets his first real look at you. You’re wearing a pink sweatshirt that simply says “Michigan” in gold script, white sneakers that look like they’ve never touched actual ground, and your hair is pulled back with what he’s pretty sure is a matching pink scrunchie. “This stupid rack keeps getting away from me. Why did I think I needed to bring this many clothes? That’s a rhetorical question, obviously I need all of these clothes, but—oh no, did I hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” Quinn manages.
“You don’t look fine,” you say, and you’re studying him with this concerned expression that makes him deeply uncomfortable. “You look kind of … terrified?”
“That’s just his face,” Jack calls out helpfully from behind them.
Quinn is going to murder his brother.
“Ignore him,” Quinn says.
You smile at him then, bright and genuine, and Quinn has the distinct thought that you look like the kind of person who’s never experienced a moment of social anxiety in your entire life. “I’m Y/N,” you say. “Y/L/N. I’m in Delta Gamma—well, I’m going to be in Delta Gamma. Recruitment doesn’t start until next week, but I’ve already met with the rush chair three times and I have my entire recruitment week outfit calendar planned out.”
Quinn has no idea what any of that means. “Quinn,” he says. “Hughes.”
“Hockey,” you say immediately, and now you’re really beaming. “Right? I did my research. I know basically everyone on campus because I made it my mission to learn all the important people before I even got here. That’s probably weird, right? But I like to be prepared. Are you living in East Quad?”
“Yeah,” Quinn says, still trying to figure out how this conversation is happening.
“Me too! Fourth floor. What floor are you on?”
“Third.”
“That’s practically the same floor,” you say, like this is a profound realization. “Okay, I really need to go because I think my dad is about to have an aneurysm trying to get my mini-fridge up the stairs — it’s pink, obviously — but I’ll see you around, Quinn Hughes.”
Then you’re gone, pink clothing rack and all, and Quinn is standing there holding his box like an idiot.
“Dude,” Jack says, appearing at his elbow. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn says honestly.
His mom walks up, takes one look at his face, and smiles in that knowing way that makes Quinn want to disappear into the sidewalk. “She seemed nice.”
“Can we please just move my stuff in,” Quinn says.
***
He sees you again that night in the common room on the fourth floor. He’s only up there because Luke wanted to see what the view was like from higher up (it’s exactly the same), and you’re sitting on one of the couches with what appears to be a color-coded planner the size of a small textbook.
“Quinn!” You say, like you’ve been friends for years instead of having met six hours ago. “Come sit!”
He has no good reason to sit. He should go back downstairs. He has to unpack still. He needs to text his advisor about his schedule. He needs to-
He sits.
“I’m making my first semester plan,” you tell him, and you angle the planner so he can see it. Every single day is blocked out in different colored ink. “Pink is for classes, blue is for study time, green is for sorority stuff, yellow is for social events, and purple is for self-care. You have to schedule self-care or you won’t do it. That’s just science.”
“Is that science?” Quinn asks.
“It is in my heart,” you say seriously. Then you look at him, really look at him, and your expression shifts into something softer. “You doing okay? You still have that scared look.”
“I’m not scared,” Quinn says automatically.
“Okay,” you say, but you don’t sound convinced. “Are you nervous? About hockey?”
Quinn doesn’t know how to explain that he’s nervous about everything. That he’s been nervous since he was old enough to hold a hockey stick and realize he was good at it. That the weight of expectations feels like it’s physically crushing his chest sometimes. That he lies awake at night thinking about everything that could go wrong, every way he could fail, every person he could disappoint.
“A little,” he says instead.
You nod like this makes perfect sense. “I’m nervous about recruitment,” you admit. “I know I’m going to get into Delta Gamma — not to sound conceited, but I have three legacy recommendations and my rush resume is immaculate — but what if I don’t fit in? What if they don’t actually like me?”
Quinn looks at you, at your aggressively pink outfit and your color-coded planner and your absolute certainty about everything you just said, and he thinks that you might be the most confident person he’s ever met who’s also somehow completely terrified underneath it all.
“They’ll like you,” he says.
“Yeah?” You smile at him, and Quinn feels something weird happen in his chest. “You’ll be good at hockey. NHL good. I can tell.”
“You don’t know anything about hockey,” Quinn points out.
“I know about people,” you counter. “And you have that look. Like you’re going to be great at whatever you do because you care way too much about it. That’s a compliment, by the way.”
Quinn has no idea what to say to that.
“My family’s leaving tomorrow morning,” he says instead, because apparently his brain has decided to just share information at random now.
“That’s sad,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. “Are you close with them?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m close with my family too. My mom and I talk like three times a day. My dad thinks that’s excessive but he also calls me every morning to make sure I’m awake for class, so.” You flip a page in your planner. “Do you have an eight AM? Please tell me you don’t have an eight AM.”
“I have a nine AM.”
“That’s still so early,” you say with genuine distress. “I specifically planned my entire schedule to avoid anything before ten. I’m not a morning person. Are you a morning person?”
“I have hockey practice at six AM most days.”
You look at him like he’s just told you he practices human sacrifice. “That’s inhumane. That should be illegal. I’m going to write a letter to someone about that.”
Quinn laughs. He doesn’t mean to — it just comes out, surprised out of him by your absolute seriousness about morning practice being a crime against humanity.
“There it is,” you say, grinning. “You have a nice laugh. You should do it more.”
***
He doesn’t see you for a few days after that. His family leaves. Classes start. Hockey practice ramps up. Quinn falls into the rhythm of college life, which is basically just the rhythm of hockey life with some lectures thrown in.
But then it’s the following Thursday and he’s walking back from the library at nine PM, exhausted and vaguely contemplating whether he can just sleep in his hockey gear to save time in the morning, when he hears it.
Crying.
It’s coming from the little courtyard area outside East Quad, and Quinn knows he should just keep walking. He has a quiz tomorrow. He needs to sleep. This is not his problem.
He walks toward the crying.
You’re sitting on one of the benches, and even in the dark he can tell it’s you because you’re wearing a bright pink dress that looks like something from a 1950s movie. Your face is in your hands.
“Y/N?” He says carefully.
You look up, and your eyes are red and your mascara is smudged and you look absolutely miserable. “Quinn,” you say, and your voice cracks on his name. “Hi.”
“What happened?”
“Delta Gamma,” you say, and then you’re crying again. “They cut me. After the first round. They didn’t even give me a chance to show them my philanthropy presentation or talk about my five-year plan for chapter leadership or-”
You dissolve into sobs.
Quinn sits down next to you. He has no idea what to do. He’s the worst at this kind of thing. Jack is the one who’s good at cheering people up. Luke is good at making people laugh. Quinn just kind of … exists awkwardly nearby.
“Their loss,” he says finally.
“You don’t understand,” you say, wiping at your eyes and somehow making the mascara situation worse. “I’ve wanted this since I was eight years old. My mom was Delta Gamma. My grandmother was Delta Gamma. I had my entire college experience planned around this.”
“So make a new plan,” Quinn says.
You look at him like he’s suggested you should just spontaneously grow wings and fly. “I can’t just make a new plan. This was the plan.”
“You have like fifty backup plans in that color-coded planner,” Quinn points out. “I saw it. There was a whole section labeled ‘contingency scheduling.’”
“That’s for if I get sick during finals,” you say. “Not for when my entire life falls apart.”
Quinn doesn’t know how to explain that your entire life hasn’t fallen apart, that this is just one thing, that there are other sororities and other plans and other ways to spend four years at college. He definitely doesn’t know how to explain that from where he’s sitting, watching you cry in your pink dress over something that happened two hours ago, you still seem like the most put-together person he’s ever met.
“Come on,” he says instead, standing up. “I’m buying you food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re crying and it’s nine PM and I’m guessing you haven’t eaten since lunch.”
You stare at him for a long moment. “Fine,” you say finally. “But I get to pick the place.”
***
You pick a diner off campus that has pink neon signs in the windows and serves breakfast all day. Quinn orders coffee. You order french toast with strawberries and whipped cream and a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.
“This is my breakup meal,” you explain, pouring what Quinn considers an insane amount of syrup onto your french toast. “Except usually it’s for actual breakups, not sorority breakups. Do you think it still counts?”
“Sure,” Quinn says.
“I’m going to rush the other sororities,” you announce, and now there’s a determined set to your jaw that wasn’t there before. “And I’m going to get into one and I’m going to become president and it’s going to be even better than Delta Gamma. I’m going to make Delta Gamma regret cutting me.”
“That sounds healthy,” Quinn says.
You point your fork at him. “You’re being sarcastic.”
“Little bit.”
“I’m allowed to be dramatic,” you inform him. “I’ve had a traumatic evening. Also, being dramatic is basically my whole personality. You should probably know that now if we’re going to be friends.”
“Are we going to be friends?” Quinn asks.
“Obviously,” you say, like this is the most natural conclusion in the world. “You came and found me when I was crying. You’re buying me sympathy french toast. These are friendship actions, Quinn Hughes.”
Quinn doesn’t know how to tell you that he never does stuff like this, that he barely has time for the friends he already has, that his entire life is structured around hockey and school and trying not to disappoint everyone who’s counting on him.
“Okay,” he says instead.
You smile at him, and even with your smudged mascara and red eyes, it’s like the sun coming out.
***
After that, you kind of just … become part of his life.
You start studying together in the library, which mostly means you study and Quinn stares at his textbook and tries not to think about whether his defensive positioning in last night’s practice was good enough. You text him random thoughts at random times (Do you think pigeons have feelings? at 2 AM, I found the PERFECT recruitment outfit for round two at 7 AM, Why is contract law so boring? I’m going to DIE at 4 PM).
You show up to his games wearing a Michigan hockey jersey that you’ve somehow bedazzled with maize and blue rhinestones. You’re the loudest person in the student section, which is saying something. After his first goal of the season, Quinn can hear you screaming his name from the ice.
“Your girlfriend’s really enthusiastic,” one of his teammates says in the locker room after.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Quinn says.
“Does she know that?”
Quinn doesn’t have an answer for that.
***
It’s mid-October when you get into Kappa Kappa Gamma.
You call him at 11 PM, which is late for you on a school night (you have a whole section in your planner about “optimal sleep schedules”). He answers on the second ring.
“Quinn!” You’re practically screaming. “Quinn, I got in! I got a bid! I’m going to be a Kappa!”
“That’s great,” Quinn says, and he means it. He’s been watching you stress about second round and third round and preference night for weeks now. “I’m happy for you.”
“I need to celebrate,” you announce. “Come celebrate with me.”
“It’s eleven PM.”
“So?”
“I have practice at six.”
“So we’ll celebrate quickly. Please, Quinn? I want to celebrate with you.”
Quinn should say no. He should congratulate you again and hang up and go to sleep like a responsible person who has practice in seven hours.
“Give me ten minutes,” he says.
***
You meet him outside the dorm wearing a Kappa Kappa Gamma t-shirt that you’ve clearly just gotten, pajama pants with little Greek letters on them, and the biggest smile Quinn’s ever seen.
“I know it’s not Delta Gamma,” you say as you start walking toward campus. “But I actually really love Kappa. The girls are so nice and they have the best GPA on campus and their philanthropic focus is really meaningful and-”
“You don’t have to justify it,” Quinn says.
“I’m not justifying, I’m celebrating,” you correct. Then you grab his hand. “Come on, I want to show you the house.”
Your hand is warm in his. Quinn looks down at your linked fingers and tries to remember how to breathe normally.
The Kappa house is dark when you get there, but you pull him around to the side yard and sit down on the grass, tugging him down next to you.
“I’m going to be president,” you tell him, lying back to look up at the sky. “Maybe not next year, probably not sophomore year, but junior or senior year for sure. I’m going to make this place even better than it already is.”
“I believe you,” Quinn says, and he does.
“What about you?” You ask, rolling onto your side to look at him. “What’s your big dream? Besides the NHL, which is obvious.”
Quinn doesn’t talk about this stuff. He barely thinks about it in concrete terms because that feels like tempting fate. But there’s something about the way you’re looking at him, about the darkness and the quiet and the fact that you’re still holding his hand, that makes him want to tell you.
“Captain,” he says quietly. “Someday. Maybe.”
“Not maybe,” you say firmly. “Definitely. You’re going to be a captain, Quinn Hughes. You’re going to be one of those players that everyone respects and looks up to and-”
“How do you know?” Quinn interrupts. “You barely know anything about hockey.”
“I know about you,” you say simply. “And I know you’re the kind of person who cares about things the right way. That’s what makes a good captain, right? Caring about the team more than yourself?”
Quinn doesn’t know what to say to that. You’re still looking at him, your face soft in the moonlight, and he thinks about kissing you. He thinks about it so hard that he’s pretty sure you can read it on his face.
But then you yawn, and the moment breaks.
“I should get you back,” Quinn says. “You need sleep.”
“You need sleep too,” you point out. “You have that inhumane six AM practice.”
“I’m used to it.”
You stand up, pulling him with you. You don’t let go of his hand as you walk back to East Quad. You don’t let go in the elevator. You don’t let go until you’re standing outside your door on the fourth floor.
“Thank you,” you say softly. “For celebrating with me. For being my friend. For … everything.”
“Anytime,” Quinn says.
You lean up and kiss his cheek, quick and soft. “Goodnight, Quinn Hughes.”
Then you’re gone, disappearing into your room, and Quinn is standing in the hallway touching his cheek like an idiot.
His phone buzzes. It’s a text from you.
That was friend behavior btw. In case you were wondering. Definitely just friend behavior 😊
Quinn looks at the string of emojis after your contact name (three hearts, all pink) and thinks that you’re the worst liar he’s ever met.
***
November slides into December. The semester picks up speed like a runaway train. Quinn has games and practice and conditioning and film study and classes and approximately six hours of sleep per night if he’s lucky.
You have exams and Kappa events and something called “big/little week” that you try to explain to him three times before giving up. You still text him constantly. You still show up to every home game. You still meet him at the library at midnight when you both should be sleeping, and you quiz him on his sports management terms while he quizzes you on constitutional law.
“The Commerce Clause,” you say, face planted on your textbook, “can go to hell.”
“That’s not the right answer,” Quinn says.
“It should be.”
It’s the week before finals, and Quinn is running on coffee and anxiety. The team is doing well — really well — and that just means more pressure, more eyes on him, more opportunities to mess up.
“You’re doing the thing again,” you say, looking up from your book.
“What thing?”
“The terrified thing. The ‘experiencing the horrors’ thing.” You close your book and lean across the table. “Talk to me. What’s going on in your head?”
Quinn doesn’t want to talk about it. He never wants to talk about it. But you’re looking at him with those eyes that somehow see through all of his careful defenses, and before he knows it, he’s talking.
“What if I’m not good enough?” He says quietly. “What if I get drafted and I can’t make it at that level? What if everyone who’s believed in me has been wrong?”
“That’s not going to happen,” you say immediately.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually.” You reach across and take his hand, and Quinn wonders when this became normal, when holding your hand started feeling as natural as breathing. “You know how I know?”
“How?”
“Because you care this much. Because you’re sitting here at one in the morning studying even though you have practice in five hours. Because I’ve watched you at games and I’ve seen how you play — like every single shift matters more than anything else in the world.” You squeeze his hand. “That’s not someone who’s going to fail, Quinn. That’s someone who’s going to be great.”
Quinn looks at you — really looks at you — and thinks that maybe you’re the bravest person he knows. You walk around in pink outfits believing in things with your whole heart, putting yourself out there over and over again, refusing to let the world make you smaller or quieter or less.
“I think I’m in love with you,” he says.
The words are out before he can stop them. You freeze, your hand still holding his, your eyes going wide.
“What?” You whisper.
Quinn should take it back. He should laugh it off, blame the sleep deprivation, pretend he said something else entirely. Instead, he says it again.
“I’m in love with you. I think—no, I know. I know I’m in love with you.”
You’re not saying anything. You’re just staring at him, and Quinn is pretty sure he’s just destroyed the best friendship he’s ever had.
“I’m sorry,” he starts. “I shouldn’t have-”
You kiss him.
You actually climb halfway across the library table, scattering textbooks everywhere, and you kiss him. Your hands are in his hair and his hands are on your waist and he’s kissing you back like his life depends on it.
When you finally pull away, you’re both breathing hard.
“I’ve been waiting for you to say that since October,” you say. “Actually, scratch that. Since August. Since the day I ran into you with my clothing rack and you looked at me like I was completely insane.”
“You are completely insane,” Quinn says.
“I know.” You’re grinning now, that same bright smile that makes his chest do weird things. “But you love me anyway.”
“Yeah,” Quinn says. “I really do.”
“Good,” you say. “Because I love you too, Quinn Hughes. I love you and your terrified face and your six AM practices and the way you care about things so much it physically hurts you.”
Quinn kisses you again, softer this time, slower. Around you, the library is completely empty. It’s just the two of you and the fluorescent lights and the future stretching out ahead, uncertain and terrifying and perfect.
***
Dating you, Quinn discovers, is both exactly like being your friend and completely different.
You still text him constantly (now with more heart emojis). You still show up to his games (now wearing his spare jersey instead of your bedazzled one). You still meet him at the library at midnight (now you sit next to him instead of across from him, and you hold his hand while you study).
But now he gets to kiss you. Now he gets to walk you to class and put his arm around you and call you his girlfriend. Now when you smile at him like he’s the best thing in your world, he gets to smile back the same way.
The team chirps him endlessly about it.
“Hughes has a girlfriend,” one of the seniors says with genuine shock. “I didn’t think that was possible.”
“She’s really pink,” another one observes.
“She’s really loud,” someone else adds.
“She’s right here,” you say cheerfully from where you’re waiting for Quinn after practice. You’ve brought him coffee and a bagel because you’ve somehow memorized his entire post-practice routine. “And I can hear all of you. Hi! I’m Y/N!”
They all basically fall in love with you immediately. Quinn watches you charm his entire team in approximately four minutes and thinks that of course you did. You charm everyone.
“She’s good for you,” his coach tells him later. “You’re playing better. Looser. Less in your head.”
Quinn doesn’t know how to explain that you’ve somehow made everything easier just by existing in his life. That when he’s on the ice now, he plays for himself and his team, but also for you in the stands. That knowing you’re there, believing in him, makes the pressure feel less crushing.
“Yeah,” he says instead. “She is.”
***
Winter break comes. You go home to Connecticut. Quinn stays in Michigan to spend the holidays with his family.
“Tell me about her,” his mom says as they dig into Chinese food on Christmas Eve, and Quinn knows there’s no point in pretending he doesn’t know who she means.
“Her name is Y/N,” he says. “She’s pre-law. She wants to be president of her sorority. Everything she owns is pink.”
“You love her,” his mom says. It’s not a question.
“Yeah,” Quinn admits. “I do.”
His mom hugs him, and Quinn tries not to think about how fast everything is moving, how much he has riding on this next year, how terrifying it is to care about something — someone — outside of hockey.
“It’s allowed to be scary,” his mom says quietly, like she can read his mind. “Loving someone is always scary. But it’s worth it.”
***
Spring semester starts with a snowstorm and you showing up at his door at seven AM with hot chocolate and a determined expression.
“We’re going out in the snow,” you announce.
“I have class in two hours.”
“So we’ll be quick. Come on, Quinn. When’s the last time you actually had fun? Fun that wasn’t hockey?”
Quinn can’t remember. “I have fun.”
“You absolutely don’t,” you say. “You have hockey and stress and occasionally you have me, but that’s it. We’re going outside.”
So you go outside.
You make him build a snowman (“It needs to be anatomically correct!” “It’s made of snow!” “Give it a good snow torso, Quinn!”). You start a snowball fight that Quinn wins because his aim is better. You make snow angels and then you lie there in the snow, looking up at the grey sky, holding his hand.
“I’m cold,” you announce after a few minutes.
“That’s because you’re lying in snow.”
“This was my idea.”
“I know.”
“I have good ideas.”
“Debatable.”
You turn your head to look at him, and you’re smiling. “I’m really happy,” you say softly. “Like, stupidly happy. Disney princess levels of happy. Is that weird?”
“No,” Quinn says. “I’m happy too.”
And he is. Despite the pressure and the stress and the constant worry, he’s happy. You make him happy.
***
February brings more games, more studying, more late nights at the library. Quinn’s draft stock is rising. Scouts are at every game. The pressure is building like water behind a dam.
“You’re doing the terrified thing again,” you observe one night. You’re in his dorm room, sitting on his bed doing homework while he paces.
“There were eight scouts at the game tonight.”
“I know. I counted.”
“What if-”
“Stop,” you interrupt gently. “Come here.”
Quinn sits down next to you. You set aside your laptop and take both of his hands.
“You’re going to be drafted,” you say firmly. “You’re going to be drafted high. You’re going to have an amazing NHL career. I know all of this because I know you, and I know that you’re incapable of being bad at something you care about this much.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“It is for you.” You lean in and kiss him softly. “Trust me. Trust yourself. You’ve got this.”
Quinn wants to believe you. He wants to have your unshakeable confidence, your absolute certainty about the future.
“What if I have to leave?” He asks quietly. “What if I get drafted and I have to move and-”
“Then we’ll figure it out,” you say simply. “I’m not going anywhere, Quinn Hughes. You’re stuck with me.”
***
March is a blur. The team makes the NCAA tournament. Quinn plays the best hockey of his life. You’re at every game, screaming yourself hoarse, wearing his jersey like armor.
They make it to the Frozen Four. Quinn gets an assist in the semifinal game that SportsCenter replays six times. You kiss him after the game, in front of everyone, and whisper “I told you so” against his lips.
They don’t win the championship. They lose in the final game, and Quinn feels like his heart has been ripped out of his chest.
You find him after, still in his gear, sitting alone in the locker room.
“Hey,” you say softly, sitting down next to him.
“We lost.”
“I know.”
“I could have—if I’d just-”
“Stop,” you say, and your voice is firm now. “You played an incredible game. You played an incredible season. This doesn’t change anything about how good you are.”
Quinn doesn’t say anything. You put your head on his shoulder.
“You’re allowed to be sad,” you tell him. “You’re allowed to feel this. But don’t you dare let this make you doubt yourself.”
***
April brings spring and final exams and the slow countdown to the NHL draft.
“Come with me,” Quinn says one night. You’re studying for your contracts final and he’s supposed to be studying for his sports ethics exam, but instead he’s watching you highlight case law in three different colors.
“Where?” You ask absently.
“To the draft. In June. Come with me.”
You look up, eyes wide. “Really?”
“Really. I want you there. I need you there.”
“Quinn.” Your voice cracks a little. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
You tackle him with a hug that nearly knocks him off the bed. “Yes! Oh my god, yes! I need to start planning my outfit immediately. Do you know how formal it is? Should I go with classic preppy or more sophisticated? Maybe a pink suit? Is pink too on-brand?”
“Pink is perfect,” Quinn says, wrapping his arms around you. “You’re perfect.”
***
May is a strange month. School is winding down but hockey never really stops. Quinn has meetings with agents, phone calls with teams, training sessions that leave him exhausted.
You’re taking summer classes to get ahead on your pre-law requirements, but you still make time for him. You still show up with coffee. You still kiss him like he’s the best thing in your world.
“I’m scared,” Quinn admits one night. You’re lying in his bed, your head on his chest, his fingers running through your hair.
“Of what?”
“Everything. The draft. The NHL. Leaving here. Leaving you.”
“You’re not leaving me,” you say firmly. “We’ve been over this. I’m yours and you’re mine and that doesn’t change just because you’re going to be a fancy NHL player.”
“It might be hard.”
“Lots of things are hard. You have a six AM practice four days a week. I have constitutional law. We’re used to hard.”
Quinn laughs despite himself. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
“They feel the same at the time.” You prop yourself up to look at him. “I love you. That’s not going to change. Okay?”
“Okay,” Quinn says.
“Say it back.”
“I love you.”
“There it is.” You kiss him, soft and sweet. “See? We’re going to be fine.”
***
The end of the semester comes too fast and not fast enough. Quinn takes his last final on a Tuesday morning. You take yours that afternoon. That night, you have one last dinner together before you both go home for the summer.
“Six weeks,” you say, pushing pasta around your plate. “That’s not that long, right?”
“Right,” Quinn says, even though six weeks without you sounds impossibly long.
“And then the draft. And then I’ll come visit you wherever you end up. We’ll make it work.”
“We’ll make it work,” Quinn echoes.
You reach across the table and take his hand. “I’m really proud of you,” you say quietly. “I know this year was hard. I know you were stressed and scared and dealing with so much pressure. But you did it. You made it through. And you’re going to be amazing at the next level.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Quinn says honestly.
“Sure you could have. But I’m glad you didn’t have to.”
***
The next morning, Quinn helps you pack your car. It takes three trips because you somehow accumulated even more pink things over the course of the year.
“I don’t understand how one person can have this much stuff,” Quinn says, loading another box into your trunk.
“It’s a gift,” you say serenely.
When everything is finally packed, you turn to face him. The morning sun catches in your hair. You’re wearing a Michigan sweatshirt and jean shorts and you’re so beautiful it hurts.
“This is not goodbye,” you say firmly. “This is see you soon.”
“See you soon,” Quinn agrees.
“Six weeks. Then the draft. I’m already planning my outfit, by the way. It’s going to be perfect. It’s going to be so perfect that you’re going to forget to be nervous because you’ll be too busy looking at me.”
“I’m always looking at you,” Quinn says.
You kiss him then, soft and long and sweet. “I love you, Quinn Hughes.”
“I love you too.”
You get in your car. You wave at him through the window. You drive away, and Quinn stands there watching until your car disappears around the corner.
His phone buzzes. It’s a text from you.
Miss you already 💕
Another buzz.
But seriously SO EXCITED for the draft!!
This is going to be the best summer ever, I can already tell 💖
Quinn smiles and texts back.
Can’t wait.
And as he walks back to finish his own packing, he thinks about next year. About wherever he’ll be drafted. About you visiting, about making it work, about building something real.
It’s terrifying. It’s uncertain. It’s everything he usually tries to avoid.
But for once, Quinn isn’t afraid.
Because you’re right. You’re going to make it work. You’re going to be fine.
You’re going to be perfect.
***
Quinn has been nervous before. He’s been nervous for games, for tryouts, for every significant moment of his hockey career. But sitting in the American Airlines Center in Dallas, waiting to find out where his future will begin, is a different kind of nervous entirely.
It’s the kind of nervous that makes his hands shake. The kind that makes breathing feel like a conscious effort. The kind that-
“You’re doing the thing,” you whisper, and Quinn feels your hand slip into his. “The terrified thing.”
Quinn looks at you and almost laughs despite everything. You’re wearing a pink dress that’s somehow both elegant and unmistakably you — fitted with a structured bodice and a skirt that falls just above your knees. Your shoes are pink. Your clutch is pink. Even your lipstick is a shade of pink that Quinn has learned is called “ballet slipper” because you told him approximately fourteen times while getting ready this morning.
“I’m allowed to be terrified,” Quinn says quietly. “This is my entire future.”
“Your entire future is sitting next to you,” you say with a grin. “The hockey thing is just details.”
On Quinn’s other side, his mom squeezes his shoulder. His dad is leaning forward in his seat, focused on the stage. Jack is fidgeting three seats down, and Luke is watching everything with wide eyes.
“Here we go,” his dad says as the commissioner steps up to the microphone.
***
The first six picks feel like they take hours. Quinn knows the order — he’s studied every mock draft, every projection, every possible scenario until he could recite them in his sleep. Buffalo takes Rasmus Dahlin first overall, which everyone expected. Carolina takes Andrei Svechnikov second. Montreal takes Jesperi Kotkaniemi third, which causes some murmuring in the crowd.
“That’s surprising,” you whisper.
“How do you know that?” Quinn asks.
“I did research,” you say, like this is obvious. “You think I’m going to come to your draft without knowing what’s happening? Please. I know more about this draft class than I know about the Commerce Clause, and that’s saying something.”
Quinn loves you so much it physically hurts.
Ottawa takes Brady Tkachuk fourth. Arizona takes Barrett Hayton fifth. Detroit takes Filip Zadina sixth.
Quinn’s heart is pounding so hard he’s pretty sure you can hear it. Your hand tightens in his.
“With the seventh overall pick,” Jim Benning says, “the Vancouver Canucks select, from the University of Michigan, Quinn Hughes.”
For a second, Quinn can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t process.
Then you’re squealing — actually squealing, loud enough that people around you turn to look — and jumping up and down, and kissing him. You’re kissing his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his lips, over and over and over, leaving pink lipstick marks all over his face.
“You did it” You’re saying, or maybe yelling. “Oh my god, Quinn, you did it! Vancouver! You’re going to Vancouver!”
His family is hugging him. His mom is crying. His dad is shaking his hand and pulling him in for a hug. Jack is whooping. Luke is grinning.
But Quinn is looking at you, at your bright eyes and your brilliant smile and the way you’re looking at him like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“Go,” you say, giving him a little push toward the aisle. “Go be a Vancouver Canuck.”
Quinn makes his way down to the stage in a daze. He shakes hands with people he barely registers. He pulls on the Vancouver jersey — blue and green, his new colors — and poses for photos. The jersey feels strange and right all at once.
When he looks up at the stands, he finds you immediately. You’re still jumping up and down, still cheering, and you blow him a kiss.
Quinn touches his cheek, where your lipstick is definitely still visible, and doesn’t bother trying to wipe it off.
***
The next few hours are a blur of media responsibilities. Quinn does interview after interview, answering the same questions in slightly different ways. How does it feel to be drafted by Vancouver? (“Amazing. Incredible. Still processing.”) What are you looking forward to? (“Learning from the guys already there, developing my game, contributing however I can.”) What’s it like to be drafted seventh overall? (“Honestly, I’m just grateful for the opportunity.”)
Through it all, he’s aware of the lipstick marks on his face. One reporter actually asks him about it.
“My girlfriend,” Quinn says, and he can’t keep the smile off his face. “She’s excited.”
“We can see that,” the reporter says with a laugh.
When he’s finally, finally done with all of it — the interviews, the photos, the phone calls with Vancouver management — Quinn makes his way back to find his family. They’re waiting in one of the designated family areas, and he sees you before you see him.
You’re talking animatedly with his mom, your hands moving as you speak, and you’re still glowing with excitement. Your dress catches the light. You’re perfect.
Then you turn and see him, and your whole face lights up.
You run. Actually run, in your pink heels, across the room and into his arms. Quinn catches you and lifts you off the ground, and you’re laughing and maybe crying a little.
“Let me look at you,” you say when he sets you down. You step back, your hands still on his arms, and just look at him in his Canucks jersey. “Oh my god. Quinn. You look so good. Like, professional hockey player good. Like, NHL good. This is insane. You’re insane. This jersey is-” You touch the crest gently. “This is really happening.”
“This is really happening,” Quinn echoes.
You kiss him again, softer this time, and Quinn thinks that he would relive every terrifying moment of today just to end up here, with you, wearing this jersey.
“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper against his lips. “So, so proud.”
***
That night, there’s a dinner with his family. Quinn sits between you and Jack, and he’s still wearing his jersey because you asked him to (“Just for a little while longer, please, you look so good in it“).
“Vancouver,” Jack says, shaking his head. “That’s far.”
“It’s not that far,” you say immediately. “It’s a five-hour flight. Seven if there’s a layover. That’s totally doable.”
“You’ve already looked up flights?” Quinn’s mom asks, smiling.
“Obviously. I have a whole spreadsheet.” You pull out your phone and show her what is indeed a spreadsheet with flight times, costs, and optimal travel dates. “I color-coded it by season and academic calendar conflicts.”
“Of course you did,” Quinn says fondly.
“I’m prepared,” you say with dignity. “Unlike some people who didn’t even pack socks for this trip.” You look pointedly at Jack.
“I packed socks,” Jack protests.
“You packed three mismatched socks. I saw.”
The whole table laughs, and Quinn feels something settle in his chest. This is his family. This is you. This is what matters.
Later, when they’re back at the hotel and everyone has gone to their rooms, you and Quinn sit out on the tiny balcony of his room. It’s past midnight. You’ve taken off your heels and your feet are in his lap.
“Development camp is in a week,” Quinn says. “I leave next Sunday.”
“I know. You told me approximately forty times.” You wiggle your toes against his leg. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you too.”
“But then you’ll be back at Michigan in the fall, right? That’s the plan?”
“Probably,” Quinn says. “I mean, we’ll see how camp goes, but yeah. Another year at Michigan makes sense. Develop more, play big minutes, actually finish my degree eventually.”
“Good,” you say firmly. “Because I have plans for us sophomore year. Big plans. Romantic plans. Plans that involve you coming to formal with me and looking extremely handsome in a suit.”
“Just one formal?”
“Multiple formals. I’m in a sorority now, Quinn. There are so many formals. You’re going to be so tired of getting dressed up.”
You smile at him, soft and sweet in the moonlight. “This is a good thing, right? Vancouver? This is what you wanted?”
“Yeah,” Quinn says. “This is what I wanted.”
“Then why do you still look terrified?”
Quinn doesn’t know how to explain it. That he’s excited and grateful and thrilled, but also scared that he won’t be good enough, that Vancouver will regret picking him, that he’ll let everyone down.
“Come here,” you say, and you climb into his lap, your dress bunching up around your thighs, your arms around his neck. “Listen to me, Quinn Hughes. You were drafted seventh overall in the NHL. Seventh. Out of thousands and thousands of hockey players, they picked you. Vancouver picked you. And they didn’t pick you by accident.”
“I know, but-”
“No buts. You’re going to go to development camp and you’re going to be great. You’re going to go back to Michigan and you’re going to be even better than you were last year. And then, when the time is right, you’re going to play in the NHL and you’re going to be everything they think you can be.” You kiss him gently. “I believe in you. Your family believes in you. Vancouver believes in you. Now you need to believe in you.”
“When did you get so wise?” Quinn asks.
“I was born wise,” you say. “I’ve just been hiding it behind pink clothing and sorority recruitment strategies.”
Quinn laughs and kisses you, and thinks that maybe, possibly, you’re right. Maybe he can do this.
***
Development camp comes and goes in a blur. Quinn flies to Vancouver, meets his new teammates, works harder than he’s ever worked in his life. The coaches are impressed. Management is pleased. But everyone agrees: one more year at Michigan is the right call.
“You’re close,” they tell him. “You’re really close. But another year of development, another year of big minutes, that’s going to make you even better.”
Quinn calls you from his hotel room after the meeting where they lay out the plan.
“I’m coming back,” he says as soon as you answer.
“To Michigan?” You sound delighted. “Really?”
“Really. One more year.”
“Oh thank god,” you say. “I mean, I would have supported whatever decision you made, obviously, but I really didn’t want to do long distance yet. We’re too young for long distance. We’re not emotionally prepared.”
“We’re the same age we would have been if I’d stayed with Vancouver,” Quinn points out.
“Yes, but now we’re together, which makes us younger. That’s just science.”
“That’s not science.”
“It is in my heart.”
Quinn flops back on the bed, grinning at the ceiling. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too. When do you get home?”
“Three days.”
“Perfect. I’m planning a welcome home celebration. It involves your favorite restaurant and me wearing your draft day lipstick so I can kiss you all over again.”
“Can’t wait,” Quinn says, and he means it.
***
Sophomore year is different from freshman year in a thousand small ways.
For one thing, Quinn knows what he’s doing now. He knows his professors, his teammates, his routine. He knows which dining hall has the best post-practice meals and which library is quietest for studying and which shortcuts to take across campus.
For another thing, he has you.
Not just as his girlfriend (though you are definitely, definitely his girlfriend), but as a constant presence in his life. You study together at least four nights a week. You go to every single one of his home games and most of the away games that are close enough to drive to. You drag him to sorority events that he pretends to complain about but secretly kind of enjoys. You make him take study breaks and eat real meals and occasionally go outside for reasons other than hockey.
“You’re good for him,” one of his teammates tells you at a party in October. “He actually smiles now. Last year he looked like he was constantly expecting bad news.”
“That’s just his face,” you say, but you’re smiling.
The season goes well. Really well. Quinn plays even better than he did freshman year — more confident, more physical, more of a leader. Fans sell out every game. His phone buzzes with texts from his agent regularly.
You’re there through all of it. When he has a bad game, you bring him coffee and sit with him while he watches film. When he has a good game, you celebrate with him. When he’s stressed about his future, you remind him that he’s exactly where he needs to be.
“President,” you announce one day in February. You’re in the library, supposedly studying, but you’re actually showing him your phone. “I’m running for sorority president. Elections are in April.”
“You’re going to win,” Quinn says immediately.
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely know that. You’re the most qualified person in your sorority. Maybe in all sororities. Possibly in the history of sororities.”
“That’s very sweet, but there are two other girls running and they’re both really good-”
“You’re going to win,” Quinn repeats. “Want to bet on it?”
“What are the terms?”
“If you win, which you will, I’ll go to every single sorority event you want me to for the rest of the semester. Formals, mixers, philanthropy events, all of it.”
“And if I don’t win, which I might not-”
“You will.”
“-then I’ll go to that hockey alumni thing you’ve been trying to get me to go to.”
“Deal,” Quinn says, and he kisses you to seal it.
You win the election by a landslide. Quinn goes to so many sorority events that he starts recognizing all of your sisters on sight.
***
But then March comes, and everything changes.
Michigan loses in the quarterfinals of the Big Ten tournament to Minnesota. It’s a close game, hard-fought, but they lose. And just like that, their season is over. No NCAA tournament. No chance at a championship.
Quinn sits in the locker room after, still in his gear, staring at nothing.
His phone buzzes. It’s his agent.
Call me when you can.
Quinn knows what this means. He’s known it was coming. The season is over, and Vancouver has been clear that they want him as soon as he’s available.
He calls from the parking lot, sitting in his car with the heat running.
“They want you,” his agent says. “Rest of the season. Starting Thursday against the Kings if you can get there in time.”
“Thursday,” Quinn repeats. That’s four days from now.
“I know it’s fast. But this is it, Quinn. This is your shot.”
Quinn thinks about you. About the plans you’ve made for the rest of the semester. About the spring formal you’ve been talking about for weeks. About the quiet routine you’ve built together.
“Okay,” he says. “Tell them I’ll be there.”
***
He finds you in your room, surrounded by textbooks and highlighters and approximately seventeen different colors of pens. You look up when he knocks, and your smile is immediate and bright.
“Hey! How was-” You stop, really looking at him. “What happened?”
“Vancouver called,” Quinn says.
Your face does something complicated. Surprise and excitement and sadness all at once. “When?”
“Thursday. If I can get there.”
“Thursday.” You set down your pen carefully. “That’s four days from now.”
“Yeah.”
You’re quiet for a long moment. Then you stand up, walk over to him, and wrap your arms around his waist. Quinn holds you tight, his face in your hair.
“This is good,” you say, your voice slightly muffled against his chest. “This is what we wanted. What you wanted.”
“I know.”
“So why do we both feel sad?”
“Because I don’t want to leave you,” Quinn says honestly.
You pull back to look at him, and your eyes are shiny. “Well, that’s too bad, because you’re going. You’re going to Vancouver and you’re going to play in the NHL and you’re going to be amazing.”
“Come with me,” Quinn says suddenly. “To the game. You can fly out, watch me play-”
“I’ll be there,” you say immediately. “Obviously I’ll be there. You think I’m going to miss your NHL debut? Please. I’m already planning my outfit.”
Quinn laughs wetly. “Of course you are.”
“It’s going to be even better than my draft outfit,” you tell him seriously. “More sophisticated. I’m thinking a jersey — yours, obviously — but styled in a chic way. Maybe with a blazer? And definitely my lucky pink lipstick.”
“The one from the draft?”
“The very same.” You touch his face gently. “I need to be able to leave my mark when you get your first NHL point.”
“You think I’m going to get a point in my first game?”
“I know you are,” you say with absolute certainty.
***
The next few days are chaos. Quinn packs his entire life. He says goodbye to his teammates, his coaches, his professors. He promises to finish his semester work remotely. He calls his family approximately forty times.
And he spends every possible moment with you.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” you say on Tuesday night. You’re lying in his bed — the bed he’s slept in for two years, the bed he’s leaving tomorrow — and you’re tucked against his side. “Like, an embarrassing amount. I’m going to be one of those girlfriends who talks about her boyfriend constantly and everyone’s going to be so annoyed.”
“I’m going to miss you too,” Quinn says. “More than I can explain.”
“We’ll make it work though, right? We’ll figure it out?”
“We’ll figure it out,” Quinn promises.
“Say it again.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“One more time.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Quinn says, and he kisses the top of your head. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you whisper. “So much. Go be a hockey player, Quinn Hughes. Go be the best hockey player.”
***
Wednesday morning comes too fast. Quinn’s flight is at nine. You drive him to the airport even though he tells you that you should be in class.
“Class can wait,” you say firmly. “This is more important.”
At the airport, you walk him as far as security will let you. Your eyes are red and your smile is wobbly, but you’re trying.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say. “I’m flying out tomorrow morning. I’ll be at the game. I’ll be the one in pink, obviously, screaming louder than everyone else.”
“I’ll look for you,” Quinn says.
“You better.” You kiss him, long and slow and sweet. “I’m so proud of you. I know I keep saying it, but I need you to know. I am so, so proud of you.”
“I couldn’t have done any of this without you,” Quinn says honestly.
“Yes, you could have. But I’m glad you didn’t have to.” You step back, wiping at your eyes. “Go. Before I start really crying and embarrass both of us.”
Quinn goes through security, and he turns back to wave. You’re standing there in your pink sweatshirt and jeans, and you blow him a kiss.
Quinn catches it and presses his hand to his heart.
Then he turns and walks toward his gate, toward his future, toward the NHL.
***
The game against the Kings is everything and nothing like Quinn imagined.
The rink is bigger. The players are faster. Everything happens at a speed that makes college hockey look like slow motion. Quinn plays his shifts, tries not to make mistakes, tries to just keep up.
But he knows you’re in the stands. He found you during warmups — sitting with his family who flew in this morning, wearing his jersey styled over a white button-down and a pink skirt, looking perfect and proud and like home.
Midway through the second period, Quinn gets the puck at the blue line. He sees a lane, sees his teammate driving to the net, and he makes the pass. It’s not fancy. It’s not highlight-reel worthy. But it works.
The puck goes in.
The arena erupts. His teammates mob the goal scorer. And Quinn looks up at the stands, finds you immediately, and sees that you’re crying.
The jumbotron catches it — you, in his jersey, tears streaming down your face, mouthing “I love you” at the camera.
Quinn’s heart feels too big for his chest.
They win the game 4-2. Quinn finishes with one assist, eighteen minutes of ice time, and approximately zero thoughts that aren’t about you.
After the game, after the media responsibilities and the team debrief and everything else, Quinn finally gets to leave. His family is waiting outside the locker room, but you’re not there.
“She went back to your apartment,” his mom says, smiling knowingly. “Said she wanted to give you time with us first.”
Quinn hugs his parents, his brothers. They tell him how proud they are, how well he played, how exciting this all is. And it is exciting. It’s everything he’s worked for.
But all he can think about is getting back to you.
***
The apartment the team has set him up in is small — a temporary place for the rest of the season until he can find something more permanent. But when Quinn walks in, you’ve somehow made it feel like home.
There are flowers on the counter (pink roses, obviously). There’s takeout you must have ordered on the way back from the game. And there’s you, still wearing his jersey, sitting on the couch with your feet tucked under you.
“Hi,” you say softly.
“Hi,” Quinn says.
Then you’re off the couch and in his arms, and he’s holding you tight enough that you squeak.
“I saw you crying,” Quinn says into your hair. “On the jumbotron.”
“I know. So embarrassing. I’m going to be a meme, aren’t I? That’s going to be my legacy.”
“You were crying because you were proud of me.”
“I was crying because you got your first NHL point,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “Do you know how incredible that is? Do you know how many people dream of that and never get it? And you just did it. In your first game. You’re nineteen years old and you’re playing in the NHL and getting points and-” Your voice cracks. “I’m just really proud of you, okay?”
Quinn kisses you. He kisses you like you’re the reason he made that pass, the reason he’s here, the reason any of this matters.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.
“Come eat,” you say. “You must be starving. I got all your favorites. Well, all your favorites that your mom told me about. I should probably learn these things myself at some point.”
“You know plenty about me,” Quinn says.
“I know that you’re now a Vancouver Canuck,” you say, leading him to the tiny kitchen table. “I know that you’re incredible at hockey. I know that you got an assist in your first NHL game. And I know that I love you more than I thought it was possible to love another person.”
They eat dinner together, and you tell him about the game from your perspective (“The guy behind me kept yelling about plus-minus and I had to google what that meant”). You show him the photos you took (approximately sixty, all of him). You detail your flight out here and how his mom upgraded your seat as a surprise.
“She’s the best,” you say. “Your whole family is the best. Luke told me that if you get too busy to call me, I should just call him and he’ll yell at you.”
“That sounds like Luke,” Quinn says.
Later, they move to the couch. You curl up against his side, your head on his chest, his arm around you. The TV is on but neither of them is watching it.
“This is far,” you say quietly. “Vancouver. From Michigan.”
“I know.”
“I did the math. If I’m really careful with my schedule, I could probably visit once a month. Maybe twice if there’s a long weekend. And you’ll have some games in the other divisions, which are closer. And there’s summer, obviously. And-” You stop. “I’ve been thinking about something.”
“What?”
You sit up to look at him, and there’s something nervous in your expression. “What if I transferred? To UBC or somewhere else in Vancouver? I could finish my degree here, we could be together-”
“No,” Quinn says immediately.
“No?” You look hurt.
“Not no because I don’t want you here,” Quinn says quickly. “No because that’s not your dream. Your dream is to be sorority president at Michigan. Your dream is to go to a top law school — Harvard or Yale or Stanford. Your dream is not to transfer schools and rearrange your entire life for me.”
“But what if my dream changed?” You ask. “What if you’re part of my dream now?”
“I am part of your dream,” Quinn says. “But I’m not the whole dream. And I don’t want to be. You worked too hard to get where you are. You’re president of your sorority. You have perfect grades. You have a plan, and it’s a good plan, and I’m not going to let you change it for me.”
“But Vancouver is so far from Michigan,” you say, and your voice is small.
“I know. But we’ll make it work.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it.” Quinn takes both of your hands. “Listen to me. I love you. I love you so much that sometimes I can’t believe it’s real. But I fell in love with you because you’re ambitious and driven and you have dreams that matter to you. I’m not going to be the reason you give those up.”
“What if I want to give them up?”
“You don’t,” Quinn says gently. “You want me to tell you it’s okay to give them up because you’re scared. But you’re not a person who gives up on things. You’re a person who makes color-coded spreadsheets and plans outfits for events months in advance and works harder than anyone I know. That’s who you are. And that’s who I love.”
You’re quiet for a long moment, your eyes shiny with tears. “You’re annoyingly right,” you finally say.
“I know.”
“I hate when you’re annoyingly right.”
“I know that too.”
You laugh wetly and kiss him. “Okay. Okay, you win. I’ll stay at Michigan. I’ll finish my degree. I’ll go to law school somewhere amazing. And we’ll make it work.”
“We’ll make it work,” Quinn agrees.
“Say it again.”
“We’ll make it work.”
“One more time.”
“We’ll make it work,” Quinn says, and he pulls you back against his chest. “I promise.”
You’re quiet again, and Quinn thinks maybe you’ve fallen asleep. But then you speak, soft and thoughtful.
“You know what’s funny?”
“When I first met you, you were the most terrified-looking person I’d ever seen. Like you were constantly experiencing the horrors.”
“I remember.”
“But now you’re the one telling me not to be scared. You’re the one with the plan. You’re the one who’s certain about things.” You tilt your head to look up at him. “When did that happen?”
Quinn thinks about it. About the past two years, about everything you’ve been through together, about how you’ve changed him in ways he’s still discovering.
“You happened,” he says honestly. “You made me believe I could do this. All of this.”
“Well,” you say, settling back against him. “Then I guess we’re even. Because you make me believe I can do anything.”
Outside, Vancouver twinkles with city lights. Inside, Quinn holds you close and thinks about the future. About your senior year apart, about law school, about his NHL career, about all the obstacles between here and forever.
It should be terrifying. It should be overwhelming.
But with you in his arms, Quinn isn’t scared at all.
You’ll make it work.
You’ll figure it out.
You’ll be perfect.
Together.
***
Quinn is pretty sure his teammates are trying to kill him.
Not literally, of course. But the way they’re all crowding around his stall after their first win of the season — a 5-2 victory over the Oilers that felt better than it probably should have — definitely feels like some kind of coordinated attack.
“Huggy Bear,” Brock Boeser says, slinging an arm around Quinn’s shoulders. “We’re going out. Celebrating. You’re coming.”
“I’m good,” Quinn says, focusing on untying his skates.
“Come on,” Adam Gaudette chimes in. “First win of the season! We gotta celebrate properly.”
“There’s this place downtown,” another one of the guys says. “Great music, better-looking women-”
“I have a girlfriend,” Quinn interrupts.
The locker room doesn’t go quiet, exactly, but there’s a definite shift in energy. Several of the guys exchange glances.
“Right,” Brock says slowly. “The college girlfriend.”
“Her name is Y/N,” Quinn says, and he can hear the edge in his own voice. “And I’m not going to some club to — what did you guys call it — ‘get some action.’ I’m going home to FaceTime my girlfriend like I do after every game.”
“Dude,” one of the younger guys says. “It’s just one night. What she doesn’t know-”
Quinn stands up so fast his stall door bangs against the wall. “I’m going to stop you right there,” he says, and his voice is cold in a way it rarely gets. “I love her. I’m not going to cheat on her. I would never cheat on her. And if you guys can’t understand that, then I don’t know what to tell you.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Okay,” Brock says, holding up his hands. “Okay, man. We got it. We respect that.”
“Do you?” Quinn asks.
“Yeah,” Brock says, and he sounds like he means it. “Yeah, we do. That’s actually—that’s really cool, man. Good for you.”
Quinn takes a breath, forces himself to calm down. “Look, if you guys want to celebrate, you can come to my place. I have beer. I have a decent TV. It’s not a club, but-”
“I’m in,” Elias Pettersson says immediately from across the locker room. He’s been quiet this whole time, just watching. “I would rather hang out at your place than go to some loud club anyway.”
“Yeah?” Brock looks between them. “Okay. Yeah, I’m down. Better than fighting through crowds of drunk people.”
A few more guys agree. Some head out to the clubs anyway. But an hour later, Quinn has approximately eight of his teammates crammed into his new condo in downtown Vancouver.
“Holy shit,” Adam says, looking around. “Hughes, your place is like … decorated.”
“Is that surprising?” Quinn asks, grabbing beers from the fridge.
“Little bit, yeah.” Adam is staring at the throw pillows on the couch. The pink throw pillows. “Dude. Is that … is everything pink?”
“Not everything,” Quinn says defensively. But he looks around and realizes that, yeah, there’s a lot of pink. Pink pillows. A pink throw blanket. Pink kitchen towels. A pink vase with flowers on the coffee table. “My girlfriend helped me decorate.”
“Helped,” Brock repeats, grinning. “She helped.”
“Okay, she mostly decorated,” Quinn admits. “But I approved everything.”
“Did you though?” someone asks.
Quinn thinks about the day you arrived in Vancouver during the summer, took one look at his empty condo, and declared it “sad and depressing and we’re fixing this immediately.” He thinks about spending three days going to furniture stores and home goods stores and approximately seventeen different places that sold throw pillows. He thinks about you holding up paint swatches and asking him which shade of cream he preferred (they all looked the same to him). He thinks about how you made his place feel like home.
“Yeah,” Quinn says firmly. “I did.”
Petey is examining the bookshelf in the corner. “You have a lot of photos,” he observes.
Quinn walks over. The bookshelf is mostly photos, actually — photos of his family, his brothers, his time at Michigan. And photos of you. You at one of his games. You and Quinn at formal. You kissing his cheek. You laughing at something off-camera. You asleep on his chest. You, you, you.
“That’s her,” Quinn says, picking up his favorite photo — the two of you at the draft, your lipstick all over his face, both of you grinning like idiots. “That’s Y/N.”
“She’s really pink,” Adam observes.
“She’s perfect,” Quinn corrects.
Brock takes the photo, studies it. “You look different here,” he says.
“How?”
“Happy. Like, really happy. Not stressed.” Brock looks up at him. “You always look stressed, man. But in this photo, you look like nothing else matters.”
“Nothing else did matter,” Quinn says honestly. “I’d just been drafted. She was there. That was all I needed.”
“That’s disgustingly cute,” another teammate says. “I mean that in the best way.”
Quinn takes the photo back, sets it carefully on the shelf. “I won’t see her until next month,” he says. “But she flew in over the summer. Spent three weeks here. She helped me pick out furniture, helped me decorate, helped me make the condo feel like somewhere I actually want to be. So yeah, there’s a lot of pink. But every time I see it, I think of her.”
“How do you do it?” Petey asks quietly. “The long-distance thing?”
“Honestly?” Quinn hands out beers, settles on the couch. “It’s hard. It’s really hard. But she’s worth it. She’s worth all of it.”
“Tell us about her,” Brock says, settling into one of the chairs. “Like, what’s she like?”
Quinn doesn’t usually talk about you. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t know how to explain you in a way that makes sense. How do you explain someone who’s sunshine personified? Someone who makes color-coded spreadsheets for visiting schedules and cries at his games and believes in him even when he doesn’t believe in himself?
“She’s pre-law,” Quinn starts. “Junior year at Michigan. She’s president of her sorority — Kappa Kappa Gamma. She wants to go to a top law school, probably Harvard or Yale. She’s the smartest person I know, but also the most optimistic. Everything she owns is pink. She talks a mile a minute. She makes lists for everything. She’s-” He stops, realizing he’s rambling. “She’s my best friend.”
“How’d you meet?” Adam asks.
“She ran into me with a clothing rack on move-in day freshman year,” Quinn says, and he can’t help but smile at the memory. “She was wearing head-to-toe pink and talking about sorority recruitment and I thought she was the most overwhelming person I’d ever met.”
“And now?” Brock prompts.
“Now she’s still the most overwhelming person I’ve ever met,” Quinn says. “But I love her. I love everything about her. I love how she sends me photos of her outfits before sorority events and asks my opinion even though she’s already made up her mind. I love how she calls me after every game, win or lose, and knows exactly what to say. I love how she believes in me even when I’m terrified. Especially when I’m terrified.”
“Dude,” someone says. “You have it bad.”
“I know,” Quinn says simply.
They hang out for a few more hours, talking about hockey and the season and life. But Quinn keeps glancing at his phone, waiting for your usual post-game call. You have class until seven — he’s memorized your schedule — but you always call after.
When the guys finally leave around eleven, Quinn immediately FaceTimes you.
You answer on the second ring, and you’re in your pajamas — pink, obviously — with your hair piled on top of your head and textbooks spread around you on your bed.
“Hi,” you say, and your whole face lights up. “I watched the game! You were amazing! That assist in the second period was so pretty-”
“The guys came over,” Quinn interrupts.
“Oh yeah? How’d that go?”
“They saw the condo.”
You pause. “And?”
“They made fun of how pink it is.”
“Quinn Hughes, did you defend my decorating choices?”
“Obviously. I told them it was perfect.”
“Good answer.” You grin at him. “Did you show them the photos?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d they say?”
Quinn thinks about Brock’s comment, about how he looked different in the photos. “They said I look happy with you.”
“You are happy with me,” you say confidently. “I make you happy. It’s one of my many talents. Right up there with color-coding and parallel parking.”
“You’re terrible at parallel parking.”
“That’s beside the point.” You shift on your bed, bringing the phone closer. “I miss you. Is that pathetic? It’s only been like two weeks since I saw you.”
“I miss you too,” Quinn says. “Twenty-three more days until you visit.”
“You’re counting?”
“Obviously.”
“That’s disgustingly romantic,” you say, echoing what his teammate said earlier. “I love it. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
***
Three weeks later, Quinn is in Detroit for a game against the Red Wings, and he’s pretty sure the entire state of Michigan knows you’re coming to the game.
He knows this because you’ve been texting him updates all day.
Just left Ann Arbor with seventeen of my sisters.
We’re all wearing your jersey. EIGHTEEN JERSEYS QUINN.
I made signs. Multiple signs. You’re going to be so embarrassed.
Actually no, you’re going to love it, because you love me and you think everything I do is cute even when it’s objectively embarrassing.
Quinn is reading the texts and grinning like an idiot when Brock leans over his shoulder on the bus.
“Your girlfriend coming to the game?” He asks.
“Yeah. With half her sorority, apparently.”
“That’s adorable,” Brock says. “You’re going to play so well. You must always play well when she’s in the stands.”
Quinn doesn’t know if that’s true, but it feels true. Every time he knows you’re watching, he plays a little harder, a little sharper, like he’s trying to impress you even though you’re already impressed.
During warmups, Quinn spots your group immediately. You’re not hard to find — eighteen girls in Canucks jerseys, all in a row, all holding signs. One sign says QUINN HUGHES: MICHIGAN’S #1 EXPORT. Another says THAT’S MY BOYFRIEND with an arrow pointing down at the ice. A third just says HUGGY BEAR with about twenty-three hearts drawn around it.
But Quinn only sees you. You’re in the middle of the group, wearing his jersey over what looks like a pink turtleneck, and you’re screaming his name and waving.
Quinn skates over to the glass, and you press your hand against it. He presses his glove against your hand on the other side.
“I love you,” you mouth.
“Love you too,” Quinn mouths back.
The game is good. Really good. Quinn gets two assists and plays some of his best hockey of the season. Every time he’s on the bench, he can hear you screaming encouragement. Your voice carries above everyone else’s.
They win 4-1.
After the game, after media and after he’s showered and changed, Quinn makes his way out to the family area. His parents are there — they drove in for the game — but you’re already there too, bouncing on your toes like you can’t contain your excitement.
The second you see him, you run.
Quinn catches you, lifts you off your feet, and you’re kissing him before he can say anything. You taste like pink lemonade and lip balm and home.
“You were so good,” you’re saying between kisses. “So, so good. Did you see our signs? We had signs. Eighteen of us, Quinn. I mobilized my entire sorority for you.”
“I saw,” Quinn says, setting you down but not letting go. “You’re incredible.”
“I know.” You’re grinning up at him, your hands on his chest. “Your teammates are staring at us, by the way.”
Quinn looks up. Sure enough, several of the guys are watching with various expressions of amusement and surprise. Brock is grinning. Petey looks fascinated.
“Come on,” Quinn says, taking your hand. “I’ll introduce you.”
He walks you over to where Brock and Petey and a few others are standing with their families.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Quinn says. “Y/N, this is-”
“Brock Boeser and Elias Pettersson,” you interrupt, shaking their hands enthusiastically. “I know. I’ve watched every single Canucks game this season. You’re both amazing. Brock, that goal in the third period tonight was perfect. Petey, your stick handling is genuinely insane.”
Brock looks delighted. “She knows hockey.”
“I know hockey,” you confirm. “I learned for Quinn. Well, I started learning for Quinn, but then I genuinely started enjoying it. Don’t tell him though, he’ll get a big head about it.”
“I’m standing right here,” Quinn says.
“I know.” You beam up at him. “Hi. You’re my favorite hockey player.”
“I better be,” Quinn says.
“So this is the girl from the photos,” Petey says, studying you with interest. “You’re very pink.”
“Thank you! It’s my signature color. Quinn’s condo is also very pink now, in case he didn’t tell you.”
“He told us,” Brock says, grinning. “He also told us you’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”
“He said that?” You look up at Quinn, your eyes soft.
“I say it all the time,” Quinn says honestly.
“God, you two are cute,” Brock says. “It’s actually disgusting. I love it.”
You end up talking to his teammates for another twenty minutes, charming every single one of them just like Quinn knew you would. You tell them embarrassing stories about Quinn at Michigan. You compliment their playing. You somehow get Petey to smile more in twenty minutes than Quinn has seen him smile all season.
Later, when it’s just you and Quinn and his parents, his mom hugs you tight.
“We’ve missed you,” she says.
“I’ve missed you too,” you say. “All of you. Quinn most of all, obviously, but all of you.”
“How’s school?” His dad asks.
“Good! Really good. I’m applying to law schools soon. Quinn’s been helping me practice for the LSAT, even though he definitely doesn’t understand half of the questions.”
“I understand them,” Quinn protests.
“You told me last week that the logic games ‘hurt your brain.’”
“They do hurt my brain.”
His parents laugh, and Quinn thinks about how easily you fit into his life, into his family, into everything that matters to him.
***
The season continues. Quinn flies back to Vancouver. You stay in Michigan, buried in schoolwork and LSAT preparation and sorority responsibilities. You visit twice more before Christmas — once in November, once in early December. Each time, Quinn’s condo feels more like home with you in it.
Then Christmas break comes, and you both go home. You spend a week at your parents’ house, then a week with Quinn’s family at their lake house. It’s perfect and comfortable and exactly what Quinn needs after the chaos of the first half of the season.
“I don’t want to go back,” you say on New Year’s Eve. You’re curled up next to him on the couch, watching the snow fall outside. “I want to stay here forever.”
“Me too,” Quinn says.
“But you have hockey. And I have school. And law school applications. And-” You sigh. “Being an adult is terrible. I want to go back to being eighteen and having you down the hall from me in the dorm.”
“That was nice,” Quinn agrees.
“Everything was simpler then.”
“Not really. I was terrified all the time.”
“You’re still terrified all the time,” you point out. “You just hide it better now.”
Quinn can’t argue with that.
You kiss him at midnight, and Quinn thinks that maybe, possibly, this long-distance thing is working. It’s hard and it’s not what he wants, but it’s working.
***
Then March happens.
Quinn is in Vancouver. You’re in Michigan, in the middle of midterms. He’s been following the news about the virus, about the cases spreading, but it still feels distant and unreal.
Until it’s not.
The NHL pauses the season on March 12th. Quinn gets the news in the locker room, and for a moment, no one says anything.
“What do we do now?” Someone finally asks.
No one has an answer.
Quinn calls you immediately. You answer on the first ring.
“Did you hear?” You ask.
“Yeah. Are you okay?”
“Michigan just announced they’re going online for the rest of the semester. Quinn, what’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn says honestly. “But I need to see you. Can you—are you able to come here? Or I can come there?”
“I can come there,” you say immediately. “Let me figure out flights. Let me call you back.”
But the flights get complicated. Everything gets complicated. Airlines are canceling routes. Borders are closing. The world is shutting down.
Quinn and you talk seven times that day, trying to figure out logistics.
“I don’t want to be apart,” you say during the last call, and your voice cracks. “Quinn, I don’t want to do this alone.”
“You’re not going to,” Quinn promises. “We’re going to figure this out.”
“There’s that phrase again.”
“Because I mean it. Where do you want to quarantine?”
“Together,” you say immediately. “Wherever, as long as it’s together.”
Quinn thinks about his condo in Vancouver. About your dorm at Michigan. About his family’s lake house.
“The lake house,” he says. “We’ll go to the lake house. It’s big enough. It’s away from everything. We can wait this out there.”
“When?” You ask.
“Soon. Now. I’ll drive back to Michigan. You can meet me there. We’ll-” Quinn realizes he’s making decisions without thinking them through, but for once he doesn’t care. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Okay,” you say, and you sound relieved. “Okay. I’ll pack. I’ll drive there tomorrow.”
“I love you,” Quinn says.
“I love you too. Be safe driving.”
***
The lake house is strange in March. Too quiet. Too empty. But when Quinn pulls up and sees your car already in the driveway, sees you sitting on the porch steps waiting for him, everything feels right.
You run to him. He catches you. You’re both crying a little, overwhelmed by everything that’s happening, everything that’s changing.
“Hi,” you say against his chest.
“Hi,” Quinn says. “We’re okay. We’re going to be okay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
***
The quarantine days blur together. Quinn and you settle into a routine — sleeping late, working out in the basement, doing your schoolwork, watching movies, cooking meals together. Jack and Luke show up after a few days, having driven back from their own hockey commitments, and suddenly the lake house is full.
You fit into the chaos perfectly. You help Ellen cook dinner every night. You play video games with Jack and Luke. You sit with Quinn’s dad and discuss hockey strategy even though you both know you’re just pretending to understand half of it.
But mostly, you and Quinn exist in your own little world. You curl up together on the couch while you work on law school applications. You go for walks around the lake, holding hands, talking about the future that suddenly feels uncertain.
“What if the season doesn’t come back?” Quinn asks one day in April. You’re sitting on the dock, your feet dangling in the still-cold water.
“Then it doesn’t come back,” you say simply. “And you’ll deal with it. We’ll deal with it.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” You lean your head on his shoulder. “Quinn, I know hockey is your whole life. I know how much you care about it. But you’re going to be okay no matter what happens. You’re going to have a long, incredible career. This is just a pause. Not an ending.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because I know you,” you say. “And I know that you don’t give up on things. You never have. You’re not going to start now.”
***
Summer arrives. The world is still locked down, still strange, but the NHL announces a plan for a playoff bubble. Quinn will have to leave for training camp in July, then head to the bubble in August.
But for now, it’s June, and you’re lying on the dock in a pink bikini, and Quinn is trying to focus on the playbook in his lap instead of staring at you.
“You’re staring,” you say without opening your eyes.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can feel it.”
“Can’t help it,” Quinn admits. “You’re distracting.”
You smile, turning onto your side to look at him. “Good. You work too hard. You should be distracted more often.”
Your laptop is next to you, multiple tabs open with law school applications. Quinn can see Harvard’s logo on one tab, Yale’s on another.
“How’s it going?” He asks, nodding at the computer.
“Good. I think. These personal statements are killing me though. How many different ways can I say ‘I want to be a lawyer because I like arguing and I’m good at it’?”
“You’re good at a lot more than arguing.”
“Name three things.”
“You’re organized. You’re determined. You care about making things better.” Quinn sets aside his playbook. “You’re going to get into every school you apply to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely know that.” Quinn reaches over, takes your hand. “You’re the smartest person I know. You’re going to go to a top law school. You’re going to graduate at the top of your class. You’re going to become a lawyer who changes the world. I know all of this because I know you.”
“What about us?” You ask quietly. “Law school is three years. You’ll be in Vancouver. I’ll be—I don’t know where I’ll be. What if I get into Yale? Or Harvard? Those are both so far from Vancouver.”
Quinn has thought about this. Of course he’s thought about this. He’s thought about it every day since you started working on applications. The idea of you being across the continent, of only seeing you a few times a year, of missing three years of your life — it makes his chest tight.
But he also knows that he meant what he said back in the apartment after his first NHL game. He’s not going to let you give up your dreams for him.
“Then you go to Yale or Harvard,” Quinn says firmly. “And we make it work.”
“Quinn-”
“I’m serious. I’ve been thinking about this. The team travels to the East Coast a few times a year. You’ll have breaks. We’ll have summers. It won’t be easy, but-”
“We’ll make it work,” you finish softly.
“Exactly.”
You’re quiet for a moment, studying his face. “You really mean that. You’d do long distance for three more years after everything we’ve already done?”
“I’d do anything for you,” Quinn says honestly. “Three years of long distance? That’s nothing. That’s easy compared to not being with you at all.”
“It’s not nothing,” you say. “It’s a lot. It’s sacrificing time together. It’s missing important moments. It’s-”
“It’s what we need to do,” Quinn interrupts. “Because your career matters just as much as mine does. Because I want you to become the person you’re meant to be, and that person is a brilliant lawyer who goes to a top law school. Not someone who gave up their dreams to follow their boyfriend around.”
“I hate that you’re right about this,” you say, but you’re smiling a little.
“I’m right about a lot of things.”
“Don’t push it, Hughes.”
Quinn laughs and pulls you closer, until you’re tucked against his side, your head on his chest. The sun is warm on his skin. The lake is quiet. His family is inside, probably arguing about what movie to watch tonight. You’re in his arms, exactly where you belong.
“I got an email from my career advisor yesterday,” you say quietly.
Quinn’s heart stops. “And?”
“She thinks I have a real shot at a Top 10 school.”
“You have more than a shot,” Quinn says. “You’re going to get in. You’re going to get in everywhere.”
“What if I do?” You ask. “What if I get into Harvard and Yale and Stanford and I have to choose? How do I choose?”
“You pick the place that feels right. The place where you can see yourself thriving. And you don’t factor me into the decision at all.”
“That’s impossible. You’re part of every decision I make now.”
“Then factor me in like this: I want you to be happy. I want you to achieve everything you’re capable of achieving. I want you to look back on your life in forty years and know that you made every choice for the right reasons.” Quinn kisses the top of your head. “Pick the school that’s going to make you the best lawyer you can be. I’ll be proud of you no matter what.”
“Promise?” Your voice is small, younger than he’s heard it in a long time.
“Promise. We’ve made it through two years of you at Michigan and me in Vancouver. We made it through a pandemic. We can make it through law school.”
“We’ll make it work,” you say.
“We’ll make it work,” Quinn echoes.
You’re quiet for a long moment, and Quinn thinks maybe the conversation is over. But then you speak again, softer now.
“Do you ever think about the future? Like, the real future? After hockey, after law school, after everything?”
“All the time,” Quinn admits.
“What does it look like?”
Quinn thinks about it. About a house that’s probably too pink. About kids who will definitely play hockey and definitely have your smile. About growing old with you, about building a life that’s bigger and better than anything he could have imagined that day you ran into him with a clothing rack.
“It looks like this,” he says finally. “It looks like us, together, figuring it out as we go. That’s all I need.”
“That’s all I need too,” you say. Then you tilt your head up to look at him, and you’re smiling that smile that’s only for him. “I love you, Quinn Hughes. I loved you when you were a terrified freshman who looked like he was constantly experiencing the horrors. I loved you when you got drafted. I loved you through every game, every flight, every month apart. And I’m going to love you through law school and through the rest of your hockey career and through everything else that comes our way.”
“I love you too,” Quinn says. “So much. More than I know how to say.”
“Then don’t say it. Just show me.”
So Quinn kisses you, there on the dock with the summer sun blazing overhead and the lake stretching out endlessly before them. He kisses you like you’re his present and his future and his always. He kisses you like you’re the reason for everything good in his life.
Because you are.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both smiling.
“Come on,” you say, standing up and pulling him with you. “Your mom wants help with dinner. And I promised Luke I’d help him with his essay even though he keeps trying to write it about chicken tenders.”
“That sounds like Luke,” Quinn says.
“That sounds like your whole family,” you correct. “I love your whole family.”
“They love you too.”
You start walking back toward the house, and Quinn follows, his hand in yours. Inside, he can hear his brothers arguing about something. His mom is laughing. His dad is probably already setting the table.
This is his life now. Hockey and you and family and the constant push-pull of dreams and reality. It’s complicated and messy and sometimes really hard.
But it’s perfect.
You’re perfect.
And whatever comes next — law school, more seasons, more distance, more challenges — Quinn knows they’ll figure it out.
Because that’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done.
You make it work.
Together.
***
Later that night, after dinner and after the dishes are done and after everyone has gone to bed, Quinn finds you on the porch again. You’re wrapped in a blanket, staring out at the lake, your laptop open beside you.
“Still working on applications?” Quinn asks, sitting down next to you.
“Just finishing up my Harvard personal statement,” you say. “Want to read it?”
“Always.”
You hand him the laptop, and Quinn reads. It’s brilliant, of course — articulate and passionate and so distinctly you that he can hear your voice in every sentence. You write about wanting to make a difference, about seeing the law as a tool for positive change, about your dreams of working in public interest law.
But it’s the last paragraph that makes Quinn’s throat tight.
I’ve learned that the best things in life require patience, dedication, and the willingness to believe in something even when it seems impossible. I learned this from hockey — not from playing it, but from loving someone who does. From watching someone pour their entire heart into achieving their dreams, even when those dreams are terrifying. From learning that distance and difficulty don’t diminish love; they deepen it. If I can approach law with the same dedication, passion, and tireless belief that I’ve witnessed in the people I love most, then I know I can make a real difference in this world.
“You’re writing about me,” Quinn says quietly.
“I’m writing about us,” you correct. “About what you’ve taught me. About how you’ve changed the way I see the world.” You take the laptop back, save the document. “Is that okay?”
“It’s more than okay,” Quinn says. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
“We’re perfect,” you say, and you lean your head on his shoulder.
Above them, the stars are out, scattered across the sky like promises. The lake is dark and still. Inside, Quinn’s family sleeps peacefully.
And here, on this porch, in this moment, Quinn is happier than he’s ever been.
He’s twenty years old. He’s an NHL player. He’s in love with a girl who makes him believe in impossible things.
And whatever comes next — whatever challenges, whatever distance, whatever obstacles — he knows you’ll face it together.
Because that’s what love is. That’s what you’ve taught him.
It’s not about being together every single moment. It’s not about choosing between dreams. It’s not about making things easy.
It’s about choosing each other, over and over again, no matter what.
It’s about making it work.
And you will.
You always do.
“Hey, Quinn?” You say softly.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For believing in me. For pushing me to follow my dreams even when it’s hard. For loving me exactly the way I am — pink clothes and color-coded spreadsheets and all.”
“Thank you for loving me back,” Quinn says. “For seeing past the terrified exterior to whatever’s underneath. For making me believe I could do this. All of this.”
“We’re pretty great together, huh?”
“The greatest,” Quinn agrees.
You smile and kiss him one more time, soft and sweet and full of promise. Then you stand up, pulling him with you.
“Come on,” you say. “Let’s go to bed. Tomorrow we’re making Jack drive us into town for ice cream.”
“It’s Jack’s turn to drive?”
“It’s absolutely Jack’s turn to drive. I have a whole rotation schedule. Color-coded, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Quinn says, laughing.
And as he follows you inside, his hand in yours, Quinn thinks about the future. About the bubble playoffs starting in a few weeks. About your law school applications. About all the uncertainty ahead.
But for once, the uncertainty doesn’t scare him.
Because he has you.
And with you, anything is possible.
Even this.
Especially this.
Always this.
Forever.
***
Four Years Later
Quinn has seen you accomplish a lot of things in the seven years he’s been in love with you.
He’s seen you become sorority president. He’s seen you ace the LSAT. He’s seen you get accepted to Harvard Law with a full scholarship. He’s seen you navigate three years of law school while he played hockey across the continent, making it work through FaceTime calls and stolen weekends and an unwavering belief in each other.
But standing in Harvard Yard, watching you walk across the stage as valedictorian of Harvard Law School, is something else entirely.
You’re wearing your cap and gown, but somehow you’ve still managed to make it pink — a pink sash, pink heels peeking out from under your gown, and what he’s pretty sure is pink lipstick even from where he’s sitting with your family and his.
When they call your name — “Y/N Y/L/N, Juris Doctor, graduating summa cum laude, class valedictorian” — the entire section erupts. Your parents are crying. His mom is crying. Jack and Luke are whooping so loud that people are turning to stare.
Quinn just watches you walk across that stage, shake hands, accept your diploma, and pose for photos, and he thinks his heart might actually burst.
You did it.
You actually did it.
After the ceremony, after you’ve given your valedictorian speech (which made half the audience cry and made Quinn fall in love with you all over again), after the photos and the congratulations and the chaos, Quinn finally gets you alone for a moment.
“Harvard Law valedictorian,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “What, like it’s hard?”
You laugh so hard you snort. “Did you really just quote Legally Blonde at me?”
“I’ve been saving that for three years.”
“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” You kiss him, not caring that you’re in the middle of Harvard Yard surrounded by approximately ten thousand people. “I did it. I actually did it.”
“You did,” Quinn says, and his voice cracks a little. “I’m so proud of you. So, so proud.”
“Take a picture with me,” you demand, pulling out your phone. “I want to remember this. All of it.”
You take approximately six-hundred photos. You and Quinn. You and your families. You and your law school friends. You in your cap and gown, holding your diploma, looking so happy that Quinn wants to freeze this moment forever.
Later that night, back at your apartment in Cambridge — the one you’ve lived in for three years, the one Quinn has visited so many times he knows it as well as his place in Vancouver — Quinn posts a photo carousel to Instagram.
The first photo is you on stage, accepting your diploma. The second is you giving your speech. The third is the two of you, his arm around you, both of you grinning. The fourth is you kissing his cheek, leaving a pink lipstick mark. The fifth is you holding your diploma with the biggest smile he’s ever seen.
The caption: what? like it’s hard? ❤️so proud of you @yourusername
The comments start immediately.
@bboeser: she’s so far out of your league it’s not even funny
@_eliaspetterson: Congratulations @yourusername! (Quinn we all know she’s the smart one in this relationship)
@jackhughes: my future sister in law is SMARTER THAN YOU
@lhughes_06: proud of you @yourusername! quinn you should probably lock that down before she realizes she can do better
@_quinnhughes: @bboeser I know she’s out of my league. I’ve known since day one
@_quinnhughes: @jackhughes she’s always been smarter than me
@_quinnhughes: @_eliaspetterson facts
@_quinnhughes: @lhughes_06 trust me, I know
The comments continue, hundreds of them from fans and teammates and friends, all congratulating you, all making jokes about how Quinn doesn’t deserve you (he agrees), all celebrating this moment.
But Quinn barely pays attention to any of it.
Because right now, you’re in the shower, washing off the hairspray and makeup from graduation, and Quinn is standing in your bedroom with a ring box in his hand.
It’s rose gold with a pink diamond — because of course it is, because you’re you and everything has always been pink. He’s had it for six months, waiting for the right moment. He thought about proposing after you took the bar exam. He thought about proposing at Christmas. He thought about proposing approximately seven hundred other times.
But he wanted to wait until after today. Until after your moment, your achievement, your time to shine. He didn’t want to take any attention away from what you accomplished.
Now, though … now feels right.
You come out of the bathroom in one of his Canucks t-shirts and your pajama shorts, your hair wet and your face scrubbed clean, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“Hey,” you say, smiling at him. “Thanks for today. For being here, for bringing your family, for making this so perfect. I know you have playoffs and you probably should be-”
“Marry me,” Quinn says.
You stop mid-sentence. “What?”
Quinn gets down on one knee. His heart is pounding so hard he’s pretty sure you can hear it. “Marry me,” he says again. “I’ve been waiting to ask you all day because I didn’t want to take attention away from your graduation, from everything you accomplished. But I can’t wait anymore. I’ve known I wanted to marry you since we were nineteen years old and you kissed me in the library at midnight. I’ve known it through every game, every visit, every month apart. I’ve known it through law school and hockey and a pandemic and everything else life has thrown at us.”
You’re crying now, your hand over your mouth, and Quinn keeps going.
“You make me better. You make me brave. You make me believe I can do impossible things because I watch you do impossible things every single day. You graduated as valedictorian of Harvard Law School. You did that while maintaining a long-distance relationship with a professional hockey player, while flying back and forth across the country, while never once complaining about how hard it was.” Quinn opens the ring box, and your eyes go wide when you see the pink diamond. “So marry me. Please. Let me spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.”
“Quinn,” you whisper, and you’re fully crying now. “Is that—is that a pink diamond?”
“Obviously. What else would it be?”
You laugh through your tears. “You’re perfect. This is perfect. Everything about this is-” You drop to your knees in front of him, taking his face in your hands. “Yes. Yes, of course I’ll marry you. I’ve been ready to marry you since you told me to go to Harvard even though it meant three more years of long distance. Since you believed in my dreams as much as your own. Since you made me believe we could make it work even when it seemed impossible.”
Quinn slides the ring onto your finger, and it fits perfectly. You hold up your hand, looking at it, and you’re smiling so wide it must hurt.
“It’s perfect,” you say. “It’s so perfect. How did you—when did you-”
“Six months ago,” Quinn admits. “I’ve been carrying it around, waiting for the right moment.”
“This is the right moment,” you say firmly. Then you kiss him, deep and long and sweet. “I love you. I love you so much. I’m going to marry you, Quinn Hughes.”
“I’m going to marry you too,” Quinn says.
You pull back, your hands still on his face, and there’s something mischievous in your expression. “I have something to tell you too.”
“Yeah?”
“I got a job offer. Well, I got five job offers, but I accepted one.”
Quinn’s heart sinks a little. He knows you’ve been interviewing with firms all over the country — New York, Boston, DC. He knows you’re probably about to tell him you’re moving somewhere far away, and they’ll have to figure out another few years of long distance, and he’ll support you because that’s what the two of you do but-
“Vancouver,” you say, and you’re grinning now. “I accepted an offer from Morrison & Sterling. They’re one of the most prestigious firms in Vancouver. They want me to start in their public interest division in August.”
Quinn just stares at you. “Vancouver?”
“Vancouver. Where you live. Where we can finally, finally be in the same city for more than a few weeks at a time.” You’re laughing now, clearly delighted by his shocked expression. “Did you really think I was going to accept a job on the East Coast? After everything we’ve been through? I told you six years ago that I was yours and you were mine. That hasn’t changed. That’s never going to change.”
“You’re moving to Vancouver,” Quinn repeats, still trying to process this. “You’re going to live with me. We’re going to be together.”
“Every single day,” you confirm. “Well, except when you have road trips. But yes, every single day. No more long distance. No more counting down days until visits. Just us, in the same city, building a life together.”
Quinn kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring seven years of love and longing and gratitude into it. When you finally break apart, you’re both crying a little.
“How did I get this lucky?” Quinn asks.
“Because you ran into a girl with a pink clothing rack on move-in day and somehow decided she was worth keeping around,” you say.
“Best decision I ever made.”
“Second best,” you correct, holding up your hand to admire your ring again. “Best decision was proposing.”
“Fair point.”
You stand up, pulling him with you, and you’re grinning like you can’t contain your happiness. “We should celebrate. We should call our families. We should-” You gasp. “Oh my god, I need to post about this. Can I post about this?”
“Of course you can post about it.”
“I need to get a good picture of the ring. The lighting in here is terrible. Let’s go to the living room. Actually, let’s go outside. The streetlights will look good. Oh, and I need to-”
Quinn just watches you, amused and so deeply in love. You’re already planning, already organizing, already six steps ahead of everyone else.
Some things never change.
“Hey,” he says, catching your hand.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.” You squeeze his hand. “Now come on. Let’s go show the world your excellent taste in engagement rings.”
***
You post a photo twenty minutes later. It’s you holding up your hand, the pink diamond catching the light, Quinn’s arm around you, both of you grinning like idiots. The caption is simple. He said what, like it’s hard? I said yes ❤️💍 Also I’m moving to Vancouver. Surprise!
The comments explode.
Your sorority sisters lose their minds. Your law school friends send congratulations. Your family comments with heart emojis. His family comments with various versions of “FINALLY.”
But Quinn’s favorite comment is from Brock.
he’s been carrying that ring around for six months like a nervous wreck. congrats to you both! @yourusername you’re still way too good for him
You see it and laugh. “I like that your teammates all think I’m out of your league.”
“You are out of my league,” Quinn says simply.
“We’ve been over this. I’m not out of your league. We’re perfect for each other.” You curl up against his side on the couch, your left hand resting on his chest so you can keep looking at your ring. “Can you believe we’re getting married? And I’m moving to Vancouver? This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”
“Me too,” Quinn says.
“What kind of wedding do you want?” You ask. “Big? Small? Pink?”
“Definitely pink,” Quinn says, because he knows you, knows that you’ve probably been planning this wedding since you were eight years old.
“Good answer.” You tilt your head up to kiss him. “We’re going to have the best life, Quinn Hughes. The absolute best life.”
And looking down at you — at your pink diamond ring, at your bright smile, at the way you’re looking at him like he hung the moon — Quinn knows you’re right.
You’ve made it through seven years of long distance. You’ve made it through college and law school and a pandemic and every obstacle life threw at you.
You made it work.
You always do.
And now, finally, you get to build the life you’ve both been dreaming of.
Together.
In the same city.
Forever.
“The best life,” Quinn agrees, and he kisses the top of your head.
Outside, the Cambridge streets are quiet. Inside, your phone is still buzzing with congratulations. On social media, the world is celebrating with you.
But here, in this moment, it’s just the two of you.
